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In Heaven, here’s the welcome:
You emerge from the tunnel of light into a forest meadow on a sunny autumn afternoon. Across a tapestry of purple asters and goldenrod, you fix your attention on the woods, a pleasing blend of spruce and multicolored maple.
There’s commotion in the understory, and all the dogs you ever loved burst out of the brush in a sprinting pack, yelping with joy. They’ve been waiting, and finally caught your scent. They are all three years old, with bright eyes and wide grins, half-stumbling in their rush to mob, to lick, to play. You shout their names and drop to your knees, arms spread.
And yes, the cats are there too — up in the trees, silently watching from the corners of their slitted eyes. They haven’t quite forgiven you for that last trip to the vet, thinking: “So, what was that deal about nine lives? I seem to recall only one.” But they’ll come around.
In a moment you’re laughing, dazzled by a tornado of tails and tongues.
After your welcome, a new reality crystallizes. You face eons of free time. Over beers with old friends who badger you for fresh gossip about the living, you realize you need a job.