Do dogs go to heaven?

A wide oil painting on canvas, 16:9. On the left, in cold blue-grey shadow, a small fresh mound of earth beneath a bare winter tree, an empty worn leather collar resting on the soil. From this shadow an old black Labrador walks rightward into a broad meadow flooded with early morning gold. Its muzzle is grey, one ear bears a familiar torn notch, but its body is strong and unhurt, paws pressing through wet grass. Mid-stride it turns its head and looks back directly at the viewer, ears lifted, tail raised in recognition. No wings, no halo, only the dog itself, whole again. Thick impasto in the black fur and grass, thin dark washes in the grave shadow, warm ochre and pale rose light breaking across the horizon.