Blessed Are Those Who Mourn
A personal essay about the passing of my dog Zeb
Welcome back to 🏝 The Little Island Stories. We continue Season 2’s series of standalone tales with a piece of creative nonfiction about the recent passing of our family’s beloved dog, Zeb. Thank you as always for reading.
1
Blessed are those who mourn the passing of a dog, for they shall be shown out the back door of the veterinary hospital with faces flushed, minds lost in a loop of disbelief, having said a final goodbye that came much too soon to process.
The doctor whose experienced hands could not save the life of your dog means well, but in bypassing the lobby there is no one in the back alley to hug and cry with. Just an impatient food delivery driver honking to squeeze past so the French fries and burgers arrive hot, thus ensuring a five-star rating.
2
Blessed are those who mourn the passing of a dog, for they shall return to a home haunted with sounds that unconsciously trigger hope of a bad dream ending good.
They shall return to a home littered with the tufts of golden-brown hair, chewed toys and two bowls of uneaten food, unlapped water; to a home with newly-formed black holes of grief that swirl around you and overwhelm until you’ve had a cry on the floor, under the desk where your dog used to sit while you worked; or on the couch late at night when everyone is asleep, on the very cushion where Zeb used to snore at night before waking and climbing the stairs to paw at your arm for an early breakfast; or at the kitchen window, when he would announce with a bark that supper had arrived, or that a package had been dropped on the front steps.
3
Blessed are those who mourn the passing of a dog, for they shall have to explain to their young ones what it all means when a dog gets sick and passes away. For they will have to answer question after question after question with answers that fall terribly short of comfort, of explanation, of resolution.
“When will we pick up Zeb?”
“Will an ambulance bring him back home?”
“When I get older can I see him again?”
Your theology fails you. You talk about sparrows and the animals that Noah brought, two by two, into his ark. You say Zeb is with Jesus, that Jesus is petting him right now and probably letting him eat a great big meal of whatever the angelic chefs have whipped up that day in eternity.
You ignore that unseemly, hardened voice in the back of your head that notes, “But we all know that animals do not have souls.” You close your mind to this word from teachings past — and also your eyes, because again they begin to fill with grief’s heavy floods.
4
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”1
You wait for such comfort. You desire it. You expect it, even, but, you realize, this comfort that Jesus spoke of, it is a precious commodity in a world chock-full of things to mourn about.
You’ll not be comforted by the neighbors who ask, while collecting their mail, “when are going to get a new dog?”
You’ll not be comforted by the marketing emails that push a limited time offer of 25% off vitamins essential for your dog’s long life. Nor will you be comforted by the AI-powered “Buy It Again” button on Amazon that makes it easy to remember to order another bag of dogfood you will no longer need.
You’ll not be comforted by the wise counselor you see weekly for your ongoing depression. Not really, though having someone listen — really listen — gives you a taste of something like the elusive comfort you crave.
You’ll not be comforted by the watercolor sketches you’ve made, the photo history you call up on your phone, the memory — replaying in your mind — of you holding Zeb when he takes his last breath, when the gums around his teeth grow cold, when he no longer struggles to get up when you invite him — as you have for eight years running — to go with you on a walk.
You repeat to yourself again and again Jesus’ words because you want to believe them, you want to experience them: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
But, today at least, to make any sense at all of his words you have to silently tack on another: “…eventually.”
…Eventually.
https://www.esv.org/Matthew+5/