During one of our seminarian retreats while I was in college, the bishop came to visit us for Mass and dinner. After a short talk, he opened the floor to questions.
A first year seminarian, still shiny and sincere, stood up.
“Bishop, you are a very learned man. You have degrees in canon law, and have been a bishop for more than a decade in two different dioceses. If you were ever going to write a book, what would it be called?”
The bishop thought for only a moment. “This is a great question. I think the title would be, Should Priests Have Pets? And, in case you’re wondering, the answer is no.”
Priests and pets is a very complicated topic. The question “should priests have pets” will be met with a variety of answers as wide as the variety of priests. I have friends who believe that pets for a priest are simply a coping mechanism for a disintegrated celibacy; I know priests who believe that a dog is the indispensable companion for priestly life; there are priests who would probably make you put your dog down before you could move in with them, and there are priests who send Christmas cards wearing matching sweaters with their dog.
Then there are the more practical questions. Parish priests don’t own their houses, even though they do have a lot of leeway in decorating and outfitting them. But at the end of the day, one day you’ll move out and some other guy will move in and he might appreciate the fact that you liked Samsung TVs or even Mauve wallpaper, but I can guarantee you he will not appreciate pee stained carpets and the a-lazy-dog-owner-lives-here stench that could possibly accumulate. I am, for example, currently living in a rectory that once housed dogs (plural), birds (yeah, plural), and a monkey all at the same time. Needless to say, rehab work was done.
With all due respect for the bishop’s perspective that priests should probably not have pets, I knew immediately on that retreat that the answer for me was going to be different.
People ask me all the time, “Did you grow up with dogs?” And my answer is always the same: no. I didn’t grow up with dogs, but with dog, singular. The point I’m trying to make is that I grew up with the best dog ever, a beagle named Bagel. She came on the scene in the last half of the 1990’s and was our family dog until she passed away from cancer in July of 2007. While she and I initially got off to a rough start (ask my mom sometime about the holes in all my pants), she was my buddy and the buddy of everyone in our house. She got us through the transitions of elementary and middle school, the rockiness of the tween and early teen years, and was a steady presence during some difficult times for our family.
I never knew when, or where, or how, but I knew I’d get a dog of my own sooner or later. I’ve always been surrounded by dogs. I’m thinking here of the dogs of our extended family growing up: Fred, Ender and Decker, Sadie, Dudley, Lily, Jax, Teddy, Gary and George, and of course little Archie.
My first pastor has Wrigley, the webbed-footed Cavachon and my second pastor has Ivy the Boston Terrier who fetched the ball exactly 140 times in the rectory hallway after lunch.
In August of 2018, 15 minutes (give or take) into my priesthood, I met Snickers who was up for adoption from the Oswego Animal Hospital. I sent up an appointment and drove from the parish in Joliet to meet this thing, carrying in my heart hopes and dreams that it would be a movie moment: Snickers would be brought into the waiting room, we’d lock eyes, and have an instant bond.
Needless to say, Snickers was insane. We wished each other the best, and that was that.
Then came the Golden Doodle era. When a former student told me his family dog just had puppies, and knew I might be interested, of course I jumped at the chance. I told my aunt and uncle, golden doodle lovers, and we all hopped in the car to go see them.
I was mentally prepared this time not to expect a fairy-tale, rover-at-first-sight kind of meeting between the new pups and me. But, I can finally admit two years later, I had made the bigger mistake, the end-all-be-all of mistakes: I named the dog before the deal was sealed. So, Cooper, wherever you are, I hope you are well. The irony is that my aunt and uncle left with a new dog, so I can at least see Coop’s brother whenever I want.
In the long run, it was good I didn’t get a dog that day.
When I moved into my current parish, one of the first things my pastor said to me was simply, “You can get a dog if you want.” He’s got little Zelie, the coton de tulear, who is a great little dog. But I didn’t want a great little dog. I didn’t want a beagle, or even a golden doodle. Thanks in part to my Instagram algorithm, and I really do think in large part because God knew what I needed, by this point I had fallen in love with golden retrievers.
Lo and behold! A staff member at Visitation had two goldens!! So she and I set out on our Google searching and, I admit, she took on a lot of the work to find reputable breeders in the Chicago area who actually had Golden puppies. That’s when we found A Golden World in Bartlett, a group with whom I have been nothing but impressed. We reached out to them and set up a time to go visit their litter of puppies, at that time just about ten weeks old.
If you’ve ever been around me when I get the itch for a new car, you will remember my frequent and soothing refrain that I’m going to look at cars BUT IT’S JUST A FACT-FINDING MISSION I PROMISE THERE IS NO CHANCE I’M GETTING A CAR TODAY, and then I come home that evening with a Volvo. Hypothetically.
Anyway, I obviously wasn’t getting a dog LOL but what could it hurt to just go look? Right?
As it turns out, all the puppies were gone. Except one. But the thing was, we were told, nobody seemed interested because he had a little defect. These purebred, AKC registered puppies, were in demand because they were perfect; from a great stock and a reputable breeder.
Channeling my inner Lady Liberty, I said give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free…send these, the homeless, tempest-tost, to me!
As soon as that dog was brought outside, I knew. I just knew it. And, now I sound crazy, I think he knew it, too.
I did keep my promise, somehow. I went home that day without a dog.
But I went home with an appointment to come see him again the following day, September 8. And that, Mary’s Birthday, became Gotcha Day, and Claude became mine.
His defect? A racing stripe! A big, beautiful birthmark across his back that over the last year has only gotten bigger and darker, and has been the best conversation starter.
Last week I was showing a picture of Claude to a group of priests, and one them asked, “You know that’s not a human, right?”
Uh, yeah, I know he’s not a human. I’m glad he’s not a human. I have too many humans in my life as it is! He’s not my child, or a substitute-wife (weird), or whatever else people come up with. Will you see Claude wearing a sweater? No comment. Will you ever see him wearing little boots? Absolutely not.
He’s not a human, but he is my friend. My best friend in a way that I’ve never had a best friend before. If you’ve had a dog, you know exactly what I mean.
Anyway. That’s how I got Claude! He’s a regular visitor in our parish school and outside of Sunday Mass. It’s so beautiful to see people greet him week after week, and light up when they see him. I love walking through the neighborhood where now there are many fellow dog walkers who recognize Claude and say hello to him. He’s been a good guard dog for the rectory on more than one occasion and has been a source of comfort to grieving spouses, nervous children, and priests at their wits’ end. Yesterday the UPS guy came in and said, “Where’s my favorite dog?”
This year, I’d like to enroll him in a course to become a certified therapy dog so he can come with me on visits to hospitals and nursing homes.
But for now, I say thanks to God who knew this was a gift I needed.
And to Claude I simply echo what I say to you every night before bed: Thanks for being my friend.
