Polly's passing: the spiritual life of dogs

Christian Century, April 20, 1994 by William H. Willimon

MY DOG POLLY died recently. Until 1986 Polly was little known outside our family-- except among letter carriers, meter readers and delivery persons. (Of Polly no one ever said, "Her bark is worse than her bite.") Then, in the article "My Dog the Methodist," Polly made her theological debut. Concerned that the United Methodist General Conference didn't have a prayer of reaching its goal of adding 1 million new Methodists to its rolls in the following four years, I proposed that we declare dogs to be fit subjects for baptism. My argument was buttressed by historical and theological rationales. Through exacting biblical analysis I demonstrated Polly's readiness for baptism.

Readers were unimpressed. Two United Methodist bishops refused to speak to me, and the CHRISTIAN CENTURY lost at least three subscribers. "Will someone at Duke please find something for William Willimon to do?" asked one reader. The evangelization of dogs has not been mentioned again in these pages. Polly remained unbaptized and United Methodist membership losses continued unabated.

Polly's undefined theological status bothered me. As for her own views: she was unimpressed by recent developments in womanist theology, showed no interest in the work of John Cobb, exhibited no need to be informed about church growth strategies, and treated visiting Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons and even neighborhood-canvassing Baptists with the same opprobrium and contempt she showed the UPS. She resisted all attempts to bring news to our home, be it the good news of the gospel or the Durham Morning Herald.

One door-to-door evangelist thought that Polly had something against him personally. I had attempted to warn him as he stopped to pat her head, but it was too late. Polly savaged his thumb. Her hostility had an ideological, theological basis, not a personal one, I felt sure. Having been rejected for baptism, she hated the message even more than she disliked the messenger. But these distinctions are exceedingly difficult to impress on a man who is bleeding profusely.

I consulted a pastoral counselor colleague, who explained that Polly's behavior was typical of the Rejected-for-Baptism Syndrome (RFBS). The rejected person reacts with a vicious counterrejection. My friend said he has observed this behavior only among Baptists, never among Methodists. "I've never heard of Methodists refusing to do anything anyone asked of them." There is a rumor that the UCC is organizing a BFBS support group, but such efforts are too late for Polly.

Although she rejected the organized religion that had rejected her, throughout her 15 years of life Polly remained a loyal member of our family. Having helped raise our two children from infancy, her attitude in her declining years appeared to be, "I endured their formative years, correcting many of your parental mistakes and following you people through a succession of inadequate yards and cold carports. Now you owe me something."

Two years ago, when I took Polly to the veterinarian for a routine inoculation, I was presented with a bill for $160.50 and told, "This is Polly's geriatric exam." Yes, Polly had reached the ripe old age of 14, no small feat for a dog that had survived flying 30 feet through the air after being hit by a car at the beach; having her head grazed by the rear tire of our neighbor's station wagon; and living with our two children. The veterinarian advised a regimen of estrogen pills, membership in the American Association of Retired Persons, and ceramics classes at the Baptist church.

Polly mangled my hand when I attempted to force her to take the estrogen, just as she had always responded to attempts to medicate her. Being opposed to all efforts to organize human beings for good or ill, she would have nothing to do with the AARP. Having been rejected by the Methodists, she had no interest in risking a repeat experience with the Baptists. She lived almost two more years.

Having attained control of our family's schedule and made her point about investor-owned utility companies and their functionaries, Polly spent her last days in contentment, never forsaking her contempt for the alleged achievements of the human race.

On her last day of life, she roused herself briefly in the morning, staggered out of the garage, and collapsed. She gazed at our mailbox, recalling earlier days of triumphal pursuit of representatives of the U.S. government. Wistfully she looked toward our neighbor's yard and remembered how she had rid it of an impertinent cat one warm day in May. I carried her back to the garage and placed her in her bed. She groaned, not from pain, I think, but at the final indignity of falling into human hands. "You shall be as I, one day," her sad eyes seemed to say. "You may be a human, even a baptized human, but you and I are closer kin than you like to admit."

That afternoon, returning from purchasing a Christmas tree, I petted her on the head. She looked up at me with infinite weariness, not so much sad to be leaving this world as peered to be exiting before me. She sighed and was gone. Some believe she died of a tired heart, weakened by 15 years of reckless pursuit of all kinds and conditions of vehicles. I, however, felt she simply could not endure another Christian festival from which she, solely by circumstance of birth, was excluded.