Edgar Albert Guest

(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959 / Birmingham / England)

His Dog - Poem by Edgar Albert Guest

Pete bristles when the doorbell rings.
Last night he didn't act the same.
Dogs have a way of knowin' things,
An' when the dreaded cable came,
He looked at mother an' he whined
His soft, low sign of somethin' wrong,
As though he knew that we should find
The news that we had feared so long.

He's followed me about the place
An' hasn't left my heels to-day;
He's rubbed his nose against my face
As if to kiss my grief away.
There on his plate beside the door
You'll see untouched his mornin' meal.
I never understood before
That dogs share every hurt you feel.

We've got the pride o' service fine
As consolation for the blow;
We know by many a written line
He went the way he wished to go.
We know that God an' Country found
Our boy a servant brave an' true-
But Pete must sadly walk around
An' miss the master that he knew.

The mother's bearing up as well
As such a noble mother would;
The hurt I feel I needn't tell-
I guess by all it's understood.
But Pete- his dog- that used to wait
Each night to hear his cheery call,
An' romped about him at the gate,
Has felt the blow the worst of all.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 27, 2014



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