I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their days hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about how to keep the objects they have, and to obtain objects they have not.
There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my loyalty. These I leave to all those who have loved me, especially to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me the most.
I ask my Master and my Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life, I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain.
Let them remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick, bewildered humiliation.
I feel life is taunting me with having overlingered my welcome. It is time I said good-bye, before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me.
It will be a sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows?
I would like to believe that there is a Paradise. Where one is always young and full-bladdered. Where all the day one dillies and dallies. Where each blissful hour is mealtime. Where in the long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning, and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth and the love of one's Master and Mistress.
I am afraid that this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and a long rest for my weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleep in the earth I have loved so well.
Perhaps, after all, this is best.
One last request, I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, "When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one". Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again.
What I would like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, she cannot live without a dog!
I have never had a narrow, jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good. My successor can hardly be as well loved or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green.
To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat He
can never wear them with the distinction I did, all eyes fixed on me in
admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere
gauche provincial dog.
I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.
One last word of farewell, dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long, happy life with you:
"Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved". No matter how deep my
sleep I shall hear you and not all the power of death can keep my spirit
from wagging a grateful tail.
I will always love you as only a dog can.
by Eugene O'Neill
It was a small, scared, bundle of flesh and bones that was dropped off
in a shelter by unfeeling people that didn't care what happened to it,
but yet who were responsible for it even having existence in the first
place.
I found it a home.
It now has contentment and an abundance of love. A warm place to sleep
and plenty to eat. Two little boys have a warm fuzzy new friend who will
give them unquestioning devotion and teach them about responsibility and
love.
A wife and mother has a new spirit to nurture and care for.
A husband and a father has a companion to sit at his feet at the end
of a hard day of work and help him relax and enjoy life. And a sense of
security, that when he is gone all day at work, that there is a protector
and a guardian in his home to keep watch over his family.
No, I'm not a rocket scientist. But today, I made a difference!
Cheryl Reed
A poem to my foster dog I am the bridge Between what was and what can be. I am the pathway to a new life.
I am made of mush, Because my heart melted when I saw you, Matted and sore, limping, depressed, Lonely, unwanted, afraid to love.
For one little time you are mine. I will feed you with my own hand I will love you with my whole heart I will make you whole.
I am made of steel. Because when the time comes, When you are well, and sleek, When your eyes shine, And your tail wags with joy Then comes the hard part. I will let you go--not without a tear, But without a regret. For you are safe forever-- A new dog needs me now.
by Diane Morgan
We groom them faithfully, but more gently, as age brings muscle wasting, and the arthritic bones aren't so well padded. We learn to slow down for their sake, as they enjoy the scent of the wind, or track a visitors trail across their yard. We expect to be inconvenienced, and aren't angry when it happens.
We watch for pain and treat it, watch for changes in vision and hearing and do what we can to help preserve those precious senses for as long as possible.
We take care of their teeth, and make sure their food is a manageable texture for them. We remind them of the need for a potty walk when they seem to forget.
We remember the little rewards. We scratch the graying ears and tummy, and go for car rides together. When the pet we love has an unexplained need for comfort, we give it freely. When infirmities bring a sense of vulnerability, we become our old guardian's protector.
We watch their deepest slumbers, when dreams take them running across long-forgotten fields, and we remember those fields too. When they cannot stand alone, we lift them. When their steps are uncertain, we steady them. And if their health fails, it falls to us to make the choice that will gently put them to rest. But until that is absolutely necessary, we pause to let the autumn sun warm our old friend's bones. And we realize, autumn is not a bad time of year at all. Old age is not a disease or a reason to give up. It is a stage of life that brings its own changes. Autumn can be a beautiful time of harvest.
And, sometimes, the harvest is love.
Christy Caballero