I used to volunteer at an animal shelter. I loved it.

My favorite place in the shelter was called the “Introduction Room.” This was the room where people went to meet the dogs that were up for adoption.

The room was supposed to be inviting, sort of like a living room. And at one time, I’m sure the room actually did resemble an ordinary living room. There was furniture, a sofa, and a tableside lamp.

But the room had seen better days. The whole space was so covered in so much dog saliva you weren’t sure what color the walls used to be. The interior smelled like wet fur. And whenever anyone sat on the crud-covered sofa, an explosion of dust and dander would instantly transform the room’s visible atmosphere into approximately 80 percent dog hair.

But it was in the Introduction Room that I learned something. Something about dogs that I’d never known before:

Dogs have more than one name. That’s just how it works. People name their dog. Then they give a nickname. THEN, they nickname the nickname. Everyone does this. I don’t make the rules.

I bring all this up because I want to tell you about a special dog.

Her name was Claire. But she also went by “Clair-ee,” “Claire Bell,” “Clarinda,” “Clarinder,” and —why not?—“Judy Bell.”

I’m not sure which breed she was. I think she was a Goldendoodle. But I don’t know.

Either way, she definitely had poodle in her. You can tell by the eyes.

Poodle eyes are dark amber, swallowed by the pupil, making them look like doll eyes.

Poodle breeds also have longer eyebrows. This means their eyes appear doubly expressive. Almost humanlike. With their fluffy eyebrows they can show surprise, excitement, glee, confusion, disgust, mischievousness, and severe incontinence.

Claire loved long walks. She loved tennis balls. She loved terrorizing birds, chasing pigeons and seagulls off the backyard pier. Sometimes, dolphins would swim in Soldier Creek near her home. She loved barking at them.

She was a scavenger. She loved finding stuff. Big sticks, used SOLO cups, discarded cheeseburger wrappers, broken plastic forks, underpants, etc. Any article of litter she found scattered on the shoulder of an average two-lane highway.

Above all, she was her mom’s best friend. They were thick, those two. They did everything together.

But last Wednesday, when her mother took her to the vet, something was wrong. The doctor found multiple brain tumors. The tumors were eating Claire from the inside. Her mom had a painful choice to make.

Claire was only 8 years old.

It hasn’t even been a full week since they laid Claire to rest. Only a matter of days ago, she was alive, doing all things she loved. Finding roadside litter, chasing balls, barking at the wildlife. And now she’s not here. The house feels empty.

I know how this feels. Sometimes you think you hear something in the kitchen, the ticking of little paws on the floor. Or sometimes you walk into a room and expect to see them lying on a sofa, or waiting by the door. But they aren’t there. They’re somewhere else.

But where? Where do dogs go? Where do their spirits flee? Moreover, why would a loving God create dogs in the first place if He’s only going to take them away?

Well. His reason is simple. Because this Earth, this life, and all material things you can see with human eyes…

This is only the Introduction Room.