|On 16th November, 1870, Mr. Shchapoff, a Russian squire, the narrator, came home from a visit to a country town, Iletski, and found his family in some disarray. There lived with him his mother and his wife's mother, ladies of about sixty-nine,... Read more of The Dancing Devil at Scary Stories.ca|| Informational|
Home - Bird Stories - Dog Stories - Dog Poems - Cat Stories - Bear Stories
Tim An Irish Terrier
An Old Dog
Hamish A Scotch Terrier
You're A Dog
Least ViewedMy Dog
Fidele's Grassy Tomb
Rhapsody On A Dog's Intelligence
An Extract From Inscription On The Monument Of A Newfoundland Dog
To Tim An Irish Terrier
The Power Of The Dog
Remarks To My Grown-up Pup
To Rufus A Spaniel
To A Terrier
You were a dog, Frances, a dog,
And I was just a man.
The Universal Plan,--
Well, 'twould have lacked something
Had it lacked you.
Somehow you fitted in like a far star
Where the vast spaces are;
Or like a grass-blade
Which helps the meadow
To be a meadow;
Or like a song which kills a sigh
And sings itself on and on
Till all the world is full of it.
You were the real thing, Frances, a soul!
Encarcassed, yes, but still a soul
With feeling and regard and capable of woe.
Oh yes I know, you were a dog, but I was just a man.
I did not buy you, no, you simply came,
Lost, and squatted on my door-step
With that wide strap about your neck,--
A worn one with a huge buckle.
When bigger dogs pitched onto you
You stood your ground and gave them all you had
And took your wounds unwhimpering, but hid them.
My, but you were game!
You were fine-haired
And marked with Princeton colors,
Black and deep yellow.
No other fellow
Could make you follow him,
For you had chosen me to be your pal.
My whistle was your law.
You put your paw
Upon my palm
And in your calm,
Deep eyes was writ
The promise of long comradeship,
When I came home from work,
Late and ill-tempered,
Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs;
Your nose was at the door-crack;
And whether I'd been bad or good that day
You fawned, and loved me just the same.
It was your way to understand;
And if I struck you my harsh hand
Was wet with your caresses.
You took my leavings, crumb and bone,
And stuck by me through thick and thin.
You were my kin.
And then one day you died,
At least that's what they said.
There was a box and
You were in it, still,
With a sprig of myrtle and your leash and blanket,
And put deep;
But though you sleep and ever sleep
I sense you at my heels!
Next: Roger And I
Previous: Rhapsody On A Dog's Intelligence