Please Take Care of My Dog

I cried harder when Riggs died than any other death that had crossed me. Rigg’s ended up with me because parenting includes taking in your children’s pets when necessary. That dog was clever- a 5 pound Maltese rocket who did mid-air flips to show me how he felt about dinner.

Naturally, I fell madly in love.

Then came the cancer. The awful, fast kind. Riggs went to stay with Anne, the breeder-slash-nurse who could handle the syringes and medical stuff while I handled the weeping. I’d make the 90 minute drive as often as possible, wrap him like the tiny bird I tried to rescue in third grade, and take him to the local Catholic church where we’d sit with God, Mary, and the whole celestial support group.

Riggs was just 3 pounds and barely breathing near the end. I almost didn’t take him to the church one day but just couldn’t stay away. It felt like nothing bad could happen when traces of incense and stillness surrounded me. I was kneeling, sobbing into a pew, when a woman appeared out of nowhere, pressed a red rosary into my hand, and said, “I’m supposed to give you these. Don’t worry. He’s going to be fine.”

Riggs died two days later. God and I apparently have different definitions of “fine.” Still, the rosary felt like a cosmic Post-it note: You’re not alone.

Recently, I came across a story I’d saved years ago—the one about little Meredith and her dog Abbey —and it reminded me of that rosary, that moment, that out-of-the-blue kindness. You might know it, but it’s worth repeating:

A four-year-old dictates a letter to God asking Him to take care of Abbey in heaven, including a photo of herself and Abbey so that God would recognize the dog when she arrived. She and her mom mailed the letter with many stamps—because heaven, obviously, has terrible postal rates. Days later, a gold-wrapped package appeared on the porch. Inside: a Mr. Rogers book “What Happens When A Pet Dies”, Meredith’s letter, the photo, and this note:

Dear Meredith,
Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away. Abbey isn’t sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don’t need our bodies in heaven, I don’t have any pockets to keep your picture in, so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by.

Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you with it. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you. I love you very much and remember- wherever there is love there I am.
Love,
God

That story gets me every time. Dogs and people might leave us but love—and the occasional red-rosary God wink—sticks around.

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