We sat around an old tree in the cemetery, scattered his ashes and said our goodbyes. It was a small gathering, just my three children, my wife and I.
There were some soft tears and each of us told a little story about his extraordinary life. We sang All Things Bright And Beautiful, chosen by five-year-old Jonah. His brother Felix, 21, read a passage from the Bible: “There is a time for everything, a time to be born and a time to die.” And that was Lumpie’s moment.
We had carried his ashes along the route of his favorite walk and scattered them at the foot of a tree. The rain will wash them down to the roots, where they will be absorbed as nutrients. We will always remember this tree as Lumpie’s.
Lumpie had an extraordinary life. Born in Afghanistan during the war, she was a stray dog who lived off garbage dumps and begged from people’s homes.
Goodbye dear friend, companion of our family, playmate of the children, protector of our home. As a vicar I have attended the funeral of many people, but never that of a dog.
A few weeks earlier, we had taken Lumpie to the vet, where we discovered that his cancer had become inoperable. Suddenly, I found myself on the street with my children, while my wife was inside holding Lumpie, who had just been given an injection. Moments later, he was gasping for air.
It all happened so fast. We went to the vet with Lumpie in the back of the car and came back with his little red collar. Was that all?
Lumpie had an extraordinary life. Born in Afghanistan during the war, she was a stray dog who lived off garbage dumps and begged from people’s homes.
An Afghan hound, literally, but probably a mix of a German shepherd and something more like a whippet – we never knew for sure. He had floppy ears and big, soulful eyes. And looking into them it was impossible not to imagine everything he had seen.
In Muslim countries, dogs are often mistreated, as their saliva is considered “haram” – impure. Children sometimes throw stones at them and adults kick them. Winters are freezing and food is scarce.
But fortunately for Lumpie, she was taken in. First by a German diplomat – hence her strange name, from the same root as Marx’s concept of the “lumpenproletariat” – the beggars and thieves of the lower class. And, after the German diplomat left Kabul, she was taken in by an old friend of mine, the journalist Emma Graham-Harrison.
Somehow, Lumpie made the transition from stray dog to family pet. And the kids adored her. That’s why my seven-year-old son Louie asked for a funeral when she died.
Emma adored Lumpie, but she also wanted to give him a more secure future. She called me. Her house in London didn’t have much of a garden, but our vicarage in Elephant and Castle, south London, did. Would we consider fostering Lumpie? We have never regretted saying yes.
Getting Lumpie back to the UK was a challenge. He needed a passport and vaccinations, but it was still easier for a dog to get back to the UK than for many of the Afghan interpreters who had put their lives at risk to support the British Army. That always seemed like a farce to me.
At Istanbul Airport, Lumpie escaped from her cage and went for a short walk on the runway. At one point, it looked like the airport police might have to shoot her, until she found her way to the military part of the airfield, where they couldn’t shoot her. Fortunately, she was recaptured and arrived here, safe and sound.
Their new life in London was no less adventurous. For years, our garden had become home to a fox den. These urban foxes thought they were the toughest animals in the neighbourhood. They strutted around, thinking they owned the place. That was until they met our lightning-fast canine mujahideen.
Lumpie remained a stray dog at heart and I buried two foxes in that first week. The others never returned. On 13 March 2015, shortly after Lumpie joined us, the late Queen attended a memorial service to mark the end of combat operations in Afghanistan at St Paul’s Cathedral. At the end of the service, the RAF flew a number of Chinook helicopters, Hercules and Tornado aircraft over St Paul’s Cathedral to salute those who had served there. The flight path took them directly over our vicarage.
Lumpie was lying in the garden again as the sky roared at her passing. It was the only time we saw her visibly distressed.
In Kabul, she often heard the roar of Black Hawk helicopters coming from the military sector of Kabul airport. Suicide bombings and rocket attacks occurred in her neighbourhood. Her trauma was a haunting reminder of the horrors of war, and not just for the people.
Although Lumpie never made peace with other four-legged creatures, she was wonderful with children. At first we were nervous: you can take the dog out of Kabul, but you can’t take Kabul out of the dog.
But we were wrong. Two of our children were born in that parsonage, and she never behaved in any way other than kind and protective, not even when the children played with her ears or included her in their boisterous games.
Somehow she went from being a stray to a family pet. And the kids adored her. That’s why my seven-year-old son Louie asked for a funeral when she died.
I’d never thought about animal funerals before. I guess they seemed a bit odd, a bit like when people dress their animals up in bow ties so they look like miniature humans. Dogs are dogs and people are people.
And almost all the funeral services I offer at church focus on specifically human issues: sin, our need for forgiveness, our existential fear of death. That’s why we don’t baptize our pets, and why it doesn’t make much sense to offer them a Christian funeral.
Our family used to joke that Lumpie was the most religiously confused pet in the world. He grew up in a Muslim country and obeyed commands in Farsi and Pashto. Then he came to a vicarage where, since my wife is Israeli, we also spoke Hebrew.
I used to call Lumpie “Kalbah,” the Hebrew (and Arabic) word for dog. But my son asked for a funeral, and it seemed right to honor that instinct. Sometimes children understand these things on a deeper level than adults do.
Many years ago, when I was going through the process of being elected as a priest in the Church of England, I went to a selection conference where one of the tasks was to open an envelope, read aloud a sentence written on a piece of paper inside, and then talk about the subject for two minutes. My paper read: “There is no resurrection for dogs. Discuss.” My thoughts immediately turned to the writings of the philosopher René Descartes, who famously declared: “I think, therefore I am.”
Our family used to joke that Lumpie was the most religiously confused pet in the world. He grew up in a Muslim country and obeyed commands in Farsi and Pashto.
Descartes and his followers believed that reason was the essence of human life and that we had no moral obligation to creatures that did not have reason. For Descartes, we have as much moral obligation to an animal as to any mechanical object, such as a watch. Animals, he argued, do not have souls.
I remember thinking that was nonsense at the time, and I think it is nonsense now. In the Bible, God creates human life on the same day that he creates animal life. We are all part of that general concept of creation, of life itself.
And one of the most important things that has emerged from our growing concern for the natural world is that we recognize that we are creatures called to live alongside very different creatures, in dependence on one another.
That’s what the Lumpie tree will always remind me of. As Psalm 36 says, “God will save both man and beast.”
We estimate that he was about 14 years old when he died. And what a life he had!
