Last Will and Testament

       I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family,
           friends and acquaintances as Blemie), because the
     burden of my years is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my
             life is near, do hereby bury my last will and
      testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there
            until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his
       loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask
             him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.
       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 time hoarding property. They do
            not ruin their sleep worrying about objects they
      have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing
            of value I have to bequeath except my love and
     my faith. These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master
            and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most,
    to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie
             and Naomi and - but if I should list all those
       who have loved me it would force my Master to write a book.
           Perhaps it is in vain of me to boast when I am so
       near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I
             have always been an extremely lovable dog.
     I ask my Master and 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
          over lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by,
    before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love
            me. It will be 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 with those of my fellow
    Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise
                 where one is always young and
       full-bladdered; here all the day one dillies and dallies with an
           amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted;
         where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the
        houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful
       hour is mealtime; where in 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 this is too much for even such a dog as I am to
          expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long
      rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleeps
          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, now she cannot live without a dog! I have
            never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always
      held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have
           permitted to share the living-room rug during the
       evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit,
          and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a
          trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others.
          Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best.
      So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as
           well bred, 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, made
             to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can
      never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the
           Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, 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. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of
           comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume,
       come closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent
          years. And, for all his faults, 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.

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