It was Alta the dog that knew before any of us that Bill Murphy was taking his final breath.
It was just last year on Oct. 1 that my dear father left this earthly life for something far greater. I am still learning to comprehend that greater, but I am still blown away by the many graces that God has shown me throughout it all.
On this feast of St. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals, I can only think of what an Australian shepherd named Alta taught me in that “hour of death.”
We were all gathered inside my father’s room at my sister’s house — what will always be affectionately called “Grandpa’s house” to my dear young daughter. He had only been in hospice a few short weeks, following a blessed bucket trip to his beloved Canada to listen to the waves lapping against the shore of Red Bay one final time at his childhood summer home that has been in our family for at least four generations.
It was Respect Life Sunday 2023, and we had slept in shifts — or tried, at least. I was privileged to have that last night with him, and I was grateful he was actually resting peacefully. My sister woke up just before dawn and joined me; we reminisced once more with his listening ears in the room. We were really saying goodbye, as his pulse had slowed, his breathing less labored, and his pulse oxygen dropping.
But it was Alta the dog that knew before any of us that Bill Murphy was taking his final breath.
The dog looked distressed, with shifting eyes and sudden movements — before running right to his bedside and climbing up with his arms, stretching and clawing toward my dad to reach his face. The dog moaned a little and gave my dad a huge lick on the face.
And then my dad died.
How did the dog know? What keen sense is this — dogs are famous for this ability — to sense the final moment?
My dad loved all the saints, and he loved animals — especially dogs — but my dad did not approve of societal obsession with animals: He was pro-life, not pro-dog.
But Alta knew it was Dad’s time: This furry creature of God made us all aware that our dear patriarch had breathed his last.
Of course, Alta was losing his family, too. My dad loved that dog and took care of him just as an alpha male commands most canines. Alta was always found sitting at Dad’s feet, constantly aware if his dear human ventured out or came home.
We always had dogs growing up, and my dad always had a way with them —perhaps he knew what we could learn from them and what they could learn from us.
And we are still learning from dear old Alta.
He is a true shepherd; barking constantly as Annabelle and her cousin Cole swim in the pool, making sure we are all aware that there is splashing going on! “Why isn’t anyone reacting?” he always seems to be saying with each bark — his watchfulness a constant like an Italian grandmother intent upon making her case heard — so much so, my daughter has nicknamed him “Lifeguard Alta.” When my nephew Riley comes up the driveway driving his truck, which was once Grandpa’s, the dog is the first to alert us all that the teen is approaching.
Whenever we visit, Alta is the first to the door, so eager for a scratch or a pet, an affection he demands and craves with intent eyes that seem to be both simultaneously happy and sad. And he is there for us, the moment Cole hits the floor playing knee hockey or Annabelle loses her footing kicking the soccer ball. He is ever bounding up to all of us, to lick the wounds and make sure we are indeed okay and know he is there for us.
The constant attention reminds me of my father, who would not only be there when anyone needed him but also was most aware of our quality of time, especially when absorbing stories together. It wasn’t just enough to read a book aloud at the table with the family — we were expected to be able to summarize the story if he happened to stop and ask, “So what’s going on now?”
Dad’s soul was warm and welcoming, a “shelter of compassion.”
As St. Francis of Assisi said:
“If you have men who will exclude any of God’s creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.”
God gives us so many graces and “heavenly hugs,” especially when we are grieving — including through interactions with the beloved creatures so dear to St. Francis: a cat that decides to climb up on your lap or a dog that comes in with a big lick on your face, or a bird that flies overhead when looking heavenward in prayer; all become moments to stop and give affection — and thank Jesus for these truths that always seem so small until magnified in a grace-filled moment.
I take it as a sign of God’s love that my dad died on the feast day of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, the first saint we both loved as we converted together.
But I know I have a new connection — in my heart and in my head — to understand the true depths of God’s love when he is using dogs to teach me even more, on St. Francis’ feast and all the days in between.
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