Andrew Root - The Grace of Dogs

Bonhoeffer as Youth Worker

The Theological Turn in Youth Ministry

Relationships Unfiltered

The Promise of Despair

Faith Formation in a Secular Age (forthcoming)

Copyright 2017 by Andrew Root

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Convergent Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

convergentbooks.com

CONVERGENT BOOKS is a registered trademark and its C colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

, 2017 by brackish_nz.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN9780451497598

Ebook ISBN9780451497604

Cover design by Jessie Sayward Bright

Cover photographs by debibishop (dog); Chris Oberthaler/EyeEm (wood)

v4.1

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To Wally Ekstrand (19252000),

Grandpa, who always loved me and whom dogs always loved

One afternoon in late July 2013, just weeks after his eleventh birthday, our black Lab, Kirby, wouldnt move. All afternoon, he lay at the foot of the stairs with a pained, heavy look in his eye. That night, for the first time in family memory, he failed to make it to my son, Owens, room to sleep beside him. Instead, Kirby stayed on the cool bathroom floor, a place he rarely went, let alone slept.

Kirbys intermittent bad days had started nearly a year earlier, when he struggled to make it up the stairs or couldnt summon the energy to chase tennis balls. Yet, every time before, after a day or two of exhaustion, hed always rally enough to resume playing in the yard with our kids, then eight-year-old Owen and five-year-old Maisy. So, on this day in July, confident that Kirbys illness was temporary, my wife, Kara, decided to take him to the vet for his next exam.

Something was wrong, though. Kara labored mightily to get our slow, reluctant Lab into and out of the car. Kirby, never the kind of dog to voice displeasure, growled, groaned, and pulled on the leash before finally consenting.

At the vets office, Kara heard the words we had dreaded ever since we first fell in love with Kirbys floppy black ears. The vet had found a large mass in Kirbys stomach; our dog was in terrible pain, and the end was here. The vet said he shouldnt even be moved again. Karas anguish bled into her voice when she called to tell me. She was coming to pick up me and the kids so we could all be with Kirby one last time.

When the four of us arrived back at the vets office, Kirby was lying inert on the sterile linoleum floor, his chest moving in ragged bursts. Each shallow breath was work. Owen and Maisy threw themselves onto him, wailing. Kirby mustered just enough energy to raise his chin and gently lick Maisys nose. Owen hugged Kirbys neck, screaming his grief like a mother who had just lost her sonNo! No! No!

The vet entered and knelt next to Kirby, holding a syringe loaded with a medicine that would take away his pain but also his life. Owen stayed put at Kirbys side; he refused to allow his friend to depart alone. As the vet gently inserted the needle into a spot she had shaved on Kirbys back leg, Owen announced to the room, and perhaps to the universe, My face will be the last thing Kirby sees.

Owen rested his nose against Kirbys, locking eyes, and I watched my son as the light in his dogs eyes went dim. All the while, Owen kept his arms around his pals head, his tears wetting the muzzle of the dead dog. I couldnt take it. I took Maisy by the hand and left the room. I had known sadness would come, but I was surprised to feel a rush of anger at the thought that Kirby would never return. I headed outdoors with my daughter to feel the grass under my feet.

Ill never forget Kirbys death, but what I remember most about that day is what happened afterward, in that same room, between the boy and his departed dog. When Maisy and I came back inside, Kara was sitting with Owen while he petted and embraced Kirby and continued to cry. Owen knew that his best friend was gone, but he wasnt ready to say good-bye. I watched as he quieted, stood, wiped his cheeks, and said to his mom, I will be right back.

Owen walked out to the lobby and returned with a dog treat and a paper cup hed filled with water. Silently and purposefully, he knelt before Kirbys body, placed the tiny dog bone on Kirbys back, and, dipping his finger in the water, reverently made the sign of the cross on Kirbys forehead. Then he lifted his hands to heaven like a priest at the altar, looked up, and whispered, I love you, Kirby. Good-bye.

Thats the image I cant shake.

Kirby is, to date, the most outrageous impulse buy of my life. Im not tempted by shiny new gadgets or even those candy bars that line the checkout counter at the grocery store. But this was different.

It was the summer of 2002, and Kara and I had recently moved from Los Angeles to Princeton, New Jersey. Wed left behind the jammed freeways and entertainment industry vibe of LA for Princetons Colonial buildings and dense air of academic importance. I had survived my introduction to Princeton Seminarys PhD program, slogging through a grueling summer session of German.

Both Kara and I grew up in suburbs of the Twin Cities, thirty minutes away from each other, but we met in grad school in Southern California. It was the late nineties. I wore mainly windpants and backward baseball caps and spent my spare time watching college hockey. Kara, with her long, dark, curly hair and combat boots, was sometimes mistaken for Alanis Morissette, and she preferred run-down coffee shops to ESPN. After months of being safe friends with nothing in common, a summer of Intensive Biblical Greek and awkward study sessions (that is, make-out sessions) led to us dating. A few months later, we were engaged.