A Few Words About Man's Best Friend: Dorothy Parker, Emily Pauline Johnson, and Rudyard Kipling on dogs

by #LizPublika

Verse for a Certain Dog

Dorothy Parker (1893 –1967)

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,

Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.

All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.

(For heaven’s sake, stop worrying that shoe!)

You look about, and all you see is fair;

This mighty globe was made for you alone.

Of all the thunderous ages, you’re the heir.

(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;

High in young pride you hold your noble head;

Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.

(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)

Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,

Yours the white rapture of a wingèd soul,

Yours is a spirit like a May-day song.

(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

“Whatever is, is good,” your gracious creed.

You wear your joy of living like a crown.

Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.

(Drop it, I tell you—put that kitten down!)

You are God’s kindliest gift of all,—a friend.

Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,

You ask but leave to follow to the end.

(Couldn’t you wait until I took you out?)

The Train Dogs

Emily Pauline Johnson (1861– 1913)

Out of the night and the north;

Savage of breed and of bone,

Shaggy and swift comes the yelping band,

Freighters of fur from the voiceless land

That sleeps in the Arctic zone.

Laden with skins from the north,

Beaver and bear and raccoon,

Marten and mink from the polar belts,

Otter and ermine and sable pelts––

The spoils of the hunter’s moon.

Out of the night and the north,

Sinewy, fearless and fleet,

Urging the pack through the pathless snow,

The Indian driver, calling low,

Follows with moccasined feet.

Ships of the night and the north,

Freighters on prairies and plains,

Carrying cargoes from field and flood

They scent the trail through their wild red blood,

The wolfish blood in their veins.

The Power of the Dog

Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936)

There is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

And when we are certain of sorrow in store,

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy

Love unflinching that cannot lie—

Perfect passion and worship fed

By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

Nevertheless it is hardly fair

To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits

Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,

And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs

To lethal chambers or loaded guns,

Then you will find—it’s your own affair—

But… you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,

With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,

When it comes to burying Christian clay.

Our loves are not given, but only lent,

At compound interest of cent per cent.

Though it is not always the case, I believe,

That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:

For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,

A short-time loan is as bad as a long—

So why in—Heaven (before we are there)S

hould we give our hearts to a dog to tear?