As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I glimpsed a fluffy, sausage-shaped silhouette passing by the doorway. My little Pembroke Welsh Corgi Amy was making her way to cuddle up in a crescent shape at the foot of my bed, like she did every night. Except tonight, she inched along slowly, wheezing and coughing as she went.
Days prior, I received a call from our vet. “Are you somewhere quiet where you can sit down?” She asked me. “I’m afraid it’s not good news…”
X-rays had revealed a massive tumor in Amy’s chest. The vet listed treatment options, but my little pooch with a mighty heart and an even mightier personality was almost 13. So, I chose Option D: “None of the above.” I would simply do my best to keep the old girl comfortable. Thankfully, she had been symptom-free until recently. Now, however, her breathing was labored, and she was struggling to move. I didn’t want her to suffer. I made an appointment with our vet to euthanize her.
Hearing her struggle for air as she slowly made her way to the bedroom, I was racked with guilt and deep sadness. Tomorrow morning, I would take her to the vet one last time. I had never done this before.
Seeking insight for the next steps, I had rediscovered a spiritual roadmap for grappling with canine death penned by one of my favorite theologians, Andrew Root. In The Grace of Dogs, Root recalls the day their beloved black lab, Kirby, was euthanized. After the medicine was pushed into Kirby’s veins, Root’s young son, Owen, stayed with Kirby until the very end. When the light had left Kirby’s eyes, Owen exited the room briefly to retrieve a cup of water and a dog treat. He put the dog treat on Kirby’s back and dipped his fingers into the cup of water. With his wet fingers, he made a sign of a cross on Kirby’s forehead and said, “I love you, Kirby. Goodbye.” What a beautiful and sacred moment that must have been to behold, a young boy bidding his four-legged friend goodbye and committing him into the hands of God.
I wanted her to know that I would be ok. So I prayed Compline with my dying dog.
In my bedroom, I sat with Amy and softly stroked her belly, watching her little chest heave up and down. One furry paw found its way onto my knee, and two big, brown eyes peered up at me. Though she was clearly in pain, I was moved by how serene she seemed, almost peaceful, like she somehow could sense it would all be over within hours. Now, like Root’s wise son Owen, it seemed only right to send my dear pup into the arms of God with a farewell blessing of her own.
Pulling up the Daily Office on my phone, I began to read aloud the service designated for that late hour. From the Latin meaning “completion,” Compline is an ancient bedtime liturgy and the last prayer office of the day. We pray Compline before going to sleep, to lay at Jesus’ feet all the things that worry us in the wee, small hours.
Compline is intended to be spoken aloud in the company of others. There are prayers and Scriptures, calls and responses. This particular evening included readings from Psalm 91: “I will say unto the Lord, ‘You are refuge and my stronghold, my God in whom I will trust’” and from Psalm 31: “Into your hands I commend my spirit, for you have redeemed me, O Lord, O God of truth…”
I paused, as the air whistled out of Amy’s nose in a deep sigh. Scratching her ears, I continued. This next part held the words I was yearning for most of all. “Tend the sick, Lord Christ. Give rest to the weary. Bless the dying. Soothe the suffering. Pity the afflicted. Shield the joyous. All for your love’s sake. Amen.” Certainly, my prayer that night was for Amy’s eternal protection and for her suffering to be alleviated. Yet my mind kept returning to the plea, “shield the joyous.”
Amy chased butterflies and was the queen of everyone’s couch. She loved to play with sticks and lived to forage for crumbs on my kitchen floor. She even knew how to pick ripe cherry tomatoes off the vine without disturbing any of the green ones. With no tail, her whole backend shook when she was excited. She was a goofy ball of wiggly fuzz. Truly. She was filled with so much joy for the world around her, and in turn, she brought others so much joy.
I agree with Root and many others. Dogs are a grace. That little paw on my knee that night reminded me of all this girl had seen me through: my first job, my first home, an engagement, a marriage, two moves, a separation, a divorce, making new friends, and coming into my own in singlehood. She was my glimmer of joy, a living promise of God’s grace and the greater joy to come.
I wanted to say all this to her, and more. I wanted her to know that I would be ok. So I prayed Compline with my dying dog. I sought out an ancient, ecclesiological prayer, beyond any words I could ever muster up on my own in that moment.
Shield the joyous. It seemed so fitting that these last words should be the final, farewell blessing for my little dog, my dear friend.
Shield the joyous. It seemed so fitting that these last words should be the final, farewell blessing for my little dog, my dear friend. I prayed that the joy of the Lord would linger with her in her last hours and carry her into whatever heavenly place is prepared for dogs — for I do believe in such a place, as does Root, as does Dietrich Bonhoeffer, among others.
In The Grace of Dogs, Root tells the story of a small boy questioning Bonhoeffer about an afterlife for dogs. Reflecting on Bonhoeffer’s response, Root writes, God promises to be with us in life and in death. God also promises to protect our joy and the joy of the ones we love eternally, including those with wet noses and four legs.
My apartment is quiet now. No sounds of little feet scurrying on the floor. No more barking. No more snoring. No more wheezing. However, photos of Amy’s happy face dot my walls, and the celebration of her life has connected me with old friends I haven’t heard from in a long time. She continues to teach me to keep my heart open, and I try to honor her in that. Today, I have a freshly laundered dog bed and new toys waiting in the other room for whenever I find the next pup. And… I also just filled out a new dating profile.
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