Of Dogs and Gods

I haven’t been able to connect with religious deities or gods. I have worked with them as archetypal energies and inspirations, but it has always come from a cerebral place - a far cry from the embodied connection I have with the living world. Approaching a deity reminds me of entering a museum, a place to understand our humanity within a historical context or to see how time and place have evolved an idea. It is very much a “look, don’t touch” feeling I get, probably from being raised in a fragmented culture. Attempts to bring a deity’s presence into my home has ended in me feeling silly and would just illuminate how lost my ancestry has become. It’s hard to worship something that hasn’t directly left its mark on you.

It wasn’t until my dogs died that I understood what it meant to have a god. Losing their physical presence forced me to relate to them in new ways to keep the connection alive. Gone were the sensory experiences we founded our relationship on, the connections through petting and caretaking and exploring the woods together. Suddenly I was dealing with something intangible, untouchable, and this had me reconsidering my perspective on our relationship. My dogs impacted my life so much that letting them go and moving on wasn’t even an option. They shaped who I am. Our identities were inseparable and I saw no way of untangling the knot.

After they were buried, I found ways to keep them in my everyday routine. I made them bowls that live on my dresser, filling them with gifts I think they’d like. Right now there is deer fur and a tiny pinecone in each, found on my hikes without them. Tufts of their fur live in glass jars next to my books. I tend to their graves and covet the plants growing from their bodies, a tangible gift from the chemical process of transforming life into dirt. I touch the stems and imagine an invisible line running down the plant and through their roots, interwoven with my dogs’ bones buried deep below. It’s as close as I can get to touching them again.

Our human bodies are thought to have co-evolved with dogs for over tens of thousands of years. Of course my body longs for theirs. Even writing this now, I keep a lump in my throat and tears on my cheeks at the thought of our never touching them again. But our relationship did not stop when we could no longer physically connect. It changed. If I want their presence now, I close my eyes and remember what it feels like to kiss their heads or play with their ears. I summon the smell of their fur, the jingling of tags against their collar during a hike. I call forth all of the times we spent together. This brings them next to me in a way, alive in imagination. And in this nebulous space of memory allows a creativity and freedom that wasn’t accessible in physical form.

This is the same place that some people go to connect with the divine, deep in our endless internal catacombs. The place that responds to meditation and prayer. Visiting my dogs in this way allows for an unusual form of growth - it lets me strengthen narratives and notice connections. Revisiting memories with new context brings more layers to uncover, more directions to explore further. And as I continue on with my life in the physical world, the experiences I encounter are anchored by this ethereal space. This has allowed my dogs to continue influencing my identity, my relationships, and my personal story.

I don’t think I’m the only one to do this, either. We have revered stories about dogs for centuries, sometimes even placing them in legends among the gods themselves. Cereberus guarded the gates of the underworld. Canis major is the constellation with the brightest star in the sky. And it’s not just ancient stories being kept alive. We continue to collectively develop new ones in present day. Laika, the astronaut dog who was sent into space without a way to return, has been immortalized in pop culture and showered with love to remedy her eternal isolation. Loukanikos, the Greek ‘riot dog’, was photographed as a part of TIME magazine’s person of the year in 2011 and held in equal esteem to notable human protestors. The love for dogs transcends language and unifies people, and we continue to collectively amplify their importance.

The stories I have developed about my own dogs allow them to re-occupy the physical world in new forms. Like all deities, they have their associations. The plants that grow from their bodies have become entangled in their myth. I cannot look at monkshood or mistletoe without seeing Ursa, or eat a black raspberry without laughing at how Lucy would dive head-first into the bushes to gently pluck the fruit with her tiny teeth. I have marked my body with them, too, tattooing the constellations that I associate with them. Ursa minor and Canis major are permanently on my arms, and when I look at the night sky they are the first stars I search for. The connection of my tiny body and the endlessness of space mimics the untouchable distance I feel with my dogs, despite them being buried outside my house. It also offers a wonderous vantage point that is only granted with that sort of perspective. And the ache that comes out of it all is the embodied feeling I longed to have with a god.

If I could erect a temple and teach everyone in the world what amazing beings my dogs were, I would. I’d write them into the stars and sing endless songs of their importance. The love I have for them, both in their life and through their death, overwhelms me like nothing else. But I understand this feeling towards them is for me and me alone, and that our personal connection is what makes it all sacred. I also have come to understand, through sharing our stories, that a lot of people feel similar with their animals. I wonder if Cereberus is based on a real dog. I wonder who Canis major was first dedicated to. It’s a beautiful thing that my experience is not unique. Our capacity to love dogs so fully is a part of our humanity.

Who else could love humans back unconditionally, despite everything? It takes a divine being to see the pure heart in each person. The bond we can develop with a dog is built from genuine, uncomplicated love, thanks to their ability to view us without judgement or dishonesty. Their motivations are simple and bring us back in touch with our own animalistic self. They remind us who we are on the long evolutionary path we walk together.

Maybe I struggled to connect with gods and deities because they were modeled after complicated humans, and what I really needed was to feel the illuminous love of a dog.