A little black dog has sparked some big questions from small minds. Photo: Kim Treasure.
Our old dog, my best mate of 13 years, was put to sleep at home a couple of weeks ago, after a months-long battle with a cancer that just would not be defeated.
He’s left a hole in our lives, a wagging tail no longer at the door, a patient friend no longer waiting in the car on errand runs.
Despite the pain and discomfort caused by his tumour and the ultimately unsuccessful operation to remove it, he was active, loving and happy almost to the very end.
He left us with love and plenty of lessons – mostly about how brief life is, how lucky we are, and how few of the things we think are important matter.
He’s also left a couple of little people with some big questions.
We went down to the family property to scatter his ashes last weekend, and our four-year-old niece and two-year-old nephew came to grips with Loki’s absence.
On arrival we were asked where Loki was, what happened to the little black dog?
We explained he died – a process made a little tricky by their toddler understanding of sickness and medicine.
“If he was sick, why didn’t you take him to the doctor?”
We explained we did, but sometimes people and pets are too sick for the doctor to help. Despite my determination to be honest with the kids we skipped over the part where the vet actually brought about the moment of death. It seemed like that might open a can of worms best dealt with by slightly more mature minds.
Living on a property full of pets and livestock (more of the former than the latter), they’re no strangers to death.
They know animals, and sometimes people, can die and in their developing understanding of the world they know that bodies go in the ground and souls go “up in the sky”.
“But how,” asks niece, “do their souls get there? Bodies are too heavy to float.”
Great point. Check and mate.
Our family is a mishmash of Anglicanism, agnosticism and atheism. We try to encourage the kids to think about things themselves without contradicting anything they might have been told.
They’re not our kids, after all – we’re not going to be woken up at 2 am by little people demanding answers to philosophical questions.
I suggested souls and bodies might be different things, and this suggestion was largely accepted.
I asked if even though bodies were very heavy whether souls might be light enough to float?
I got a question for my question.
“Is my head full of water?”
Tricky, because yes, but also no. And the brain does float in that water, but is the brain the soul?
Dear reader, this humble reporter has to confess she does not know.
After some discussion we decided that souls were a bit like dandelion seeds – that maybe they float up and out into the universe on our last breaths.
It brought as much solace to us as it did to them, I think.
As we took the container that held Loki’s ashes and scattered them in the yard he loved, it was comforting to think of some part of him floating through the world, light as a dandelion seed.
Our minds were quickly and efficiently brought back to more earthly concerns, however.
“Aunty Zoe,” a small voice asked, “can I keep that pretty box?”
