“In his hand is the soul of every living thing.”
Job 12:10

Today I learned that my long-time companion, a sweet and gentle beagle named Taffy, is going to die. This loving animal, a gift from my husband after my mom died, has a very large tumor in her chest, pressing against her lungs and heart.

The vet gave me some medication to help open her bronchial tubes and cortisone to reduce some of the swelling, in the hopes that it would make her more comfortable. Then he sent us both home, and told me to talk to my family.

There were questions I wanted to ask, and though I struggled to maintain my composure, as I opened my mouth to speak my face began to twist in the familiar contortion of grief. Instinctively I raised my hand to cover my distorted image and choked out the words, “I wanted to ask a question before I …”

I heard him say, “It’s alright.”

Certainly he’s accustomed to the scene after so many years as a vet, so why should I be embarrassed? A few minutes later, sitting isolated in my car with Taffy resting her head in my lap, it is safe to allow my emotions free reign and I begin to sob. I realize it’s not so much embarrassment that caused me to hold back the tears, but the intimate nature of my pain. It is not for sharing with just anyone.

Once home, I take small comfort in familiar rituals. This time it is St. Francis who is moved from his normal place high on a book shelf to the kitchen counter. I pull out candles from closets and drawers and create a little shrine. I look frantically for the St. Francis prayer card I just took from a church where I had attended the funeral of someone I didn’t even know. Still, I cried.

With tiny flames and smoke rising as new wicks burn I plead with everyone I can think of—God, Jesus, Mary, St. Joseph, my mom and my Aunt Virginia, who was an animal lover like me, and of course, St. Francis. I remind them of the many animals I have rescued and cared for over the years. That must count for something, I demand, as if I’ve earned bonus points that can be redeemed.

What about the blind baby bird, the pregnant mole or the baby possum? What about the cockatiel abducted and abandoned during a family custody fight; the dove with a broken wing, the pigeon with a broken foot, or the stranded baby blue jay whose mother was so protective I had to wear a football helmet to walk across my backyard? Or the steady stream of dogs that managed to escape at least once a month from the nearby kennel?

It was like word was out in the pet underground. Morrell’s is a safe house. And it was, because if I didn’t keep them, I found them all homes or cared for them until they could be set free. Cats, kittens, squirrels and even a fat, long-eared rabbit smuggled home on the train by my son because he thought the monks at his school were raising him to be eaten. They all became mine for a time.

Finally exhausted from my emotional litany, I turn to sit down and realize Taffy has been sitting next to me all along, intently watching my every move, and even now, hoping for some food.

I slip her pills into a big wad of cream cheese and let her wash it down with a graham cracker or two. Her tail wags, and we move into the den together, sitting in silence. She lifts her paw so I can rub her chest and she moans, but now I don’t know if it’s pain or contentment. But she doesn’t move away. I find myself praying that, just for a few seconds, God would allow the healing power of the Holy Spirit to move through my hands as it did for the Apostles, and I wonder if Jesus, the Good Shepherd, ever healed animals.

Sometimes I think God created animals to stretch our love beyond ourselves and those like us. But there are times, like now, when the stretching brings you close to breaking, and you are reminded again of the cost of loving — even an animal.

As the night wears on, calm settles in and I notice Taffy’s breathing is easier than before. The medication is helping, though I am very much aware that this time, however long it may be, is a respite, and an opportunity to live more in the gift than the grief.

Prayer does work in mysterious ways.