It is a common belief among Christians that when people die, their souls are bound for either heaven or Hades.

What about animals, however? Do dogs and cats have a soul? Do those Christians bound for heaven have access to the Rainbow Bridge where our departed pets frolic in clover?

I’ve given a lot of thought to this recently. Me and my wife recently euthanized one of our “children” — a cocker spaniel that was the closest thing to a child we had. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made.

Charlotte was diagnosed with pancreatitis. A scan of her abdomen revealed cancer in her gall bladder. The prognosis was not good and she was suffering. It was the humane thing to do.

I won’t lie when I say I wept to the point of near-dehydration. It was if I had been watching the saddest parts of “Old Yeller” and “Where the Red Fern Grows” on repeat.

To put it simply, Charlotte wasn’t just a dog to us. She was as much of a person as anyone else because we liked her more than virtually all people.

No matter how bad of a day I had, she was always there waiting for me to get home. She’d wag her tail and jump up on me. If I was carrying a bag, it was important for her to know if there was any food in the bag and if any of it could be consumed by her.

Like me, Charlotte was food obsessed. Her favorites were bacon, steak fat and the skin of a rotisserie chicken. She would eat anything that fell onto the floor, unless it was a fruit or vegetable, and she also loved to drink spilled beer.

At some point in her life, Charlotte learned to smile and would do so while begging at our feet. Her lips would curl back, revealing her front teeth. I’m not sure what dog taught her that trick, but it resulted in a lot of treats.

She did unimaginably disgusting things like roll around in our dirty clothes. She would also occasionally eat cat vomit and cat poop, but we let her sleep in our bed anyway. She went on trips with us. She would bring me her “bobo” when she wanted to play. She would hang out with me in my man cave.

We sang songs to her and about her. We wondered what she was doing at home while we were out and about. We would theorize she could be smoking cigarettes and dealing five-card stud with her n’er-do-well canine friends if we were gone for more than a few hours.

If my wife was out of town on business, my work schedule was often dictated by how long Charlotte could hold her pee (about eight hours). My mother-in-law would help out on the days I couldn’t leave early.

So, like a child, it really did take a small village to raise Charlotte. She was at the center of virtually every decision we made since marrying in 2010.

I met her in the summer of 2007 when she wasn’t much older than a puppy. My earliest interaction with Charlotte was playing with her in my future wife’s apartment in Tuscaloosa. I would have her chase me around the apartment and let her bark at me. We became fast friends.

After me and Lensey married, we lived outside of Atlanta for a brief period. I was working at the Carrollton, Georgia, newspaper then and would get home at about 10:30 each night. Lensey would listen for the sound of me coming up the stairs and would let Charlotte out to greet me on the landing at the apartment complex where we lived. It always cheered me up.

After Georgia, there would be a few more moves. Charlotte was a champion at moving. “Home” to her wasn’t a building, but instead her people. As long as we were there, that’s all that mattered to her. And she was all that mattered to us.

Life without her has been a difficult slog. I eat my morning yogurt and throw the cup immediately in the trash, whereas I used to let her lick the yogurt residue from the inside. If I accidentally drop food on the floor, I have to pick it up because she’s not there to eat it. I’ve also had to relearn how to walk around the kitchen without a 28-pound dog at my feet threatening to trip me.

I recently slept until 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday because she wasn’t there to wake me up at 6 a.m., as was her usual schedule. She would wake me up to feed her, eat and then return to her slumber.

Her two “sisters,” our two fat cats, have also noticed her absence. They walk around the house seeking her, but she’s nowhere to be found.

Our hearts will eventually heal, and we will eventually get another dog. It’s difficult knowing, though, that no dog will ever be as good as Charlotte.

It is my hope, however, I will see her again. I don’t know if pets go to heaven, but I hope they do.

So the question remains, do our pets have a soul? I would argue they do because they — unlike many humans I’ve met — have the ability to love unconditionally. God made animals just as he made man, so why should they be excluded from eternity?

Perhaps such thoughts and wishes represent naivety on my part, but I’m not sure I want to go to any heaven where Charlotte isn’t there to greet me on the other side. I want to run and play with her as we did when we were younger.

Maybe all my other dearly departed pets will be there, too. Charlotte will just get most of my attention.

— Editor Adam Smith can be reached at adam@athensnews-courier.com.