Robert William Service
Dogs have a sense beyond our ken -
At least my little Trixie had:
Tail-wagging when I laughed, and when
I sighed, eyes luminously sad.
And if I planned to go away,
She'd know, oh, days and days before:
Aye, dogs I think are sometimes fey,
They seem to sense our fate in store.
Now take the case of old Tome Low;
With flowers each week he'd call on me.
Dear Trixie used to love him so,
With joyous jump upon his knee.
Yet when he wandered in one day,
Her hair grew sudden stark with dread;
She growled, she howled, she ran away . . .
Well, ten hours later Tom was dead.
Aye, dogs hear sounds we cannot hear,
And dogs see sights we cannot see;
And that is why I took the fear
That one day she would glare at me
As if a Shape cowered on my bead,
And with each hair on end she'd creep
Beneath the couch and whine with dread . . .
And so I've had her put to sleep.
Now Trixie's gone, the only one
Who loved me in my lonely life,
And here I wait, my race nigh run,
My ill too grievous for the knife.
My hand of ice she'll never lick,
My heedless mask she'll never see:
No heartbreak - just a needle prick. . . .
Oh, Doctor, do the same for me!
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(22 March 1941 -)
(10 February 1970-)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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