A Book and a Funeral

Some of you may know that Santa brought me a Nook for Christmas. As a person who loves the look and feel of a book in their hands, I wasn't sure. Would I like this new-fangled electronic reading device? After a few months, the answer is an emphatic "Yes", which leads me to my blog post for today.

I bought the book, "Heaven is for Real", by Todd Burpo for my Nook. Why? Simple. It was inexpensive and had plenty of good reviews. So I figured, why not?

I'm so glad I did. Written simply and from the point of view of a father (who just happens to be pastor of a small Nebraska church), the story describes what happens when Burpo's three year old son, Colton, nearly dies after his appendix bursts.

Without giving away too many details, once Colton recovers, he casually refers to an apparent visit he made to heaven. There are things he mentions that he had no way of knowing. His parents are understandably astounded. Colton's observations astounded me, too, making for a swift and memorable read.

But why, might you ask, am I dedicating a Critter Alley post to this book?

A couple of reasons. All dedicated animal lovers will be happy (though perhaps not surprised) to know
that among other things, Colton reports seeing animals of all kinds in heaven. And why not? You only have to look into a beloved pet's eyes to know they have a soul.

Second, events of this past week made me do a lot of thinking about life after death. My boss of over 30 years passed away after a three year battle with cancer. He was only 61 years old. This was a man who approached every task with a strategic plan. His determination and drive brooked little in the way of discussion. He reminded me of an unstoppable force, and nothing kept him from achieving what he set out to do.

That single minded characteristic annoyed more than a few people, but he never let that fact bother him. His job was his life, and I can't recall a time when he gave less than 1000% to do what he felt was the right thing to do.

So naturally we thought he'd beat cancer, too. Yet it wasn't in the cards.

The experience made me think more about what happens once our short time on earth is over. If you've had any type of religious upbringing, you take on faith that the soul continues on after the body fails. Though faith is a beautiful thing, I must admit the logical part of my brain loved hearing young Colton's observations about what, and who, he saw during his near-death experience. The book brought me a lot of comfort this week, and if you are grieving, it might be something that speaks to your heart, too.

Many people attended my boss's funeral on Thursday, February 17. The sun blazed down on us, providing a beautiful morning that reached 74 degrees. Practically unheard of in Missouri on a mid-February day. It wasn't a surprise for me. I'm pretty sure my boss arranged things. If anyone could, it would be him.

Though plenty of tears flowed, we still had to smile at the thought of our boss negotiating with God to have good weather for his funeral.

You haven't lost any of your skills, Ray. You're just using them in a brand new office.

Blemie's Will

Eugene O'Neill and Blemie from the Eugene O'Neill Foundation


When it comes time to say good-bye to a beloved pet, it doesn't matter if we're an ordinary citizen or a person who has achieved fame, fortune, or notoriety. It hurts.

Many have written on the subject of pet loss. Perhaps my favorite essay is a piece written by American playwright and Nobel Prize winner, Eugene O'Neill. It has often been reprinted in various collections related to the topic of dogs. O'Neill even published a book by the same title.

As the story goes, O'Neill had a much loved Dalmatian named Blemie. When the dog reached old age, O'Neill wrote a last will and testament from Blemie's point of view as a way to comfort his wife for what was to come. I love the touch of gentle humor and wise words. And the final paragraph never fails to evoke a few tears.

In honor of blogger buddies whose four footed friends have in recent weeks left for the Rainbow Bridge, here is Blemie's Last Will and Testament as envisioned by Eugene O'Neill:


"I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family, friends and acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

 I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their time hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith. These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie and Naomi and — but if I should list all those who have loved me it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is in vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.

 I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick, bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having over lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by, before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me.

 It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I would like to believe with those of my fellow Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered; here all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted; where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the love of one's Master and Mistress.

 I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleeps in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all, this is best.

 One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, "When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one." Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again. What I would not like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have permitted to share the living-room rug during the evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best.

So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred, or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent years. And, for all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.

 One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "here lies one who loved us and whom we loved." No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail."

Eugene O'Neill had it right. I can see my own dogs that are no longer with me nodding their heads in agreement.

Can you?