Shu-shu sprawls at my feet. She exudes a jolly, earthy grace. What a happy accident (or is it divine humor?) that “dog” is “god” spelled backwards!

This dog keeps me in the now. This wasn’t my idea. She’s a 2020 COVID puppy. Our family had just moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. The streets were near empty. Work was remote. Worship services at our new congregation were suddenly online, then, ever so cautiously, in-person, but masked and strictly separated. We shared the peace by bowing to each other, straining to make our eyes convey – everything. Baptisms were done outdoors, with drive-by godparents, who rolled down car windows to bless the newly born Christians.

My mother died, not of COVID, but still. After the grim business of traveling across four states, we sat vigil outside her nursing home window. We weren’t allowed to be with her until the end, when (mercifully, by bending the rules ever so slightly, oh so humanly) the nurse said: Okay, one at a time you can come in by the side door.

We did. One by one we entered. We touched her, and lowered our masks to help her hear us say: Thank you. For everything. I love you so much.

Two months later, my husband decided we needed a comfort dog. He and our son drove 10 hours to pick her up from a farm in Colorado. Shu-shu was the last puppy picked—a leftover.

She cried through the entirety of that first night. It went straight to my soul – she’s motherless, like me. Now we have to be her pack: her mother, brother, playmate. Don’t worry (I say to myself), I will never be the kind of person who calls herself mommy to a dog. I use massive self-discipline to not let it happen.

But Shu-shu doesn’t want to be babied or cuddled. What she wants is to dash madly around the house. Jump. Chew. Chase balls. Sprawl. Chase balls again. She was potty-trained by the third day. Learned to sit, shake, turn around and stay, all within a few weeks. She looks at the pantry door and barks to remind us of five o’clock mealtime. My husband and I look at each other – what is this creature?

Divine sense-abilities?

A word about bathroom habits: We find ourselves superbly interested in our dog’s daily constitutionals: Did she get fed, does she have clean water, did she get her exercise, and especially, did she poop? How much? What, again? Did you bring a poop bag? No, did you?

We notice things we’d been oblivious to before. For example, the availability and quality of those poop bags. Note: Albuquerque, New Mexico, has some fabulous free bags. The Midwest? Not so much. We find ourselves researching eco-friendly bags. We find ourselves researching a lot of things. For example: Is it true grapes are poisonous for dogs? (This after she feasted on the neighbor’s grapes that were hanging over our fence.) The answer is yes. Happily, she survives.

Is the pavement too hot for a summer walk? In winter, does road salt hurt her paws? We’ve never gotten a jacket for a dog before. Should we get one now? We move back to Wisconsin, where winter temperatures are in the low teens – so, yes. A rugged new dog coat soon arrives.

Also, it’s gross but this dog loves my morning breath. Can she tell what I’ve been dreaming? They say dogs can sense if someone’s blood sugar is low, or if they have cancer, or when someone is dying. I believe that.

Shu-shu detects things of which we have no clue. A friend posts a quote attributed to W.B. Yeats: “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” For sure! Shu-shu lurches to the side of the road, and then I, too, notice…faint tracks in the mud. A half-buried wrapper. Deer scat. What stories does she smell? Can I learn to decipher them too?

In any case, she needs her workouts, so my spouse and I now get four or five miles of daily exercise, whether we feel like it or not!

So much more

Last summer at our rowdy vacation Bible camp, kids were running around, and musicians were strumming and tuning their guitars. One of our church moms came in, red-eyed, to deliver her kids. She avoided my inquiring eyes. She stayed for the opening worship, then abruptly made an escape to the parking lot. I followed. Another mom in the group seemed to know all about it. She already had her arms around her. Is it her job, I wondered? Her children? A death in the family?

It was a death. They’d to take the family dog to be euthanized that morning. Her shoulders shook as she wept. I feel so silly, she whispered. Just a dog.

No, no, we said. So much more.

Travels

My husband takes Shu-shu cross-country. Highway rest stops equipped with outdoor drinking fountains and pet areas are a godsend. It’s his first time finding hotels that accommodate pets. She’s interested in the people in the lobby, their luggage, and remnant smells of a breakfast buffet. Once he gets into the room with her, Shu-shu suddenly becomes protective. Each time someone passes by the hallway, she barks! She growls! She paces! She will protect her turf and her human! Neither human nor beast can get a good night’s sleep. Sadly, probably none of the folks in neighboring rooms sleep well, either.

Miraculously, on ensuing trips, Shu-shu seems to have figured out what hotels are for, including the unusual privilege of sleeping in the same room with us. She quickly settles down, snuggles in. But what’s that nosing my face at the crack of dawn!? Oh, right. Shushu’s ready for the new day’s road trip to begin.

Fear of dogs

My friend Talia has deep, visceral fear of dogs. She was bitten as a small child, and you don’t forget that. Sometimes people laugh to see an adult woman cringe, and she’s furious: “Don’t people understand, when they leave dogs off leash and it comes bounding over, they can say ‘Oh he won’t hurt you,’ but how do I know that? And by the time they get close enough to say it, the damage is done. I’m a mess the rest of the day.”

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” We keep our dog leashed. I try to remember to warn guests before they come over. We have a big, woolly dog, but she settles down fast. People are thankful for the heads up.

Both And

Shu-shu is not human, but like every human I’ve ever known, she is both saint and sinner. Just before Christmas Eve, she steals the wrapped box with a sealed bag of carefully chosen beef jerky, teriyaki flavor, meant for our son. Shu-shu eats the entire contents, daintily leaving only the little desiccation packet that says DO NOT EAT. Can she read? Miraculously, she suffers zero ill effects. This Santa, however, is not pleased.

Occasionally at night, I toss and turn, fretting over something. Finally, I roll out of bed, and there she is, standing outside the bedroom door, as if she’s been waiting for me. Or sometimes she stays put until I come into the living room, where she slowly gets off the nice leather sofa (where she isn’t allowed) to sniff my breath inquiringly. Are you ok? she wonders. Can we play ball? She is my night angel, a messenger from God to say: Don’t take yourself too seriously when there is a snack to be eaten, a ball to be chased, a warm being to cuddle. A psalm echoes in my heart: “For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways” (Psalm 91:11).

Not human

I still think we mustn’t treat dogs as human. I’ve seen children begging on streets overseas. I’ve seen kids hungry, rumpled, couch-surfing or living in a car with a stressed parent here in the U.S. I get a little uneasy about dogs in strollers. (I know, I know, older dogs might need it! Also, full disclosure: my own dog’s winter jacket cost more than my grandchild’s!) But what about multi-thousand-dollar doghouses or the increasingly fancy pet food industry? Is this a symptom of a society that says human children aren’t affordable, caring for people is too much work, and doting on pets is way more rewarding than reaching out to a grumpy (or politically misaligned with me!) neighbor?

My nephew and family make the heart-breaking decision not to pursue cancer treatment for their sweet golden, Nino. His nine years are not quite a full retriever lifetime. Nino’s lived with them through three moves, four job changes, two miscarriages, and then, the birth of two healthy, bouncing babies. Tolerating much toddler mischief, he’s been a calm presence through it all. Never the brightest bulb in the bunch, he was known for eating tennis balls rather than chasing them. But somehow he always seemed the embodiment of the William Blake quote: “We are put on this earth a bear the beams of love.”

His cancer treatment would cost tens of thousands of dollars. Likely, he would suffer and not know why. They choose to have him put down. Months later, the ache lingers.

Blessed are the pure of heart

Dogs do life whole-heartedly. Shu-shu’s SO sad when I leave the house, and SO excited when I come back. My spouse and kids don’t greet me like that! And did I mention she’s obsessed with balls? Absolutely addicted. Even a treat won’t lure her away from the chance to chase one. I’m reminded of Martin Luther’s reflection: “If I could only pray the way that dog looks at meat, all his thoughts concentrated on it.” That purity of heart is refreshingly straight forward! I don’t have to spend any time trying to figure out how to please my girl. A snack, a walk, a warm place to sleep. And please, can we chase the ball just one more time? Yes, we can.

We’re delighted to discover our new congregation holds an annual pet blessing in honor of St. Francis. Our pastor wears full-flowing clergy robes to greet the motley circle of pets and their humans in the parking lot. She prays for each animal by name.

We’ve brought Shu-shu, who is most interested not in the blessing or the other animals, but in what’s on the snack table. An older couple show up with an abused rescue dog. They stand well back from the crowd. It takes both of them to hold him by a sturdy harness. He, too, gets his blessing — from a safe five paces away.

We also remember, by name, the pets that have died. Someday, Christ our Hope promises, there will be a new heaven and a new earth. There will be a reconciliation of all creation, where sadness, worries, hurt and fear are swept away. I like to think that there, among other delights, the comfort of friends and the chasing of balls will be endless.

The Rev. Dr. Christa von Zychlin has served churches around the world through ELCA global partnerships. She is now living a new chapter of life among the flora and fauna of Door County, Wisconsin.

This article appears in the June/July/August 2025 issue of Gather. To read more like it, subscribe to Gather.