Baylor Boy

The biting wind swirled the dead leaves around the mound of dirt where I was digging the grave for our dog, Baylor. “Good ol’ Baylor Boy,” I mumbled as I shoveled. 

It had been over a month since he died. During his illness, our veterinarian, Dr. Irene Ballard, told us, “We’ll keep him for a few days. If you don’t hear from me, that’s good.” She held Baylor in her arms, gently stroking him as she detailed the seriousness of his condition. 

Several days later, we visited Baylor at the clinic. “Take your time. Hold him as long as you want,” Dr. Ballard said. As we left, I told Lori I felt like we were making a hospital visit to a loved one. And, of course, we were. Our pets become part of our family. Letting go is difficult. A few days later, on a Sunday evening, Dr. Ballard called and gently broke the news: Baylor’s time had come. 

We gave Baylor’s remains to Charles Mills, who has a crematory for pets. Several weeks later, he delivered Baylor’s cremains to our house. “I had a Schnauzer, too,” he said. “Jager was his name.” Mr. Mills’ face brightened as he told us how much he had doted on Jager. “I told my wife I would never have a dog in our house, but then, Jager ended up sleeping with me,” he laughed. 

And so, like grieving parents, Lori and I joined in, sharing stories of Baylor and how he must have envisioned himself a Pit Bull, the way he would patrol our property like a police watchdog, careful to chase any living thing away. We talked about Judy, our friend who would keep our two Schnauzers, and how she had once commented that Baylor liked to scout around her house. “Maybe I should have named him ‘Scout,'” l grinned. 

Baylor would sometimes aggravate me, especially when I would have to chase him down the street early in the morning, on one occasion, while still wearing my bathrobe. I would yell his name, ordering him back. Baylor would look at me with what I swore was a smirk and then turn and run. “Dang, dog,” I would grumble.

Instead of “Scout” or “Dang dog,” I settled for “Baylor Boy,” and so that’s what I affectionally called him. 

I grinned at those memories as I continued digging Baylor’s grave, the sweet words of our dog-loving friends echoing in my ears. As I tenderly placed the box containing Baylor’s ashes in the grave, it felt like Dr. Ballard, Mr. Mills, Judy, and all our children were there with Lori and me. 

“Baylor would have been sitting right about there where you’re digging, resting there in the grass while you worked in your garden,” Lori observed.   

“And he would  have been a step ahead of us if I tried to catch him,” I remarked as we placed his ashes in the grave, praying aloud, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”

Back inside, away from the cold wind, I poured myself a cup of coffee in a mug Lori had given me for Christmas. “Can’t catch me!” the mug said, with an image of the Ginger Bread Man on the cup’s other side. “Appropriate not just for me but for Baylor, too,” I grinned. “He was always running ahead of us.” We both smiled in agreement. 

While I don’t believe Baylor has a soul that will be in heaven (it’s okay if you disagree with me), the Scriptures do indicate that there will be animals of all kinds, including dogs, I suppose, in heaven, in the resurrection of the life which is to come. 

And so, if I hear a dog barking at me, teasing me to give chase, and then racing away as soon as I step in his direction, I’ll know God had Baylor on his mind when he created that scurrying celestial canine.

 And then I’ll take off, running after him.