‘All Dogs Go To Heaven” claimed the title of an animated movie made in Ireland some years ago, and I’m sure many of those attending the canine carol service in Dublin’s Christ Church cathedral on Tuesday would have endorsed the opinion.
The annual Peata Therapy Dog service is a charming institution, giving thanks for the joy these innocent creatures bestow, which in the case of the PTD organisation is channelled into regular visits to care-giving institutions.
As to the question of whether there is a heaven, and whether dogs or other animals qualify for entry, that – to quote Father Ted – may be an ecumenical matter.
Fundamentalist Christians, casting sentimentality aside, are wont to point out that at the business end of the Bible – the Book of Revelation – there is no mention of pets. But I don’t know. If there are Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, there must be stabling, which would seem to set a general precedent.
The Long and Short of Winter – An Irishman’s Diary about St Lucy’s Day
Union Hijack – An Irishman’s Diary about upside-down flags, the DUP, and the mutiny on the ‘Bounty’
The Phantom Flann – An Irishman’s Diary about the framing of Brian O’Nolan for a photograph he wasn’t in
The Harp that Once – An Irishman’s Diary about a history of ‘the most exotic music instrument in the world’
Gravestone
Speaking of horses, one of the more pained reflections on the subject of where beloved animals go after death is on a gravestone in Dublin’s Royal Hospital Kilmainham. The stone marks the resting place (or used to, before it was moved) of Vonolel, a war hero and general celebrity of the late 19th century.
As the inscription says, he was for 23 years the “charger and faithful friend” of Lord Roberts of Kandahar, Kipling’s favourite general. Their combined heroics in the Afghan wars earned the horse several medals. That and his Desert Orchid-like looks made him a favourite of Queen Victoria, whose jubilee procession he led.
So when he died in Dublin in 1899, the horse was given a prestige burial place in the Royal Hospital Kilmainham’s walled garden, with a headstone comparable to the ones in the nearby cemetery for two-legged officers, and noticeably bigger than those in the (separate) graveyard for men of other ranks.
But the question of Vonolel’s ultimate destiny troubled his owner, because the epitaph wonders about it in verse: “There are men both good and wise/Who hold that in a future state/Dumb creatures who have served us here below/Shall give us joyful greeting when we pass the golden gate/Is it folly that I hope it may be so?”
Lord Roberts and Vonolel were a perfect fit, in every sense. They were both well bred, the former from a distinguished Anglo-Irish family in Waterford, the latter from Arabian stock said to contain “the best blood of the desert”. They were also both diminutive: at 5 feet 4 and 14 hands, respectively.
Thus Roberts was known to his men as “Little Bobs”, a nickname taken up by Kipling in a poetic tribute. Shamelessly sentimental and rendered in a stage-cockney accent, the poem is hard work now. But the keynote verse is probably this one: “What ’e does not know o’ war, Gen’ral Bobs,/You can arst the shop next door - can’t they, Bobs?/Oh, ’e’s little but he’s wise;/’E’s a terror for his size,/An’ – ’e - does - not - advertise - Do yer, Bobs?”
Indian rebellion
Roberts certainly knew plenty about war. Starting with the Indian rebellion of 1857, he had fought a long series of battles for the British empire even before he and Vonolel made their epic, 300-mile march to the relief of Kandahar in 1880.
And even as the horse died of old age, Roberts (then 67) was off to the front again, this time for the second Anglo-Boer war. There, his more controversial tactics included a scorched-earth policy and the internment of Boer men, women, and children in concentration camps, where many died.
In retirement, the old soldier refused to fade away. During the new century’s early years, he campaigned vigorously for conscription and the mass military training of civilians for the great European war he saw coming.
Aged 80, in 1912, he urged “fellow-Britishers” to “arm and prepare to acquit yourselves like men”. A year later, he was also involved in setting up the Ulster Volunteer Force, aimed at opposing Irish Home Rule by any means.
By the time he died, with ominous timing, in late 1914, it could be argued that events had justified his warnings. It could also be argued that his bellicose mindset was part of what pitched Europe, including Ireland, into the tragedies ahead.
So whenever I pass Vonolel’s gravestone these days, it strikes me that the sentiment in the epitaph is misplaced. I have no difficulty imagining the horse in a heaven somewhere, grazing peacefully. It’s Lord Roberts who may be still outside the golden gate, trying to explain himself.