Why G-d created dogs

Towards the end of his career, Rabbi M. Robert Syme, of blessed memory, would often ask me to take him on Shiva calls, which I was more than happy to do. Once, a longtime member and dear friend of his died and the family asked him to officiate. The deceased had a grandson who was six and a half years old and was described to me as being very sensitive, wise beyond his years and very curious about death. Rabbi Syme suggested that the family contact me and arrange a meeting and tour of the Chapel to help the child make sense of his grandfather's death.

As I sat with this young boy, I wondered where this glowing assessment came from, as he appeared to barely listen, asked no questions and seemed disinterested in any discussion involving his grandfather's life, his death and Judaism's approach to life after death. Although he came to the funeral, I saw little of the gifted child described in my initial meeting with his parents.

Rabbi Syme and I visited the home where Shiva was being observed. As Rabbi Syme sat down, the boy approached us with information that I hadn’t known about. “My dog died,” he announced.

As I began to comprehend the reason behind the child’s previous silence, Rabbi Syme asked, "What was your dog's name? What kind of dog was he?"

For the first time since meeting this young boy, I saw his eyes light up. He described his dog with an enthusiasm not previously shown in the discussions about his grandfather. When the boy finished telling Rabbi Syme about his dog, Rabbi Syme asked him, “Do you know why G-d created dogs?” The crowd gathered in the family room stopped all activities and conversation. You could have heard a pin drop.

The boy responded, as I believe everyone in that room might have, with, “No, why did G-d create dogs?” Rabbi Syme answered, “There are three reasons. First: dogs teach us how to give unconditional love. You can be mad, furious with your dog and he will still snuggle up with you through your anger, regardless of the seriousness of what indiscretion he might have performed. Second: dogs teach us humans how to receive unconditional love. I have noticed that when families go through illness and bereavement, the family dog is there through thick and thin, giving and receiving love at a time when we need it most. And finally, and most importantly, dogs teach us how to lose.”

The boy looked puzzled and said, “I don't understand.”

Rabbi Syme continued, “You see, the average person in the United States lives about 78 years. The average dogs lives 11 years. What dogs teach us is we can bring them into our family and love them unconditionally from puppy to old age. And when we lose them, as difficult as it is, we can reflect on the gift of love given and received, shed our tears, cherish our time we were blessed to share, and realize that life, as difficult as it may seem, must go on. This is why G-d created dogs.”

The silence in the room spoke volumes. As we left the home, you could sense that everyone who shared this experience felt enriched by this exchange between a young child and his Rabbi. As we buckled our seat belts, I looked at Rabbi Syme and demanded, “Where did that come from? That was brilliant!”

Rabbi Syme explained that, when rabbis are posed a question for which they have no answer, they respond by writing a sermon. Once he was asked by a young child, “Why did my dog die? Didn't G-d love my dog?” Rabbi Syme didn't remember his exact response, only that he felt it was not something he was comfortable with. So, he wrote and delivered a sermon later entitled, “Why G-d created dogs,” a sermon he continued to deliver and one that has probably been repeated by everyone who was in that family room that day.

Involving children in the grief process

I was recently asked to explain my passion for involving kids when their family suffers a loss. This blog will not only explain the roots of my interest in this subject, but also will be the beginning of a series intended to assist parents in helping their children navigate through what is often a painful and confusing time.

I was nine years old when my grandfather Samuel Techner died. Samuel was lovingly known to his family as "Pa Sam" and was a larger-than-life figure to me growing up. As his health began to deteriorate because of leukemia, it was obvious that his days might be numbered. Initially, my brothers and I could visit him at Sinai Hospital. Then we were able to speak briefly on the phone with him. Eventually, it became a situation where my parents would report back to us that Pa Sam was very weak, but the doctors felt they could make him better.

I came home from school one day and saw many of my aunts’ and uncles’ cars outside. Sadly, I concluded that Pa Sam's battle with leukemia had come to an end. I walked into the house and learned that I was correct - Pa Sam had, indeed, died. Incredibly and inexplicably, my parents had chosen not to tell my two older brothers or me that Pa Sam had died, and the funeral and burial had already taken place. My parents had concluded that a full seven-day shiva period with morning and evening services at our home was all that was required for my brothers and me to get through this time.

My brothers and I, along with our similar-age cousins, had far more questions than we had answers. And yet, there seemed to be no one to help us understand what happened, why he died and even where he was buried. Nobody. Death was just not talked about in 1960. Pa Sam's dying left a void, not only in my life, but also in those of so many grandchildren, nieces and nephews who had loved and admired him.

When the opportunity arose for me to become the third generation of this proud family business, I couldn't help but think of the only significant loss I had experienced to date. Ironically, my family had been served by the business I was about to join. I knew that the way Pa Sam's grandchildren had been treated many years before was not a standard I felt comfortable with. I applaud Ira and Herb Kaufman for their support and in taking a bold step in unfamiliar territory for the funeral profession. They put their faith in a 23-year old with a great deal of passion, but little experience in the industry and, from then on, children’s feelings became an important consideration in the way deaths are handled here.

A dear friend of mine, Rabbi Harold Loss once said, "If out of something negative comes nothing positive, consider it a wasted opportunity." I think of Pa Sam each time I am privileged to sit with a grieving family and their children, and hope to help them understand the process and the traditions that have guided us for generations.