Some years ago, our dog, Gem, needed surgery for a tumor in her throat that was beginning to restrict her breathing. But after a careful pre-op examination, the vet called to say Gem’s chances of recovery were not good.

I hadn’t come out and wept for some time (emotion in the pulpit doesn’t count), but I did that day, in typically male fashion. In a quiet moment when everyone was out of the house, suddenly there it was, pouring out.

I believe the gift that God has given to dogs—I’m serious here—is a capacity for sincerity in affection. This may sound odd at first, but when someone we are close to dies, or when a pet dies, our regrets are fewest if we have loved them well. This is the way that dogs love. Any failure of love on our part toward the dead haunts us (rightly) and gives us pain long after the wounds might otherwise have healed. Dogs either love, if they trust you, or they do not. Either way they are sincere. It is as though they obey the Proverb, “better open rebuke than concealed love” (Prov. 27:5). If it loves, a dog does not conceal its love, or twist it, or use it, or ration it. Dogs love without measure, without restraint, without reserve. If they did not so often get into the garbage, or chew on shoes, I would say they love as God loves.

I’ve always appreciated this bumper sticker: