By Clint Younts
I’ve been writing my Crow’s Nest column for several years, and I bet some of y’all who inexplicably keep reading this babble might actually believe I am a bona fide journalist. Others might be wondering how my manuscripts get smuggled out from my padded cell. Since this column has recently been acquired by other newspapers in this great state of ours, perhaps I should inform the generally literate public that writing is not my profession but just a fun hobby that keeps my beer fridge stocked with cheap libations. My paying gig is being a vet tech in a veterinary clinic for the past 15 years, and along with running a small cattle ranch and doing other odd jobs, I can afford to sit out on my deck dubbed the Crow’s Nest and write a column about whatever comes to mind.
Occasionally an idea springs up out of nowhere and bites me in the butt. Frequently it’s a headline in some newspaper or an item I see online. Other times, a suggestion is offered by a friend or fan of this column and it’s not uncommon for a notion to come bottled up in a 12 ounce frosty bottle. And then there are columns inspired by something I see or hear at work at the vet clinic.
I’ve been working with four-legged creatures for most of my adult life. I have numerous scars and skeletal defects from wrangling cattle and angry furry creatures. I’ve been kicked by cows, scratched by cats and bitten by dogs. I am frequently bombarded with hisses and growls from patients at the clinic and occasionally readers of this column. After 30 years of working with cattle and four-pawed domestic terrorists, I’ve seen it all.
I don’t necessarily consider myself a cat-lover or a dog-lover, but I do have a friendly relationship with my cows. I have had numerous cats and dogs in the past. Now I only have a small herd of crossbred cows and a large pet cemetery. One thing that I have heard from many dog owners (humans don’t actually own pets; they only house and feed them. It’s the pets that control the humans in the household) as they spend the final minutes of their beloved pet’s life before being euthanized is their belief that dogs go to heaven. We’ve all heard the saying “All dogs go to heaven,” and there was even a movie with that title, but as I sit upon the Crow’s Nest pondering the mysteries of life and 28-across in the New York Times puzzle, I wonder ... do all dogs really go to heaven?
I personally believe dogs, and cats, too, pass to another world upon leaving this one. In my line of work, death is part of the job. When the time comes, whether it comes naturally or with assistance, dying pets rarely struggle and often seem ready to go, almost like they know what to expect. These are the pets I believe go to Doggie Heaven, but I wonder about others I have encountered in the past.
Do those dogs who bark all day and night go to heaven? I have a vision of heaven being a right peaceful place, full of shady oak trees under which a cowpoke can string a hammock and take nice, long naps, lulled to sleep by songbirds and a cool breeze rustling the leaves. I don’t want to spend eternity listening to a couple of yapping dogs. Do you suppose all dogs go to heaven but lose their voice on the way?
Do those vicious dogs that attack innocent kids and small dogs go to heaven, or do they spend eternity biting Osama bin Laden’s butt and chasing Lucifer’s tail down in hell? I bet there are a few dogs I’ve dealt with over the years that now poop fire and brimstone. Those hellhounds were simply evil!
If all dogs go to heaven, where do they stay? Does Saint Peter have a kennel, or do the dogs just run free in a huge dog park? And if they do run free, do all dogs poop in heaven? Back to my vision of heaven, I don’t see a pile of doggie doo under my majestic oaks. I’d really hate to be waiting outside the Pearly Gates for hours while Saint Peter and company are reviewing my credentials (hopefully they don’t read my column), and when they finally open the gates and let me in, I don’t want to step in some poodle poop as I walk down the streets of gold.
If all dogs go to heaven, do they come with fleas? I wouldn’t think so, but some big hairy dogs could have fleas hidden in the dog’s thick coat and sneak in. Does St. Peter run a flea comb through each dog just to make sure all dogs in heaven don’t spend eternity scratching and biting themselves on the butt?
I recall seeing pictures of the Pearly Gates in an illustrated Bible that I once owned. Do you suppose there’s a doggie door built into the Pearly Gates or do dogs just dig a hole under the fence and sneak in? Maybe there is a doggie door so dogs in heaven can go outside Heaven’s Gate to do their business? Oh, let’s pray that’s the answer.
I just don’t know what to expect when (some of y’all might say “if”) I make it to the happy hunting ground. As I sit out here at the Crow’s Nest in the afternoon shade of oak trees, listening to birds and watching deer and blackbuck antelope graze in the woods just beyond my hammock, I am thinking heaven might just be similar to this exact spot, but without some distant neighbor’s beagle barking at a squirrel.
Clint Younts indeed works at a vet’s clinic. Here’s hoping that it’s not his cousin’s dog on the adjoining ranch that is causing distress in the Crow’s Nest.
