Home - by BigFurHat - September 14, 2012 - 18:23 America/New_York - 11 Comments
FreeMan & Sarah on Vacation
September 14th, 2012
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead. (Walt Whitman) for those who do not know.
Dogs are one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind. They can feel your emotions, they are loyal beyond the capabilities of any human, and I am sure there are a lot of things we will never understand about their abilities. They do feel love and they give love freely.
I want my dog buried next to me. With a bigger headstone.
Very nice, Mountain Dog. I agree.
Let this be a clear example to those who think animals have no soul.
If he is waiting for his friend in life he will be waiting for him in death too.
Damn onions. Always gettin’ in my eyes.
Dogs have souls. And if they don’t, I don’t want to know.
That poor, sweet, loyal dog. Darn it, there go the tears…
Here’s one that made this big man cry:
Dogs are special that way, but every domesticated and intelligent animal has a certain ‘connect’ with people. To kind people that is, not to full skull-fucking brain-dead corpses. I think we all know the peeps who fit in That category. Mmm mmm mmm.
September 15th, 2012
Google “Greyfriars Bobby” for THE most famous story like this.
The reverse: a dog speaks to its master from beyond the grave…
The House Dog’s Grave (Haig, an English bulldog)
I’ve changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment,
You see me there.
So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you’d soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.
I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the night through
I lie alone.
But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read–and I fear often grieving for me–
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.
You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
To think of you ever dying
A little dog would get tired, living so long.
I hope than when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dear, that’s too much hope: you are not so well cared for
As I have been.
And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. . . .
But to me you were true.
You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
Robinson Jeffers, 1941
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