Do dogs dream of heaven?

Break ins were becoming more common in our area that it prompted my mother to buy another dog. What she came home with was a scraggly, flea-ridden Doberman-German shepherd mutt we eventually named “Whispy.” My mom didn’t consider her for her shameful state, but rather, she was sold almost for nothing because the vendor just wanted to get rid of her and was worried if the poor dog would sell at all.

After an extensive defleaing and cleaning, Whispy showed signs of being an observant and capable guard dog. Despite her small and fragile stature, she was a terror when she barred her fangs at strangers and reserved her loyalty and adoration only to us. She would change her behavior when she realized that a stranger was part of family or a friend based on what she would observe from our behavior. She was great at keeping traveling Jehovah’s witnesses away who were too scared to preach the word of God in the face of this “menacing” wolf.

Cute widdle puppeh!

Since I was rarely allowed to go out even to play with the next door neighbor’s girl, I ended up playing with the dogs instead. Whispy was my favorite even though it was difficult to play tricks on her. She ended up being my confidant and the shoulder to cry on. She became my “first” best friend. She was so fond of me that my mother always had to call me in order for her to obey commands.

One summer evening, I woke up to faint sounds of squealing and Whispy’s distinct whine of worry. I realized that she has started giving birth to puppies before I opened the door outside and alerted my brothers immediately. As soon as we came out, she looked relieved and had two puppies crawling all over the place. She couldn’t help herself and didn’t know if she should look after the two puppies crawling away or deliver the rest of the puppies still in progress. She looked like she was having difficulty delivering the huge pups because of her small frame so my younger brother was assigned the task of keeping the puppies close to her so she didn’t worry about them, and I helped by playing midwife to the puppies being delivered. My older brother held the two other dogs we owned since they caused Whispy to growl protectively over the puppies. In the end, we ended up with five dogs. One was unfortunately still born and looked like a mutant with a giant head. Whispy had a longing look in her face when we took the dead puppy from her but didn’t retaliate. We dug a small grave for the puppy that same day and offered a little prayer for it. We set out milk to a haggard Whispy who looked grateful and set on to nurse the remaining pups.

After some years, Whispy became pregnant again. We were just as excited and spoiled her. One morning I stepped out and called to her as usual but didn’t get a bark or her presence. Furthermore, none of the dogs were responding to the call either. One of her pups actually came to see me, then darted away. When I turned the corner, I saw that they were all gathered at Whispy’s body. I didn’t want to believe it at first because it didn’t look like what I thought it was. She still looked alive except for a few flies flying around her. I came closer to confirm, my heart pounding in my chest. She was dead. I stroked her a few more times just to make sure, still not believing and I felt heartbroken when I hand moved over her swollen belly. She was due only a few more weeks.

I informed my mom right away, clearly keeping my hysteria at bay. I was expecting to be given one of those TV moment pats in the back or even some show of how sorry she was for my loss but I didn’t get any. I watched her order my older brother and an uncle to put her body in a sack and throw it at the creek next door. I kept thinking, “What? Aren’t we going to give her a funeral? She’s been with us for so long and you know how much I adore this dog!” I was told to get out of the way. Not knowing what to do with myself, I resorted to staying in my room, shocked, holding back tears, but crying eventually. It was a beautiful day for her to die. The weather was fine and the sun streamed into the only window that lit my dim room. Everyone in the household treated it like an ordinary day. The dogs were in a state of unrest and had to be kept to keep from distracting my brother and my uncle from moving the body. After some time, I did come out of my room and watched as her body was put into a sack and carried away.

It took me a very long time before I could finally pass the bridge alongside the creek where she was dumped. This was hard to do as it was only a house away from our home so I practically had to cross the street to go around it constantly. It took me three months to finally gain the courage to look down at the creek and look at the sack with her body in it. I didn’t have to look for it since it was still there. I only hoped that she wasn’t in pain and was very happy for the duration of her life with us. The whole ordeal made me wonder how people would feel should I die but this was definitely the beginning of a vague small voice telling me that there is no heaven or hell, only this earth and the life I’m living right now.

I’ve witnessed my mom break down during a previous birthday party I had when she received notification that her older brother in the navy had just passed away from a heart attack. She often spoke fondly of him and we felt much gratitude for his omniscience since he always seemed to be the mysterious figure behind an unexpected present or just the amount of money we needed to get through. For the rest of that celebration, I had mixed feelings of being happy for myself and being sad for my mom. I tried not to smile as my offer of condolence.

I was in 4^th grade when Whispy died. Though I knew there was a huge difference between a human being and a pet dog, I was expecting some kind of speech about life and death from my mom. Anything would have comforted me but I was left to explore that myself. Even though my mom acknowledge us as “mature” kids, I still hoped she would be a bit more attentive to matters such as this. After an unexpected flood, I passed by the creek again to visit her and found that the sack was no longer there.

Several years later, my mother’s mom passed away. The funeral was comparable to a celebrity since I found several strangers, perhaps every occupant of the apartment building she lived in, and distant relatives in attendance. I was “ordered” to do the Eulogy for my grandmother and despite some difficulty with it, did manage to write a decent one. I had to show it to my father for review because just the thought of it made my mother breakdown in tears. In it, I essentially narrated my short correspondence with her when she still had the ability to write letters. She had lovely hand writing and I would talk to her about how the family was doing, my hobbies and stuff I wanted. Despite knowing that her favorite grandchild is my older brother, I was the only one diligent enough to write to her. I shared language misunderstandings we had with her in her later years when her memory started to fail and would order us something in Spanish and forget that we don’t speak that language at all. I think the crowd got the gist of it. They laughed and sighed at the appropriate parts despite my choked delivery as I found myself breaking down. When it was all over, I returned to where my family stood and got a half hug from my mother who thanked me and cried right back in my father’s arms. Throughout the rest of the mass, I grieved alone. I held my tears and felt envious that my mother had my father and my brothers stood close to each other, both heads bowed. My aunt and cousins were in front, I had other distant relatives behind who occasionally patted me in the back for the “wonderful” speech but despite all this, I felt very lonely being the only person within that crowd without a shoulder to cry on. When it was time for the viewing, I found that my grandmother’s body was that of a stranger. It resembled her, but it wasn’t anything like her.

My grandmother’s body reminded me of the death of our neighbor’s daughter in law who died young of cancer. There were perhaps at least 10 people in attendance in her funeral, not including us. We were invited as our neighbor thought of us as her grandchildren since she babysat us and we babysat her grandchildren. The lady who died looked calm and ethereal in her coffin. She didn’t get the chance to live a long, colorful life the way my grandmother did and unfortunately left a beautiful daughter behind.

I don’t know how to mourn. There are many times I’d like to cry hysterically the way they do it in movies but had been trained to avoid this since my mother had a habit of criticizing me for a drama queen when I did. I could never get the routine right despite many elderly relatives dropping dead every year or so. When silently crying to myself wasn’t acceptable either, the only other option available to me was to feel nothing, after all there is heaven, right?

I believe that religion’s first purpose is to answer death. It’s “comforting” to know that an afterlife exists where you can find your loved ones later on. I will never have a dog like Whispy ever again and as a child, it was comforting to “know” that she’ll be the first one to greet me when I die. I don’t think of it that way anymore, I don’t believe there’s anything after I’m gone so I’ve resorted to leaving crafty presents behind to my friends to ensure my immortality.

Will we see all our loved ones in some afterlife? I just couldn’t believe that, no, not after what I’ve seen. Not after the overwhelming response of the crowd that attended my grandmother’s funeral. It wouldn’t have been that big of a deal if they thought they wouldn’t see her again. Not after the unceremonious nature of Whispy’s funeral. Religious or not, there’s that part of us that knows that this is the only life we’ll ever live.