I cried at pre-school today.

Last night at bedtime, the Bug finally seemed to realize that the dog is gone for good.

“I WANT KISKEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” he wailed as I tucked him in. “I don’t want her to be dead!”

I felt so bad that I got under the covers with him. We talked about how the dog was at peace now and how she will always be part of our family. He sniffled and smiled a little through the tears.

Next came the philosophical questions. What does her spirit look like? Like a cloud-shaped dog, I told him. How does she get to heaven? Her spirit floats, I explained, and then resorted to that trusty old standby: it’s magic. Does she have to wear a collar? No, she never does anymore, or a leash.

Then, the mother of all questions: “Mama, when am I going to die?”

I felt like my heart was going to stop. NEVER! I wanted to yell. But I said something I hoped was soothing, like “Not for a long time, honey, and you don’t need to worry about it,” and that seemed to be enough for him.

I lay awake long after he’d fallen asleep clutching my hair in his fist. What’s a long time to a five year old? Did he think he, like the dog, would be put down if he got too sick? I didn’t want to give him more information than he needed, but how much did he need?

The next day, at his pre-school teacher’s suggestion, I read him a book by Mr. Rogers called “When A Pet Dies.” In typical Mr. Rogers fashion, it’s a gentle but honest guide to feelings at the loss of a pet, with photos of children hugging their cats and dogs, a pet funeral, and visits to the vet. A couple of the other children, knowing our dog had died, gathered around the couch to listen.

“You may feel sad or angry when a pet dies,” I read aloud. “Sometimes, you think you could have done something to stop it, but you probably couldn’t.”

And then I started bawling like a pre-schooler myself. The kids looked concerned and sympathetic. “Don’t cry,” DinoBoy told me. “You can get another dog at the pet store.”

“Where did your dog go?” asked a little girl.

“To doggie heaven,” I snivelled.

“Mama, don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve,” the Bug scolded. “You should use a tissue.”

As the children crowded close, breathing on me and trying to comfort me by patting with their chubby little hands, I started to feel a little better, or at least claustrophobic instead of depressed.

“Thanks, guys,” I said shakily. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

One of them tugged on my sleeve as I stood up to leave.

“Do dogs poop in heaven?” she wanted to know.

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “And if they do, people don’t have to clean it up.”

“Because it isn’t stinky!” crowed a little boy.

And we all smiled.