Kirby is, to date, the most outrageous impulse buy of my life. I’m not tempted by shiny new gadgets or even those candy bars that line the checkout counter at the grocery store. But this was different.

It was the summer of 2002, and Kara and I had recently moved from Los Angeles to Princeton, New Jersey. We’d left behind the jammed freeways and entertainment industry vibe of LA for Princeton’s Colonial buildings and dense air of academic importance. I had survived my introduction to Princeton Seminary’s PhD program, slogging through a grueling summer session of German.

Both Kara and I grew up in suburbs of the Twin Cities, thirty minutes away from each other, but we met in grad school in Southern California. It was the late nineties. I wore mainly windpants and backward baseball caps and spent my spare time watching college hockey. Kara, with her long, dark, curly hair and combat boots, was sometimes mistaken for Alanis Morissette, and she preferred run-down coffee shops to ESPN. After months of being “safe” friends with nothing in common, a summer of Intensive Biblical Greek and awkward study sessions (that is, make-out sessions) led to us dating. A few months later, we were engaged.

Both of us had grown up with hunting dogs. Kara’s was a black Lab named Mitzie who actually hunted, while mine, a Brittany spaniel named Katie, lay on the bed all day and would run away when anyone opened the front door. As our marriage began, in student housing and tiny Pasadena apartments, having a pet was not on our minds. Our life was transitional, and we never knew what would come next.

As the nineties gave way to a new century, clarity began to emerge in the form of acceptance and rejection letters, and soon we were packing a U-Haul for the East Coast. In retrospect, we’d always kind of known we would get a dog; we just didn’t know when.

Or that it would arrive with ice cream.

One Friday evening, just before the start of fall term, we found ourselves in need of milk. So we headed off to Halo Farm, just outside Trenton, which we’d discovered had cheap, fresh milk and the bonus of amazing homemade ice cream. In the short time we’d lived in Princeton, the weekly trip to Halo Farm had become part of our routine. And on every trip, we’d noticed the sign by the side of the road: PetWorld.

The last thing we needed during this season of our lives was a furry animal taking up room in our one-bedroom apartment. For some reason, though, this time around the pull was too strong. On the way home, with the floor of the car filled with cartons of milk and double chocolate ice cream, we pulled in.

“Let’s just pop in for a look,” we said, “just to see the puppies.” Maybe we’d pet one or two. Maybe we’d ask the attendant about Labradors—we’d always wanted a Labrador—but only to get some information for the future. After all, we weren’t the kind of people who’d buy a dog at a pet store. We would do our homework and support a local breeder, and only when the time was right.

At the back of the store was a cage holding a small black puppy. We peered inside at the naked pink belly of a sleeping little Lab who was panting like a fat man on a long run. I’ve seen dogs “hunt” in their sleep before—the quivering legs, the whimpering, the occasional sleep bark—but from the looks of it, this tiny guy was working an entire field filled with tennis balls or squirrels or whatever prey he had in his seven-week-old imagination. He looked exhausted, and he hadn’t even woken up!

As we stood watching his tiny chest rise and fall with the rhythm of a bouncing basketball, the clerk asked if we wanted to hold him. The correct answer would have been “No, thank you. We have milk and double chocolate ice cream in the car, and we need to get home.” Yet somewhere between my brain and mouth, those words turned into “That’d be great!”

Fifteen minutes later, the back of our little Honda Civic was packed with bags of dog food, a kennel, and toys. An eight-pound puppy curled up nervously on Kara’s lap. As if we needed any more proof that this was a major impulse buy, the ice cream sitting on the floor of the car hadn’t even begun to melt.

We debated long and hard what to name him, this overwhelming, excitable black Lab who had burrowed so suddenly into our home and hearts. The other theology nerds at Princeton had dogs named after theologians. There was a Scottie named Schleiermacher, a spaniel mix named Augustine, and a handful of “Calvins” of all shapes and sizes. So I decided to buck the trend and return to my youth for a name: Kirby Puckett, the Minnesota Twins centerfielder who won six Gold Gloves and two World Championships. For me, as a Minnesota boy who grew up in the eighties and early nineties, there was no name more revered than Kirby. It was perfect.

From the beginning, Kirby the dog was a ball-catching sensation, just like his namesake. He became one of the fastest fetchers in the neighborhood, known for being able to catch a tennis ball in his mouth, no matter how hard it was thrown, without flinching. In the winter, little kids would line up to throw snowballs at his face, knowing he’d snatch every one of them. Kirby spent most of his life carrying around a yellow tennis ball, shifting it from one jowl to the other, leaving his big pink tongue hanging in the fresh air.

After only a few short months, it was hard to imagine there had ever been a Kara and me without a Kirby. He had become part of us, and our lives took on a whole new shape with the added joy of his participation. It’s strange to say this now as a parent of two kids, but in a very real sense, it was Kirby who first turned us into a family.

A Mind of His Own

When Kirby was eight months old, I decided it was time to start taking him with me on runs. I had always wanted a dog I could jog with, and Kirby was now big and strong enough to be my partner in exercise. Since he could never get enough of playing outside, I figured he would enjoy working out his puppy energy by galloping for miles alongside his owner.

So one morning I laced up my running shoes, grabbed the leash, and said, “Kirby, you want to go for a run?” Naturally the answer was yes. We took off in our usual direction for walks, toward the field where we always played fetch. Kirby ran happily beside me. It was just as I’d always imagined: me jogging with my loyal dog at my heel, his quiet presence and companionship fueling me as the blocks turned into miles.

It didn’t last long. Within yards of passing the field where we normally stopped to play, Kirby threw on the brakes. The leash jerked in my hands, and I turned to see him sitting down, looking over his shoulder at the field. I could see what he was thinking, “What is this? I don’t run for running’s sake. Are you crazy? I run only if there’s a ball involved!”

I pleaded with Kirby to continue, but he would have none of it. He plopped down flat on the sidewalk, the better to anchor himself, again looking over his shoulder at the field and then back at me. In the end, he won. My only recourse was to go back home.

The next morning, I had a new plan. I convinced Kara to run with me, figuring that if she ran just a few feet ahead of us, Kirby would see our jogging as a game of chase and go the couple miles I wanted him to. But again, he was having none of it. A block or two in, he lay down just like before.

The next morning, we tried again, this time with treats! No luck.

The following morning, we did it with Kara holding a tennis ball. Nope.

No matter what we tried, he’d get as far as the field, lie down, and refuse to budge. We even tried carrying him past the field, thinking once he’d passed it he’d forget about play and join the super fun jog! Kirby wasn’t fooled for a second.

It was absurd, but Kirby didn’t care. He had his own opinions and his own intentions. Just because I wanted my dog to jog didn’t mean my dog was going to jog. Kirby wasn’t being lazy. He was telling me that if I wanted to be a pet owner, I’d have to accept that he was his own man.

A Kid’s Best Friend

Kirby was two years old when Owen was born. Hours after our son pushed his way into the world, filling our hearts to overflowing with love, I returned to our apartment. I felt this odd need to tell Kirby what had happened, to pull him into this moment of wonder. He was our family, after all.

Kara and I had read in some baby book that before bringing the baby home from the hospital, dog owners should introduce their dog to an article of the new baby’s clothing; the dog will sniff the scent of the newborn and prepare for its entrance into his space. As an obedient new father, I took home the little hat Owen wore in the first hours of his life and held it next to Kirby’s nose. Yet there was no epiphany. He stopped and sniffed for a good twenty seconds, then raced off to find a tennis ball for me to throw. There was no sense that he understood the amazing event that had just happened to us, and I knew no other way to communicate it to him.

Even when Owen came home, Kirby seemed to pay him no mind. There were a few moments when he got a little insistent that we put down this smelly, noisy thing that was taking up our attention and throw him the darn tennis ball already. For the most part, though, Kirby seemed to treat Owen like another piece of furniture.

All that changed when we gave squirming Owen a bath after dinner. All of a sudden, Kirby was transfixed. He sat next to the tub, tennis ball in mouth of course, observing Owen and trying to make sense of why this little piece of furniture was now wiggling. Then there was the water. Kirby liked to drop his tennis ball in the tub, bob it with his paw, then snatch it out like a freshly caught fish, ignoring the baby who shared this particular pond.

One night, Kara carried Owen from the tub and laid him, still naked, on a blanket on the living room floor. Kirby was in the corner pushing his tennis ball under a shelf in a solo game of hide-and-seek. As Owen lay kicking on the blanket, Kirby approached him slowly. It was the first direct encounter Kirby had had with Owen’s infant bottom without the huge, scented disposable diaper getting in the way. Kirby slowly advanced toward the baby, right front paw raised in investigation. He began sniffing curiously, inching his nose nearer to Owen’s freshly bathed baby butt. Suddenly, his paw dropped, his ears went back, his tight body loosened, and he raced to the corner, returning with a tennis ball. He dropped the ball next to Owen, pushing it toward his tiny face, and then lay down next to Owen, nudging his arm and licking his cheek. Owen squealed with delight and flailed his arms and legs.

From that night on, Kirby and Owen were best friends. Somehow, Kirby had come to know that Owen was a person—a ball-throwing, fur-petting human person like Kara and me. And he knew reflexively what to do for this new person: be near him, watch over him, play with him. A night didn’t go by without Kirby sleeping next to Owen’s bed, watching over him, giving the little boy his presence as a gift. Kirby became Owen’s ball-catching entertainment, his pillow during midday episodes of Sesame Street, and his daily snack partner, settling in with his bowl of Cheerios or Goldfish for their routine, “One for me! And one for DeeDee!” (Owen’s name then for Kirby).

Two and a half years later, we brought home Owen’s little sister, Maisy. Kirby was five by then, and already experienced with a little kid, so we knew what to do with the introduction. During the first diaper change, we let him sniff Maisy’s butt, providing the information that she, like Owen, was also a human being. Kirby got the message and seemed to love Maisy as he did Owen, lying next to her, watching over her. He had already committed to sleeping every night with Owen, but he made up the difference by lying next to Maisy every morning, bathing her giggling face in kisses.

Like her brother, Maisy loved Kirby back. She loved his wet tongue on her face, and as she grew, she loved throwing her body onto Kirby’s as the dog lay on the floor. Whenever Kirby entered the room, little Maisy would shriek with excitement.

As Maisy progressed from grunts and gleeful shrieks to something like language, she would shout, “Daaga, daaga!” at Kirby. Wanting him to sit near her, she’d point and command, “Daaga, daaga, come!” And remarkably, Kirby did. He wanted to be with Maisy, too; wanted to be her friend.

Truth be told, despite all the time Kara and I had spent with him, Kirby became more our kids’ dog than ours. When Maisy started kindergarten, Kirby would lie next to her in the morning as she fretted about the possibility of having a bad day. He would celebrate Owen’s every return home with tail wagging and eyes gleaming with joy. At Halloween, Kirby played a dignified Superman with a red cape tied around his neck. On hot summer afternoons, when our backyard filled with children, Kirby planted himself in the middle of things, sharing the kiddie pool, never wanting to leave. Believing himself to be a seven-year-old, he became the center of their games, the lead character in their spectacular zoo, the wise creature in their mysterious jungle.

Losing a Friend

It was about five years after Maisy was born that the limp set in and gray appeared on Kirby’s chin. I’d always known our dog wouldn’t be with us forever, but now that fact was becoming real. I knew that when Kirby left us it would break Owen and Maisy. I knew it would break me as well.

When Kirby did die, we were astonished at the number of Facebook condolences, and even cards in the mail, that we received. People came out of the woodwork, sharing how hard the loss of their dogs had been, treating us with so much gentleness that it was as though a human family member had passed away. These were the messages of people who had loved and lost, who had lost a dear partner in a bond of love.

Then there was Owen’s liturgy on that veterinary clinic floor, the moment that had so surprised me, and that had seemed so beautifully right. The holy, lingering shadow of my son’s rite at Kirby’s death, the memories of the bond Kirby had had with us all, the grief that engulfed our house, and the words of sympathy and solidarity from others that flooded in over the next days and weeks—I found myself endlessly mulling over what it all meant. What was this thing we’d experienced with this animal? Why did the loss of this being hurt so bad? Why did Owen’s sacramental act feel so appropriate? The questions wouldn’t leave me.

Lately, scientists and researchers have been popping up all over talk radio and twenty-four-hour news, lauding amazing discoveries and scientific breakthroughs in our understanding of dogs—who, for most of scientific history, have generally been overlooked as just basic household pets. Through this research, we’ve come to understand the deep level of thought that goes into those goofy dog behaviors we love so much.

However, what seemed missing in all this, what had gripped me and wouldn’t let go, was the intuition that my family’s bond with Kirby had reached deeper than just the natural and material. As a practical theologian, I have as my life’s work the exploration of the spiritual significance of our lived, everyday experiences—and in my mind there are few experiences that pull you into the joy of everyday life more than caring for, and being cared for by, a dog. In the weeks following Kirby’s death, I found myself wondering: Could there be something unique, maybe even intentional and holy, about dogs and their place in our lives? And if so, what soulful gifts could be ours to receive in the relationship, and what can we give? Could our connection with a dog in some way endure even into eternity?

Clearly, the very real grief we felt was evidence that we had bonded with this animal. Yet what about Kirby’s perspective? Was he truly capable of loving us? Did he connect to us for reasons beyond the desire for food and shelter? And if this had been love between us, how deep did it go? Deep enough to touch the sacred?

I told myself it was nonsense—silliness, really—even as I ordered a book on the topic from Amazon. More likely than not, the curiosity I felt was nothing more than some kind of stage in the grief process, a process that would eventually resolve itself. At most, these questions might make for an interesting conversation with a good friend over a pint or two.

And perhaps I would have left it there—had I not discovered that one of the most famous scientists ever to study animals agreed with the premise of my search.