Do dogs go to heaven?

A still painting in 16:9, oil on coarse linen. From a viewpoint almost touching the floor, we see an old, ordinary mongrel sleeping on its side in a vast, quiet room. Its muzzle is white, one ear folds backward, its belly is exposed; every part of its body has surrendered its weight. Paint the fur with patient, specific strokes, the worn pads of the nearest paw with particular tenderness. The floor is pale limestone, gently hollowed where the dog rests. Beyond it, an entire wall stands open to daylight so deep that no horizon is visible. That light enters at floor level and touches the dog's underside, leaving nothing beneath it in darkness. No person, throne, gate, wings, or halo. No possessions. The dog is small in the composition but unmistakably its center. Restrained earth colors, soft edges, luminous white built from thin layers. No lettering or words anywhere.