Poems About Loss of Dogs

[biot midge]

I lost both of my female Shelties exactly two weeks apart last year. I loved them dearly and had a hard time with it. I know that both of them are patiently waiting for me at the Rainbow Bridge.
Steve

[melk]

Oh man, I lost my bestest dog almost 4 years ago. Her successor is great, but this just opened up the tear gates. But, I remember Sadie with all my heart and know she is resting at the Rainbow Bridge for me.
Tried to not go to this thread, but had to, to honor Sadie. Marje, my Aussie, just came over and kissed away my tears.
To those who understand, we know we'll see them again.
Mike

[Preston]

Rudyard Kipling, in spite of his undeserved (in my opinion) reputation as an imperialist, was a lover of dogs and wrote two of the most touching poems about the loss of dogs that I have ever read. The Power of the Dog, with its refrain "Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware, of giving your heart to a dog to tear" and
Four-Feet, a short little three-verse poem:

I have done mostly what most men do,
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can't forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day, the whole day through--
Wherever my road inclined--
Four-Feet said "I am coming with you!"
And trotted along behind.

Now I must go by some other round--
Which I shall never find--
Somewhere that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

[Grn Mt Man]

?MY LADY?


She was just a wriggling mass of chalky-white and tawny Jell-O; a perpetual motion machine with a terminal case of St.Vitus dance.

Dad yelled out that I should come out to the front porch for a minute. We had discussed the object protruding from his jacket some time hence; but, I was totally unprepared to confront the furry apparition that now peered out from dad?s half zippered jacket. The sinking feeling that one experiences when called upon to ante up the answer to math problem number ten, when one has neglected to proceed past homework?s number seven, was nothing compared to the helplessness that now rooted both feet to a spot one step beyond the front door. Dad gingerly placed his hitch- hiking passenger on the porch and we both watched a sniffing exploration of it?s newfangled world. During a lengthy discussion, dealing with the care and feeding of tiny creatures, our newest family member temporarily disappeared from view. But, a search, looking over the nearest porch rail, revealed a ?watering? of mom?s flowerbed that wouldn?t evoke any words of praise or thanks!

?Remember now, ? dad echoed for the tenth time that day, ?It?s up to you to care for the pup. Your mom and I will help you with any questions you have about your pooch; but, it?ll be your responsibility to feed and look after it.?

?Your pooch?? Funny how those two little words resembled the feelings generated by Christmas Eve, birthdays and ?school?s out? all rolled into one.

With all the fervor a six year old can muster, I received that miniature, squirming, nuzzling ball of fur that dad produced. ?My pup!?

I recall asking dad if my pup was a boy or girl dog and upon being informed ?she? was a girl replied, ?What?ll I name her dad? I only picked out boy names.?

Being temporarily freed while we discussed this ponderous question ?She? promptly vacated the porch again in favor of the nearest tree to leave her ?calling card.?

?Why look at that,? remarked dad, ?she went to the tree instead of messing up the porch. She?s a regular little lady.?

?Lady!? ?That?s what I?ll call her dad; Lady.?

?Dad ? Lady?s in the tub whining for her bath. ?Every Sunday afternoon, if we were home, Lady would go upstairs, promptly at 2:00 o?clock and wait for her ?Halo? shampoo bath. This ritual was repeated every Sunday of her life ? summer, fall, winter or spring. It traces it?s beginnings from the afternoon Lady decided to join an afternoon bath as a full participant as opposed to remaining a mere spectator. The results were disastrously wet; but, thoroughly enjoyed by all concerned, with the possible exception of mom, who inherited the ?pleasant? task of mopping up.

Lady was half Collie ? half German Shepherd; but, retained only the swiftness and dimensions of the Shepherd. To the eye she was pure Collie and genteel. For her size, over a short distance, she was the speediest dog I?ve ever seen. Dad had once remarked that she was way too fast for her own good.

We were inseparable in the truest sense of the word. I always imagined that she owned me rather than the conventional partnership. Our relationship was the most pleasurable, for me at least, on the occasions when, returning from school and rounding the corner still two blocks from home, I?d whistle and she?d react by tearing up the sidewalk at break-neck speed and literally shower me with wet-tongued greetings.

Lady and I shared, for the better part of two years, those intangibles only a boy and his dog are privileged to experience. We were separated by one of those incidents termed fate, for lack of a better plausible explanation , brought about by Lady?s love of the chase.

Our Vermont winter had, only two days prior, lived up to advance billing by precipitating approximately twelve inches of that for which Vermont winters are most famous and skiers wax ecstatic over.

Suppertime was punctuated by playful howls and rapid pursuit as Lady and one of her canine acquaintances gave vent to the joys of romping through the snow and sniping heels in jest.

The thump was audible even though our kitchen was set to the rear of the house. In the next fear-filled seconds, the scene, gladly not witnessed but oft times remembered, flashed before my eyes and was confirmed when dad answered the knock at the front door.

The man was apologetic and offered to replace Lady; but, I could only shake my head in stunned silence.

She lay on the front lawn, near the steps, as though she were asleep. But, I knew this time, any whistling through the lump in my throat and the tears would be in vain.

We said our good-byes, there in the snow, in the same silent way we had shared all the good times because, she wasn?t just a dog, you see, she was ?My Lady.?