Anyone who has lost a family Pet knows the grief. The little creatures kind of wrap themselves around your heart. I’m sorry for your loss. There is a lot that could be said on death or dying.
I yield to the eloquent words of the 18th &19th Century English Poet Lord Byron (Baron Byron). Seems he was given a sick dog named Boatswain who he cared for until the poor dogs death. The storey is it was a Labrador retriever who actually had rabies. Lord Baron got attached to the dog & wrote a tear jerker epitaph for the world to remember. I’ve read there is a monument up in Nova Scotia with the poem engraved in bronze. (seen photo’s) Even if you hate poems & love cats pause a moment to read true Great Words that the race of domestic canines deserve.
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a Dog
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead November 18th 1808.[4]
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnotic’d all his worth,
Deny’d in heaven the Soul he held on earth.
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit,
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honours none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one — and here he lies.
See? Pretty profound. I think of Byron dealing with Boswain’s horrific last days (ie madness, seizures, pain & frothing mouth.) That horrible injustice of it all seemed to have been a powerful muse.
The Truth in Perspective 