Pets and the Question of Heaven


One of our very dear dogs passed away recently, which got me to thinking about our pets and heaven.

This sweet boy never met anyone he didn't like. Dogs, cats, horses (he found our neighbor's horses fascinating), and especially people. He was a perpetually happy, calm presence and loved nothing more than getting some snuggle time with his people. He viewed everyone at the vet's office, including the other pet owners, as his friends. After each appointment, our vet would take him for a lap around the back of the office to visit everyone. It was tough to get him to leave.

Over the last 18 months or so, he had suffered from arthritis, and it became increasingly painful for him to move around. We tried many different treatments and medications. By last month, he was on four different meds, and we were regularly carrying him down the stairs—though he would still climb up to my office, slowly and determinedly, just to spend time with me during the day.

A few weeks ago, he told us he was tired and that it was time. We took him to our amazing vet. He got one last lap around the back room so everyone could say goodbye. We stayed with him till the end, of course.

He was an exceptional pup and will be sorely missed.

As anyone who’s loved and lost a pet knows, the grief is real and deep because the love was real and deep. In the quiet afterward, I found myself wondering:

What happens to a soul like our dog’s? Does he go on?

It’s a question that reaches beyond sentiment. And it’s one that even made its way to the Vatican.

In 2014, Pope Francis, speaking pastorally to a boy grieving the loss of his dog, offered these words of comfort:

“One day, we will see our animals again in the eternity of Christ. Paradise is open to all of God’s creatures.”

He wasn’t issuing formal doctrine—he was consoling a child. Still, his words struck a chord. They echoed not only our emotional hopes, but a deeper theological intuition: that what is created in love, and sustained in love, may somehow be gathered back into Love itself.

This is not a new idea. St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals and ecology, famously called the creatures of the world his brothers and sisters. His Canticle of the Creatures gives voice to a view of the world that is relational, reverent, and deeply incarnational. Creation, in this view, is not merely the stage for human salvation, but a chorus of praise in which we are participants.

Scripture, too, hints at a vision of redemption that includes more than just humanity:

  • “The wolf shall live with the lamb… they shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord.”
    (Isaiah 11:6, 9)
  • “The creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God… in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”
    (Romans 8:19, 21)

The arc of salvation history seems to bend not just toward human reconciliation, but toward cosmic restoration.

And so, while the Church does not definitively teach that animals have immortal souls in the same way we do, it also doesn’t close the door on the possibility that they are held in God’s eternal embrace. St. Paul tells us that “love never fails” (1 Cor 13:8), and that may be the most hopeful answer of all.

If love is what binds us to God and to each other, then surely the love we shared with a creature like our beloved dog is not lost.

Our dog taught us gentleness, joy, patience, and presence. He had a gift for being completely with you—a quiet companion in a noisy world. And if heaven is, as we believe, the full presence of Love, then maybe that’s where he already is.

Tail wagging. Waiting by the gate.


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