Do Dogs Have Souls?

When I answered the phone, my heart dropped. Upon hearing it was not Mom, but Dad, my first thought was “Who died?”

I noticed the time, too. Mid-afternoon is the most expensive time for long-distance calling in my father’s mind. Despite a decade of phone companies offering free long-distance calling anytime anywhere in Canada, Dad could not unlearn seven decades of the former industry convention to save money by phoning before 8 AM and after 6 PM. Thus, his calls to me were few and far between. So, I was instantly alert before I answered. This call must be about something important.

I was not prepared for a philosophical discussion with my atheist father.

“Do dogs have souls?” My father began.

It took me a minute to formulate an answer.

“Yes,” I stated matter-of-factly. “Why do you ask?” He hesitated and I waited. I too had decades of learned behaviour regarding communication. I knew the surest way to stifle my dad in a conversation was to speak too soon.

Eventually, the long silence turned towards stillness. “Well, you see the thing is…you know Tammy died a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes,” I said, softly, this time.

“Well, it’s crazy I know, and you know I don’t believe in all that religious horseshit” He really didn’t need to point that fact out to me. In my late twenties, I announced my desire to accept a call from my faith community to become an ordained lay minister. His response had been tepid and almost polite, and slightly condescending “Now why would you go and do that?” He had asked. My mother told me later that my father was worried that I had “become brainwashed by all that funny business” after marrying into a family with a long history of church affiliation “to some church he had never of”. Months later, my mom had attended my ordination without my father.

My dad has a strong distrust of the unfamiliar.

Still listening, I moved out of my kitchen to escape the noisy vroom vrooms from my children playing with matchbox cars on the kitchen floor. I covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Mommy will be right back”. I walked down the hall and closed the door to my bedroom before sitting quietly at the foot of the bed.

Dad continued “The thing is, when I walk out to the shop, I feel something brushing up against the side of my pants. It feels just like when Tammy greeted me in the backyard every time I came out of the house. I don’t understand it”. Tammy was a golden, the fourth in a line of loyal Labradors that our family had claimed as kin since I was a baby.

I remained silent.

I could feel my nervous system relax and become completely alert at the same time. The hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention. An unusual calm washed over me, and I sensed something sacred was happening. I knew I wanted to create space for it. My shoulders lowered, and my breathing lengthened and slowed. Steady.

Dad continued, “And I don’t believe it either.” A shy pause and then, “That can’t be possible, can it? Is it?” Dad questioned.

I remained still and said nothing.

“Well, is it?” He challenged me. His shift in tone cued me to speak.

“I believe all living things are imbued with something we might call a soul. Most especially dogs. That’s why we grieve so terribly when they die. I think Tammy’s spirit is lingering to comfort you. When your grief diminishes a little more, she will stop showing up. You didn’t just love her, Dad, she loved you too”.

It was Dad’s turn to be silent. I waited.

After a long while he spoke with tender doubt, “I don’t know about that. I don’t know if I can believe that”.

This time my response came quickly “You don’t have to believe it- but consider this. Something is happening that is real enough that you called me to talk about it. Dad the last time you phoned me was when mom was hospitalized for emergency abdominal surgery, and you weren’t sure she would come out of it.”

“Yah that part is true” he admitted. To himself more than to me.

I turned to reason and to folklore to further my point, “Dad, that’s why they call dogs man’s best friend. Ask any dog owner, there is something unquestionable and almost unfathomable about how they love us, and we, them. I know this bond is sacred. And so yes, I definitely believe dogs have souls. Tammy’s will continue to walk alongside you for a bit longer.”

“Until?” Pause. “Until when?” he asked me.

“I don’t know.”

Pause.

“I guess until you don’t need her to anymore,” I replied.

We were both silent for a moment until something in the air turned. It was subtle but the spell was broken. When Dad spoke next, he sounded kind of miffed. I sensed anger lurking, obscuring any hope for him to claim Tammy’s gift as real and not purely imagined out of some kind of personal weakness. Anger about being confronted by the unfamiliar. Frustrated at the possibility he could be in of need comfort.

Predictably, our conversation switched to the mundane, the every day, to the safe and routine rituals of weather and “how are the kids?” - “How is Pat (my then-husband)?” - “How is that job of yours going?” And, finally, “When are you coming home again, to the North, to visit?”

I laughed, knowing that before he said it, he would add his usual irreverent epitaph: "It’s God’s country up here, you know.” It was a statement, not a question.

I didn’t skip a beat, “I know it is.”

And I did.

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In her former career, Lana was a Vocational Rehabilitation Counselor helping diverse people make changes in their lives. Her background in evidence-based practices informs her belief in the restorative value of creative practices and meaningful activity. Lana left her profession in November 2021 due to problematic MS symptoms. Life post-employment has meant Lana can focus on the two things she enjoys most in life; writing and pets.

The waking, feeding, walking and resting routines of the pets she cares for inspire Lana’s writing rhythms and personal rehabilitation. Dogs (and the occasional cat as well) have an uncanny sense of when she sinks into a creative flow. Sometimes they respond by calmly laying nearby - with their paws and muzzle resting on her feet. One puppy even perched serenely on Lana’s shoulder as she composed on her keyboard.

Lana tracks her writing, revising and publishing milestones that occur when she pet sits; she is convinced that writing in unfamiliar spaces contributes to her productivity as a writer. Additionally, Lana appreciates the rehabilitative power of creativity and craft, especially when practiced close to animals and nature. She often invites writer friends to stay in her home while she is away on pet-sitting adventures.

Contact Lana about Writing with Pets.