Why dogs belong in heaven

Pope Francis gladdened the hearts of many - well, at least us "animal people" - when, at his weekly Vatican address, he comforted a young boy who had recently lost his dog, assuring him that the pearly gates were open for all. "One day, we will see our animals again in the eternity of Christ. Paradise is open to all of God's creatures," he said.

Turns out he didn't, not exactly, for somewhat embarrassed retractions followed soon after.

Frankly, I care two hoots about the divine stamp on animals having souls. I don't need the Pope - or for that matter any other religious head to tell me that. I know. 

I have a dog. Dogs, rather.

That should say it all, but let me elaborate, for those deprived of such enlightenment. 

In all fairness, my first dog Frooti, can't be called a saintly soul. Oh, he did all things that dogs do - follow me around the house, to the playground, and pretty much everywhere he could (to his sorrow and mine, he wasn't allowed in school). He sensed, responded to our moods, and showed unflinching loyalty, giving up his prized walks to be by my side when I went through a prolonged illness. I have no doubts about him having a soul. My worry is: did his soul make it to heaven? Frooti was a snob. My father was then in a high ranking government position, and the dog lived under the impression that it was he who got the salutes. This permeated in his attitude, and came across in a rather obvious manner when he was confronted with those he imagined were beneath his calling. 

Although Frooti's afterlife worries me, I am at peace about Snoopi, who was surely the canine avatar of a saint. Snoopi was extraordinary… in his love for his fellow beings. Being part of an animal-crazy family (Disclaimer: I was initially the only one, and had converted my mother), he had to share his space with an assortment of species - squirrels, pigeons, mynahs, mongoose, langurs, peacocks. While he clearly preferred our undivided attention, he was remarkably tolerant of the menagerie. But it was with the sick and the ailing, especially the babies, that Snoopi came into his own. He would babysit for hours, barking to get our attention, and tugging us over, if he thought the patient needed attention. It is another matter that his nursing was overzealous at times, and in one particular case, fatal. I had nursed a tiny fledgling - rescued from the jaws of the local tabby - through the night. When I left for college the next morning, Snoopi took over, diagnosed it as needing extra care and proceeded to diligently lick it all over. The poor little bird, I think, died of fright, his nerves racked at the excessive attention of an unfamiliar, furry creature. I was enraged, and couldn't quite forgive the dog. Worse, Snoopi wouldn't forgive himself either, and moped around for days… till the next patient came along. Back he was to being nursemaid again, only a little more circumspect.

Snoopi loved the prayer room. When ma read the Guru Granthsahib, he would be right there with her in the room - even on the days there was no prasaad - wearing an uncharacteristically grave expression. 

When Ma fell ill, he rarely left her side. He sensed the tension when her doctor came, so he - who never bit or snapped at a soul in his life - would bark blue murder, not allowing the doc near Ma. He left us a bare few months after Ma did. 

Try and tell me, or anyone who knew him, that he didn't have a soul. And we imagine that they both are there, beyond those pearly gates, together: Ma and him, going for strolls, chasing ball, enjoying carrot cakes (a shared delight), chanting prayers… and missing us. 

Snoopi is a hard act to follow. But Doginder, the current canine incumbent, manages beautifully. While he is not benevolent towards his fellow beings - all four-legged creatures are perceived as competition; he simply loves the human race. Even though he was dumped on the street by one specimen (scum, @#$%&). He is all heart, and he has made many a dog-fearing people turn turtle, and become his friends - and fans. He is patient when he senses fear, extra attentive if he perceives grief, and has redefined loyalty, even by canine standards. 

We took him in a scrawny, sickly, sorry creature when we were going through a particularly bad time. We were grieving, and we both healed together. I would spend days in a darkened room - willing myself to get up, and out. To work, to play. He was right there with me, his mournful eyes reflecting my anguish. But after a point, he decided enough was enough, and would nudge me with his nose, urging me up, and out. My simple morning act of getting out of bed was met with a boisterous, goofy dance, joy oozing out his being. You couldn't not laugh with him. For Doginder, all routine is an event: food, going out for walks and coming back home, playing ball, dancing with chappals (his trademark, patented dance), meeting pals, welcoming family home - or out of the bathroom. Everything was fun, and greeted with the utmost exuberance. 

Nor is this soul-business, or afterlife, limited to "pet" dogs: I remember the time when Snoopi got lost and the entire "desi" gang whom we fed and cared for fanned out, and led him back home. Then there was this very sickly bitch who landed up at our house, carrying her very tiny pup. Exhausted, she collapsed at our gate, leaving the little one in our care. Who was she? How did she know that ours was the home where her pup would be looked after? I have no answers. 

I do not know if I, or my fellow Homo sapiens, will go beyond the pearly gates and into Heaven, given our rather unsavoury track record; of dogs and other creatures great and small, I am frankly more sure.