God and Animals

One of my earliest memories is being at a Texas rodeo with my grandparents. I was five years old, and they had loaded my older brother and me along with our four cousins in the family station wagon for a night at the rodeo. Shortly after the national anthem, I stood up in the bleachers and asked out loud to no one in particular, “Why are those men being rough with the animals?” No one answered me. My family was having a grand time watching the event and eating popcorn. They were laughing and pointing toward the arena—captivated by what they saw. I broke into a red-faced wail.

My grandmother—the kindest woman I’ve ever known, scooped me up and took me outside, and sat me on a park bench. She looked me in the eye and asked, “Honey, why are you so sensitive about animals?” I didn’t have an answer for her then, and I don’t have an answer now. But even at the tender age of five, the thought of human beings roughhousing an innocent creature pierced me to the core.

Fast-forward forty years to a season when my two beloved Golden Doodles have become old dogs faster than I anticipated. The oldest has been diagnosed with vision loss and arthritis, and the other has survived a mauling and has recurrent cancer. For reasons I can’t explain, I feel more protective of them now than when they were puppies. We spend a lot of time at the vet’s office, and the corner of my kitchen countertop is filled with prescription bottles bearing their names. Even though we are currently enjoying a smooth patch, I’ve done the math and I know my time with them is limited—this is what you sign up for with a dog—years of unconditional love followed by heartbreak. I know the drill. Still, I want more time.

I’ve come to realize that when it comes to animals, there are two types of people. The ones who care deeply for their animals—like they are members of the family. And the ones who don’t. The latter is prone to raise their eyebrows and remind us animal lovers that “animals aren’t people.” To which I reply, “I know, right? Isn’t that fabulous?”

Over the years, I’ve overheard well-intended but misguided people whisper, “She doesn’t have kids—that’s why she loves those dogs like she does.” (Apparently, this bunch moonlight as psychotherapists). When Mavis, my youngest Golden Doodle, was mauled and underwent three surgeries to repair her injuries, one colleague (an ordained minister) said, “You know Susan, dogs don’t go to heaven.” I’m not convinced that’s true, but even if it is, I’m guessing there are some hardhearted theologians in the same boat.

As I watch my dogs move more slowly and sleep longer than they used to, I’m reminded that God does indeed care for the animals—and He cares for the people who tend to them. King David put it this way:

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains,
your judgments like the deepest sea.
Lord, you preserve people and animals (Psa. 36:6).

With that in mind— I’m asking God to keep two Golden Doodles around a while longer.