Doxology

Excerpt from Angels in the ER II.

While writing this book, we lost our ten-year-old golden retriever Doxology (Dox). If you’ve loved and lost a dog, you know the grief and pain this brings. And if you’ve had a one-in-a-million dog—which a lot of us have—you’ve felt the pain all the more. Dox was one-in-a-million.

I knew that the moment I first laid eyes on him. I’d driven to a home near Cashiers, North Carolina to pick him up. He owned me when I first held him in my arms. He was a six-week-old pup, but already an old man. His soft brown, knowing, and piercing eyes took hold of your heart and wouldn’t let go. As I drove the four hours back home, he rode in the back of our SUV in a large crate. Each time I glanced in the rear-view mirror, our eyes met, and he had me. On at least three or four occasions I called my wife only to say, “Barbara, this is a special dog.” And he was.

For more than seven years he was the picture of the perfect dog. “The King of Dogs,” one of our grandchildren called him. I can’t remember him ever being angry or even snarling at a child who rolled over him as if he were a giant stuffed animal. He was perfect, until we noticed a lump under his right eye. It was cancer, and when offered the choices of doing nothing or opting for an aggressive approach, we took the aggressive path. It gave us another three years with him, but it cost Dox his right eye, part of his right jaw, and that cheek bone. You would never know. He was still the calm, loving, perfect dog.

This past Christmas, I noticed a growth in his mouth—another cancer. This time it was melanoma. It was aggressive, and in spite of the best efforts of our veterinarians, we reached a point where there was nothing more to be done. We knew we had only a few months, maybe weeks, and we treasured each remaining moment. We marveled at his steadfast heart, his constant and unwavering love for us and his people, at his bravery. He did everything we asked of him. But we weren’t going to allow him to suffer, and on a Monday morning, we said goodbye. It was one of the hardest things Barbara and I had ever done and one of the most painful things we had ever endured. It still is.

One day, when I depart this body and find myself in the presence of the Lord, my time, however it will be measured, will be filled with the praises and the wonder of Jesus. I know that I will once again be able to hug my mother and walk and talk with my father. There are a lot of people I want to see as well—family and friends, grandparents, some of whom I never met on this side. And I will seek out Peter and John and the Apostle Paul, as well as other giants of the faith—men and women whose words and deeds have guided and molded my journey and my heart.

We have no idea what Heaven will look like, only that it will be perfect. And because of that I know that one day, when I’ve experienced the presence and joy of that surrounding host of saints, I will find myself walking with Barbara in a field of lush, green grass, surrounded by gently rising conifer-cloaked hills. The words of Jesus will echo through that glade—“Behold, I make all things new.” And there will come Dox, charging towards us, his ears flapping in the breeze, his golden hair and majestic tail waving in the wind, and both of his laughing, dancing eyes meeting ours.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

The Doxology

Amen and Amen.