My father, J.D. Rainbolt left us this morning, two months after he broke his arm at the shoulder. When he abandoned his earthy cloak, he left behind the pain of a body that refused to mend. He also left the tears of two daughters and a son who loved him very much.

But our loss is Heaven’s gain. I imagine the reception he received was filled with barks and purrs, whinnies and even some moos.

Dad always loved animals–all animals. I grew up hearing that some day he would own a ranch. In the mid-1960s he realized his dream and bought a run down tract of land near Seguin, Texas. A phone company engineer by day, he turned into a gentleman rancher on the weekend. Early on, the R Square Ranch resembled a dilapidated farm in the 1960s sitcom Green Acres. With a lot of sweat and perseverance, Dad molded the land into a working ranch.

Dad truly loved his cows. I’ve never met another rancher who bought his beef at the grocery store, but Dad did. Because he didn’t want his calves ending up on someone’s dinner plate, he raised pedigreed black Angus, which he sold as breeding stock.

He decided before he bought his herd that he’d catch more cows with honey than vinegar. He trained his little herd that the sound of the horn promised a tasty treat called cake or range cubes. Every time he drove up to the ranch entrance he’d honk the horn. A happy audience of black cows would stampede to the corral to greet him.

Dad’s most touching animal story happened during World War II when he found himself surrounded by war dogs. Dad served in the U.S. Army Signal Corps as a communications scout in France. He commanded a small unit of 30 men, who all returned home safely. During the course of the war, his men would feed and rescue starving stray dogs. In return, the dogs offered war-weary soldiers friendly face lickings and emotional escape from the horrors of war.

But, the military frowns on troops keeping pets. Even today soldiers carefully conceal the dog or cat who travels with their units. If discovered, orders are often given to shoot the animal. However, some officers turned a blind eye to the illicit love affair for the good of his people and the starving animals.

J.D. Rainbolt was one of those officers. An avid dog lover since childhood, Dad took no notice of the soldiers’ canine companions, or at least never officially.

When the day finally arrived to return home, one of his men approached Dad and asked, “Lieutenant, what should we do we with the dogs?” Dad told the soldier, “Find local families to give them homes. Give them some money so they can care for them. You can’t bring them on the ship.”

When the unit boarded the troop transport ship bound for the U.S., Dad said there wasn’t even the hint of a dog for miles. He just assumed the locals had a lot of wonderful new pets. Several hours after weighing anchor, pooches appeared on deck. A few at first. Then more and more. Before long, Dad bumped into dogs no matter where he went on the ship. Dad learned that the dog smugglers had fed their pets sedatives, stuffed them in their duffel bags, then carried them onto the ship. Dad’s men weren’t the only ones who disobeyed the dog-abandonment order. Most of the dogs onboard had traveled with combats units. Over 100 French mutts found themselves bound for the United States.

The no-nonsense admiral in charge of the convoy ordered my dad to shoot every dog on the ship. Dad respectfully replied he didn’t think that wasn’t wise.

“These men have been killing Germans for months,” young Lt. Rainbolt reminded the admiral. “The dogs are part of their unit. If you start shooting dogs, there will be a bloodbath. These men won’t hesitate to kill to protect their dogs”.

How would they carry out this mutiny, the admiral wanted to know. The admiral thought all of the weapons onboard had been stowed in the bowels of the ship. My dad, reminded him that only the military-issued weapons were locked up. The same duffel bags that smuggled in contraband dogs, also (legally) brought in captured guns, ammo and knives. (Even Dad came home with eight captured German bayonets, and of course some cognac.)

The admiral realized before he could enforce his dog destruction order, he’d have to take up the captured weapons. Each piece would have to be logged in, labeled and stored so it could be reissued to its owner before the soldier left the ship. The confiscation process continued well past mid-voyage, at which time they had to start returning the arms. After all, with an immediate turnaround, they couldn’t waste valuable dock time messing with souvenirs. The admiral conceded, and both mutts and men openly strolled the ship for the rest of the cruise..

The last time Dad told the story, he couldn’t recall many of the details. The admiral and the ship’s name have been lost to time. And while these dogs saved the hearts and souls of his men, Dad just returned the favor. And for a few days at the end of World War II, Dad had over 100 dogs. That made Lt. Rainbolt the happiest dog lover in the world.

So I have no doubt that early this morning J.D. Rainbolt was greeted by joyful kitties, a few bunnies, some horses, a large herd of Angus and a huge pack of dogs (a hundred of whom barked with a French accent), all begging, “Pet me! Pet Me!”

Between tears I visualize the joyful reunion. “You go, Dad. I miss you.”