If heaven is love, then dogs must go there, too

As my father ages, it becomes more and more apparent that he is basically gigantic, pitiful, tenderhearted mush. A lawyer, a strict disciplinarian, always athletic, able to leap tall buildings (in his children's minds) and conquer basic plumbing (in his own), he also can construct a hell of a toybox, a play table and a dollhouse. He has fashioned reindeer out of logs and twigs, he has strung Christmas lights across the roof (and fallen off only once ... maybe twice), and as a father of five, he has taken charge in quite a few extreme emergencies.

However, as he grows older, my father has shown a remarkable tendency to fret over animals in general, and his dogs in particular. Suddenly, where there used to be a "that's nature" kind of attitude, he seems on a mission to save the animal kingdom single-handedly ... or at least to give a damn.

(Now, I must add that I, too, have become much less callous as regards all kinds of animals -- not including ticks, snakes, and OK, probably alligators, because these are obviously beasts from hell, but I have no lingering vendetta against the others. In fact, I've even been known to give the occasional distressed frog some teensy-weensy CPR pokes in the back, which induces a little burp of water, and off they hop. No, please, I'm nothing special, just doing the Lord's work ... sure, maybe the Mother Teresa of the frog kingdom, but that's all.)

My dad, though, in the past year has become increasingly concerned and somewhat anxious about the fate of dogs when they die. We're a Catholic family and are taught by the Church that only human beings have souls and can, thereby, enter heaven, and herein lies the problem.

We've had lots of dogs in our family, and each time one dies it seems harder. But, not to have a dog ... not to have that friend there when you come home, so happy you're back, so in love with you, so content to listen, to snuggle, to play, to give ... well, that's not really an option, is it? Because, as hard as they are to lose, they would be harder to live without.

My parents have owned eight dogs during their 60-year marriage, and have buried seven of them, with appropriate solemnity, tears and tremendous love, in each of the three backyards of their three homes. Now, at ages 83 and 84, they have Rosie.

Rosie is a little black cairn terrier who basically runs the house. She decides mealtimes, bedtimes, snack times, outside activities, sleeping areas and who is appropriate to let into the house. She adores my mother, but she is my father's shadow when he is home. Every afternoon, you can find my dad napping either on the sofa with Rosie on his stomach, or on his recliner ... with Rosie on his stomach.

I think Rosie weighs more than your average Shetland pony because Dad refuses to quit feeding her half his dinner. (Of course, if he tried to quit, Rosie would yip at him -- from her chair at the table next to his -- until he succumbed.) Barbecued ribs, spaghetti, salmon or Grape Nuts -- Rosie gets some.

When Dad goes out to the barn to work on something, Rosie goes. If he's on the tractor, she goes with him. If he's in his golf cart, she runs along the side and bites at the tires to make him stop. When he goes to the hardware store or the auto body shop, or the market, Rosie goes, too. When my dad isn't with Rosie, he misses her. Rosie just sighs and makes do with bossing Mom around till he gets home.

My father is afraid, now, that Rosie won't be with him in heaven. Dad is a very good Catholic, a man who is privately spiritual and strives to practice what he believes. So, he has even talked to a priest or two about this fear, and evidently their answers have made him even more troubled, of which they should be ashamed, having not, obviously, thought it through carefully.

I have no such anxiety. I've told Dad what I believe -- simply know -- deep inside: All dogs go to heaven. Why? Because heaven is perfect happiness. Heaven is being surrounded by all those you love, in the presence of the one who is love. And, that must, by definition, include the precious four-legged creatures who teach us so much about love while we are on this earth.

This is why, although it hurts me to see him so sad and worried, I am still at peace. I can smile, because I know that when he gets there, my dad will be sharing his heavenly sofa with Elizabeth, Fritzie, Kookie, Cubby, Bonnie, Keitel, April ... and Rosie. I just hope there's room for Mom.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.