What's Heaven Like? by Faith Christiansen Smeets

Our friend’s rabbit died a horrible death. He was a little delectable beast, somewhat charming and good-looking. He was also the right amount of meaty, hearty even. He looked acceptable to eat in, like, I don’t know, the Y2K era when you had to think about that sort of stuff. Stuff like what would you do if Al Gore’s interweb shut down and banks had all your money under their mattresses or wherever banks hide your money. What do you do then? You start thinking about what you are going to eat. Deciding what you might have to kill in order to survive is one of those things people immediately start to talk about when they think the world is going to end. You would be amazed at what people will eat or not eat during the course of that conversation. Personally, I’d eat anything, but I think it would be really hard to eat my dog. To be clear, I did not say I wouldn’t, I said it would be "hard." I am happy to inform you that no one had to kill and eat a pet because of Y2K. Truthfully, I kind of miss the Y2K talk. Doomsday-preppers are way off trend, though. That was so 1999.

In the end, it was a dog that killed the rabbit. Inspector Morse, the rabbit, was named after a favorite television detective whose Wikipedia entry describes him as “ostensibly the embodiment of white, male, middle-class Englishness.” I would say that is a pretty spot-on description. The rabbit was white, male, middle-class, and the sort that would never miss afternoon tea. When the rabbit died that afternoon, around tea-time, there was much mourning and wailing from the children. The elder four of the six children were noticeably more upset. I do believe, though, they were probably feeding off of one another like children do, and perhaps were not really that forever sad; it was a temporal kind of sadness. When it comes to children, if one child is crying, they are all crying—with or without the untimely death of a beloved pet.

Picture this: They are all crying and the man of the house, in his business casual attire, begins to dig the giant, beautiful, well-bred rabbit a grave in the front yard . I fear coyotes will rape the grave of any dignity, but it’s not my rabbit to bury nor my place to argue over something I cannot guarantee. Do coyotes dig up dead rabbits? I'll have to look that up. My son, Ignatius, gets in on the pomp and circumstance of laying the rabbit to rest. Digging a hole, finding a box, petting a dead animal, building a cross, and decorating for the funeral with desert weeds from the Phoenician yard are all part of the excitement—after the crying had stopped, of course. The “dad” of Inspector Morse is a dedicated Catholic man who gives a small service for the rabbit. Ignatius remains vigilant, wide-eyed, and involved. He wants to participate in the Hail Marys, but he’s not quite sure how, though the significance of it all was not lost on the three-year-old. Death and pets are very tangible for children. We recite the Lord’s Prayer and bid our final adieu. Each child tosses a small handful of dirt on the cardboard box and then the beloved pet is buried with shovels full of cement-dense desert dirt. Ignatius becomes highly committed and full of purpose along with the younger children in the outlining of the grave with rocks they have collected from around the yard. The landscaping is perfect for this sort of thing. No one is complaining about a rock lawn when you need rocks to outline a rabbit grave in your front yard. No one. It was officially over when the kids ran back inside to watch something that was streaming on the interwebs and eat snacks. Snacks have the power to end childhood pet grief, I assure you. I think Inspector was in heaven already, not really missing the children anyway. So it’s even- steven. 

I do believe our pets go to heaven whether we bury them, are forced to eat them, or talk about having to do either/or. I think we will be able to enjoy them there without ever having to talk about whether we need to eat them or not, or how sad it will be when they die. I could be wrong, but it would be fun to be right—and see Inspector Morse up there just relaxin' , chillin', feelin' all cool for our enjoyment. RIP, see you real soon. And if I'm wrong, I am not too worried about it because I am in Heaven without a care in the world that once was.