Joni

Author: Andrew Comiskey
July 15, 2024

‘…as we are raised with Christ, so at least some animals are raised in us. We know, indeed, that a great deal…is raised in the redeemed souls who have, during this life, taken its beauty into themselves.’ C.S. Lewis

Some Christians muse on Fido greeting them in heaven alongside a favorite relative. Not me. All I know is our house and hearts feel empty without our dog Joni. We took her beauty in and are at a loss without her.

Bred strong as a hunting lab on a farm a hundred miles from us, Joni was picked up by Annette and daughter Katie in a January snowstorm. Halfway home they let her out to pee. Joni—10 inches of thick blond perfection—bounded like a lopsided bunny through half a foot of fresh snow for twenty feet. I was out of country but once home she greeted me from inside Annette’s equally blonde slipper (her favorite hangout); she then leaped toward me. She had me at hello.

Winter was brutal that year but didn’t stop Joni and me from walking, running, and swimming in a nearby lake on not-freezing days. (Too young, I know, but she was game.)

That season was brutal in other ways. Our world had turned upside down. I was becoming Catholic and Annette wasn’t; the global leaders of Living Waters were unhappy about that in general and about me in particular. Some leaders refused to speak to me and soon they booted me off the international council. Annette had her own pain. That season was a string of minor crises which continued for two years.

Joni felt our pain. She could sense it and if we were gentle in our suffering (as opposed to enraged), Joni would close the gap with her furry presence. She was our best friend in that season; a now huge grinning labrador gave Annette and me a common denominator, free of the ongoing bad news that sought to divide and deride us.

Two years later we got Judy, a brown lab with eye problems, and Joni was the best big sister. At dog parks, Joni protected irrepressible Judy with one snarl. Gentle Joni could also be imposing; she created a protected space for her little sister. That bitch had authority.  

We started welcoming grandkids who spent many of their weekdays with us. Judy wanted to play constantly but Joni became the pillow, the comforter, and the chaise lounge for the grandkids. In their unexpressed loneliness or fear or annoyance, each one was given full sway to lay atop or alongside Joni. No snarl. Ever. She was best friend to each grandkid, no matter how much jabbing and grabbing.

At 11 and a half, Joni started to show her age. She hated to disappoint us. Her bouts of anxiety and muscle problems made our home full of stairs tough for her. She cheerfully worked the steps until she found her footing and came up or down. Meds helped. She couldn’t walk well with the other dogs (we’d two by then), so Joni and I started to go out alone, slowly, at her pace. She loved her walks that got shorter but no less sweet for her.

We marveled at her temperament in decline. She never stopped smiling and still leaped to greet us, however slowly. Annette couldn’t speak of her impending death without crying. So we didn’t speak of it.

My worst fear came true when I was 5000 miles away and Joni showed signs of the immediate end. I knew it would be too much for Annette to face alone. I prayed for sustaining grace and made it home in time to focus on Joni (the next two days and nights) as she lost control. She hated to make a mess. Joni smiled as I held her for the last few minutes of her life. The pic is proof—not being maudlin. Joni left us gently.

She advocated for us in sun and storm. I experienced her share in our pain and mutual delight in each other’s company. Joni was always a boon, never a bother. She made us better. I am not sure we contributed to her immortality, a la Lewis, but I think she helped us toward that end. She changed us forever.
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