A Letter to My Dearly Departed Dog

Dear Starbuck,

Now why’d you have to go and get sick? Nobody told me it could possibly end like this.

I thought that as long as I kept you safe, preventing you from following your bionic nose and getting lost, or making sure you didn’t dart into an oncoming Buick, you’d be here for a long, long time. I thought we’d grow old together. I envisioned you getting weak with arthritis or losing your teeth so that your chew toys became dusty from lack of use. But cancer? Seriously?

Granted, I was not the most experienced pet owner when you arrived back in 2006. I hadn’t seen a dog stick around long enough to get sick and die. As a little boy there were a few dogs around our home, but they weren’t permanent. They either wandered off or got hit by cars before any serious attachment could form. We did have Pearl, an amazing German short-haired pointer. But she couldn’t handle suburban life after those years in the country and we had to give her up. Then there was Pupper, the cutest little mutt you ever did see. She was special, but I moved out of the house and then a Pontiac put her out of commission.

So, you were different. You were my first dog. And I don’t think I could have asked for a better pet. Oh, sure you had your issues: your stubbornness, your whiny separation anxiety, and the way you destroyed every dog bed I bought you quickly come to mind. But you had so many other wonderfully positive and funny habits that made owning you such joy. It would take pages to list them all. And besides, I don’t have to list them for you. You know what I’m talking about. I did my best to tell you as often as possible.

Remember that book I read last spring, “A Dog’s Purpose” by W. Bruce Cameron? I’m sure you do. We talked about it all the time. The premise is that each dog has a specific purpose here on Earth and a dog may go through numerous lives before realizing it. In the book, one such dog lives four different lives. He is able to remember events, sights, smells, locations, and people from each previous life. Written from the dog’s perspective, the author humorously used the lessons that the dog learned to weave a terrific story that ended in a thoughtful, believable manner.

You never would tell me if you’d had other lives or if you’d met other people along the way. I tried to get you to tell me if you’d discovered your purpose yet. But you were silent about that topic. In my mind, I’d say that you did fulfill your purpose. You became a wonderful friend. You received my love and care and in return you helped me through some really trying times. I discovered a side of my heart that I didn’t know I had. And I learned about the power of adoption. If it were up to me, you’ve earned your retirement package and can go straight to heaven.

But maybe you’ve moved on to another home here on Earth. Maybe you’re a chocolate lab living with a young boy struggling with Hodgkin’s disease. Or you’re a Jack Russell, comforting a new widower embarking upon a scary stage of life without his soul mate. Are you a golden retriever returning to the scene of one of your earlier homes, bringing lessons you learned from me to the aid of someone in need?

I guess I’ll never know. I don’t think I need to know. What I do know is that you were a gift from God. I believe your species was put on Earth to emulate what unconditional love looks like. Certainly many people don’t agree with that or believe in God at all. That’s okay. He lets them own dogs too. Because no matter how much I yelled at you, or got frustrated or impatient with you, you were always there to welcome me home from school, to play catch in the backyard, and to cuddle up against me on the couch for that evening’s baseball game. That’s what unconditional love looks like. And it takes a God who is love to create an animal that can love like he does.

So, dear Starbuck, enjoy your present residence. If it’s in heaven, see if you can sniff out Pearl or Pupper. If you’re living with someone new, be a good boy for me. I promise to get a new dog one day. Not to try to replace you, but to give a home to one who will be on a journey in search of his purpose. And when I do, I’ll be sure to tell him all about you. It may take me some time to find him. But I’ll know right away when I do. Because there will be something small, something unique, that will remind me of you.