"The Gentleman"

I own a dog who is a gentleman;
By birth most surely, since the creature can
Boast of a pedigree the like of which
Holds not a Howard or a Metternich

By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod
He never wagged an unkind talk abroad.
He never snubbed a nameless cur because
Without a friend or credit card he was.

By pride. He looks you squarely in the face
Unshrinking and without a single trace
Of either diffidence or arrogant
Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt.

By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear
With absolute impunity his hair,
And pinch his silken ears the while
He smiles upon her -- yes, I've seen him smile.

By loyalty. No truer friend than he
Has come to prove his friendship's worth to me
He does not fear the master -- Knows no fear --
But loves the man who is his master here.

By Countenance. If there be nobler eyes,
More full of honor and of honesties,
In finer head, on broader shoulders found --
Then have I never met the man or hound.

Here is the motto of my lifeboat's log:

'GOD GRANT I MAY BE WORTHY OF MY DOG!'

~~~~Author unknown

~FLY~

Fly, fly little wing
Fly beyond imagining
The softest cloud, the whitest dove
Upon the wind of Heaven's love
Past the planets and the stars
Leave this lonely world of ours
Escape the sorrow and the pain
And fly again

Fly, fly precious one
Your endless journey has begun
Take your gentle happiness
Far too beautiful for this
Cross over to the other shore
There is peace forevermore
But hold this mem'ry bittersweet
Until we meet

Fly, fly do not fear
Don't waste a breath, don't shed a tear
Your heart is pure, your soul is free
Be on your way, don't wait for me
Above the universe you'll climb
On beyond the hands of time
The moon will rise, the sun will set
But I won't forget

Fly, fly little wing
Fly where only Angels sing
Fly away, the time is right
Go now, find the light.....

(Jean-Jaques Goldman & Phil Galdston)
Sung by Celine Dion

Where to Bury a Dog

This piece by Ben Hur Lampman originally appeared in The Oregonian.

A subscriber of the Ontario (Oregon) Argus has written to the editor
of that fine weekly, propounding a certain question, which, so far as
we know, remains unanswered: "Where shall I bury my dog?" It is
asked in advance of death. The Oregonian trusts the Argus will not
be offended if this newspaper undertakes an answer, for surely such a
question merits a reply. It distresses (the writer) to think of his
favorite as dishonored in death, mere carrion to the winter rains.
Within that sloping, canine skull, he must reflect when the dog is
dead, were thoughts that dignified the dog and honored the master.
The hand of the master and of the friend stroked often in affection
this rough, pathetic husk that was a dog.

We would say to the Ontario man that there are various places in
which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose
coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware,
never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is
buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at
its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his
grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub is
an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such
shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone,
or lifted his head to challenge some intruder. These are good places
in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches
sentiment more than anything else. For if the dog be well
remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in
life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters
not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill
where the wind is unrebuked, and the trees are roaring, or beside a
stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a
pasture lane where most exhilarating cattle graze, it is all one to
the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, nothing is lost,
if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One
place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already
have, he will come to you when you call - come to you over the grim,
dim frontiers of death and down the well remembered path and to your
side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they
shall not growl at him, or resent his coming, for he is yours and
belongs there. People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of
grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for
mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at
them, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and
which is well worth the knowing. The one best place to bury a good
dog is the heart of his master

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