by Edmund Vance Cooke
But twice on the Western Line,
That little old bunch of faithful fur
Had offered his life for mine.
And the leaving of soldiers’ grub,
But he’d give his heart for a pat on the head,
A friendly tickle or rub.
And then, in the breaking away–,
Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went,
I am not prepared to say.
And some to sherry and shad,
And I went back to the Sawbones School,
Where I was an undergrad.
To one of those institutes
Where they demonstrate every new disease
By means of bisected brutes.
And slit like a full-dressed fish,
With his vitals pumping away inside
As pleasant as one might wish.
And the beast’s eyes leveled mine;
His short tail thumped with a feeble force,
And he uttered a tender whine.
Who was quartered and crucified,
And he whined that whine which is doggish prayer
And he licked my hand–and died.
Than the gang I was found among,
And his innocent blood was on the soul
Which he blessed with his dying tongue.
In the air, on sea, on land!
But only a dog would spend his breath
In a kiss for his murderer’s hand.
And if there’s no heaven for love like that,
For such four-legged fealtly–well!
If I have any choice, I tell you flat,
I’ll take my chance in hell.