Dog Blessings

by June Cotner

  As the kittens grew, all seven cats, one dog, one husband, and I sloshed around on our waterbed every night. Missy continued carrying the kittens by the nape of the neck, often hiding them behind the couch. Sometimes she deposited them near the sliding doors where it was warm and cozy. And, of course, she kept placing them on the bed where they all took their afternoon nap, Missy included.

  Then Missy did the unthinkable. She stretched out on the living room carpet after piling the kittens next to her, then nosed them into her belly, making believe the babies were nursing! She did this time and time again, always panting as if it were hard work. I could only figure that Missy felt the kittens belonged to her. And they might as well have! She continuously snitched them from their bewildered mom. We sometimes feared she might hurt them, but she never did.

  Missy was a loving dog and tuned in emotionally to anyone around her. A grief group convened at my home regularly and Missy got to know all the women well. When one of them burst into tears, Missy quickly reached her side, licked the tears away, then put her head in the woman’s lap. She often showed the same sensitivity to me. She was not just loving. Missy was special.

  As far as the kittens went, we found homes for all but one. Paws, as we called him, was a polydactyl like his mother. And he happened to be Missy’s favorite. Even as Paws grew larger, he still allowed the dog to carry him around like a baby.

  We never had more kittens, but I sometimes wonder if we should have let Missy have her own puppy litter. I find the maternal instinct, especially in animals, fascinating. And as far as Missy’s love for the kittens? Well, her behavior during that time endeared her to me even more.

  Jill Frances Davis

  A Prayer for Dogs Who Serve

  Bless those dogs who spend this day looking for the lost and leading the blind; rescuing the injured and comforting the sick; detecting ill will and calming the anxious. Guide them in their work. Protect them on their journeys.

  Kathleen Whitman Plucker

  Dear Companion

  I’ve often walked you at dawn, when it was the darkest hour. We had crossed the fields, felt the breeze as a new day came shining through. The keenness of the wind so true brings back those memories when together, my wet-nosed friend, you and I had had all the world to see. Up and up we went to tackle the hill, to soak our feet in the shimmering coldness of the morning dew. How can I thank you for what you meant to me, my thanks are but a drop in the ocean when they should be a million times larger than the sea. Thank you my faithful pet, for the tireless loyalty you have given me through the years. When I hold your collar and lead I cherish them, I can’t help myself, with many a shake of the head and a quiet tear flowing from eyes too old to see. My dear companion so ill but I’ll remember you; I know I will.

  Cleveland W. Gibson

  Reflections on a Dog’s Devotion

  Nobody can fully understand the meaning of love unless he’s owned a dog. A dog can show you more honest affection with a flick of his tail than a man can gather through a lifetime of handshakes.

  Gene Hill

  A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.

  Josh Billings

  Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends.

  Alexander Pope

  I know that I have had friends who would never have vexed or betrayed me, if they had walked on all fours.

  Horace Walpole

  Old Friends

  Their youthful years have slipped away,

  The old man and his dog.

  They have a special bonding

  That needs no dialogue.

  The chase is just a memory,

  But how they used to run

  When hearts and legs were stronger

  And games were such great fun.

  Now the pace is slower

  For the master and his mate.

  If one lags too far behind

  The other stops to wait.

  Some things we cannot change

  Like aging and the weather,

  But true friends are quite content

  Just growing old together.

  C. David Hay

  Dog Walk

  The dog is old, muzzle frosted,

  hips narrow and unruly.

  Outings now are more meditation

  than distance traveled,

  more amble than cavort.

  There was a time for bounding.

  Leashes in impossible tangles.

  He’d gallop past, ears laid back,

  neck outstretched.

  So much energy, we’d squander it

  on capers measured in miles.

  It is all about the stopping now.

  He picks his way down the block,

  back toes dragging just a little,

  his nose reading every shrub,

  each thicket of grass, leisurely,

  like whole sections of the Sunday Times.

  He sometimes pauses, mid-walk,

  head lifted. Just stands there,

  hips slightly swaying,

  until I turn around to meet his gaze.

  The very best part of him still working fine.

  Kate Dwyer

  My Elderly Dog

  “A brand-new puppy? Oh, yes, sure!”

  Not knowing what to think of,

  We welcomed in that wiggly,

  Boundless energy and love.

  The years since then have melted,

  With once-young child in college.

  And dear dog, grown past vibrancy,

  Is gentled now by age.

  She’s blind. She’s deaf,

  And for hours sleeps.

  No longer licks our faces,

  No more plays or leaps.

  Yet her snore, her padding about,

  And soft presence are balm, you see.

  She simply “is,” and reminds

  Our souls to simply “be.”

  Gladly, we return to her what

  All wish would never cease.

  We give comfort, rest, security,

  To crown her elder years with peace.

  Donna J. Maebori

  Restricted Travel

  I descend the canyon just a little,

  jumping boulders in the stream, but my dog,

  my aging golden retriever, is none too good

  at scrambling down. A drop of four, five feet

  sets him barking fresh refusals. Now that he’s almost

  nine years old, he’s given up alternate routes.

  So he stands there, barking,

  and I’m just a bit ahead, just getting to the better part,

  where the channel steepens in pools and falls

  and the canyon opens out of oaks and laurel

  into sunshine. From here you can almost glimpse

  the sea, the islands round the far horizon.

  But I climb back into the shade and tell myself

  that next time I will come alone, knowing I won’t.

  As I cradle him up by his quivering haunches

  or ease him out of a pool by his collar, I think

  that this is why I came. And he stands on a tangle

  of alder roots and shakes himself, and we

  are very wet together, and this is how we share

  the creek, this is how we bless the canyon.

  Paul Willis

  Besty

  He’s an old dog now, with just three legs

  and a coarse harsh wheeze

  that rousts me out of sleep

  the way a baby’s crying stirs

  uncertain rumors of another world.

  He’s near the edge of so
mething that I think is death,

  and as the world grows quiet all around him,

  I’m troubled most by his tranquility.

  Once anything that moved or smelled could make him burn,

  but now he’s even let go of desire,

  like a kid who strings his name and address to a balloon,

  and watches as it disappears above the trees and houses,

  to wait for days for news from foreign towns that never comes;

  now the morning sunlight in a warm red chair

  and the leisurely savor of bitch on the wet guttered leaves

  sustain him like prayer.

  In his glory days he used to chase

  airplanes across the yard, to race

  in circles blind with joy around an apple tree

  until his speed brought thinking to a standstill,

  and his body blurred its outlines like the rising

  sunlight buffeting a field of windy wheat,

  or wind itself unthreading all the star—

  entangled cirrus clouds that roam the moon like sheep

  he must have known somehow to long for in a field

  rock-ridged and sparse with heather, where the Hebrides

  survey the ocean’s tumult and the far gulls cry,

  where he could circle, ride, and prod, and raucous until dark.

  I want to shepherd him across the last dark frozen grasses

  into the silence below zero

  when the wind has been stunned by its own bitter summons

  and stars stand fixed in their ice black arteries

  and any breath at all might turn the world to smoke.

  And in that instant’s no-man’s-land when time

  rolls up its sleeves to show

  that it has nothing left to hide, no sleights or tricks,

  I can turn back

  and let him take his way alone from there

  by smell, and heart, and what remains of eye and ear.

  I pack a final snowball full of stars

  and toss it out to where the horizon flickers

  and watch him go for it,

  still game on three legs in the deep powder,

  and call out after him

  until the emptiness inside each syllable works free,

  Great Besty! Go get it Boy! Great Besty! Good Boy! Goodby

  William Shullenberger

  Hiking Old Dog to the Alpine Lake

  She takes the lead with unaccustomed spryness,

  remembering this route through sagebrush, bitterbrush,

  mules-ears drying like so many summers

  to a lake still blue, sky filtered through runoff snow.

  Her lungs pump noisy on this once-a-year hike,

  the only season this water gathers enough sun

  for an old dog’s joints. You’d never guess,

  the way she chases sticks in the waves,

  and we keep on throwing, remembering her as a puppy.

  Finally the old-dog sourness washes off

  and her fetches turn to good dog weariness.

  And then we take it a slow walk back,

  holding in so the old lady still can take the lead.

  So slow, by the time we reach the car,

  she smells of nothing but drying grasses,

  lupine and sage.

  Taylor Graham

  Our Old Dog

  On good days, he shows traces

  of his younger self.

  He’s eager for a walk

  and has a sprightly step.

  He sniffs the air

  and cocks his head,

  ready to explore our

  neighborhood, his world.

  On other days,

  he’s racked by a cough,

  ballad of his failing heart.

  Curled up in a slice of sunlight,

  he seems smaller than

  his thirteen pounds.

  We huddle beside him,

  stroke his white-flecked coat,

  absorb his lessons on slipping away.

  Ann Reisfeld Boutté

  New Tricks

  The old dog’s once-clear eyes,

  now filled with his clouded destiny;

  his aged body quickening toward

  the familiar voice he cannot see,

  rippling with quiet joy

  that Love has called him,

  once again;

  his head nodding heavily

  with reciprocated desire.

  What joy should fill

  God’s waiting heart,

  if from such trusting pets,

  we humans could learn

  not to ponder our worthiness

  to be loved,

  but chose instead the uninhibited,

  slobbering joy of a lesser creature

  anticipating the affection

  of his Master.

  Sally Clark

  To Let You Go Gently

  To all things come an end, it’s said

  But I am not yet ready to surrender

  Your soul to that cold night.

  Part of me prays

  That you won’t want to leave us, too soon,

  But I know it’s a kind of selfishness

  As I watch your painful step

  And see you labor to move stiff joints in the morning.

  So I give thanks for every day

  That you show the joy of life still—

  Rolling and scrubbing in the grass in the backyard,

  Barking at your dog-buddies,

  Brandishing one of your well-worn chew-toys

  With that old-time glint in your eyes.

  And I pray to the higher power

  To grant me, when That Time arrives,

  The courage to look in your eyes

  And read truly what is written there

  And let you go gently

  When it’s time.

  Lisa Timpf

  Old Dog

  When her rabies tag arrived in the mail

  I tossed it on the kitchen counter.

  She won’t jump the wall

  Or jerk the leash from my hand and bolt.

  Years ago she disappeared on our morning walk

  An elegant black streak on the first white-hot day of summer

  Lured up a hill from the arroyo

  By a deer, a rabbit, the irresistible, dizzying scent of freedom.

  That night, certain the desert had claimed her

  I struggled to let go

  But at dawn, her coat matted, trailing cactus,

  She rolled into the kitchen when I opened the door.

  Grinning, she drained her water dish and collapsed on the tile

  To sleep off her foolishness.

  This morning she staggers to her feet, rear end listing oddly,

  And hangs back, though we walk only to the end of the street.

  She cannot see the rabbit dart directly in front of her

  From its cover of rock and desert broom,

  Does not respond to the repeated yelp

  Of the alarm on the neighbor’s car.

  At home again, I pick up her tag and work the stiff metal ring apart

  Forcing it onto her collar

  As if a simple act of will, a talisman

  Can hold back time.

  Nancy B. Wall

  His Final Season

  After the thunder has stopped, Bentley still trembles. I coax him outside because it smells like spring and he will not live to see another. As thick blankets of clouds smother the sun, we roam the sodden yard, searching for a stick. When I find one
that isn’t too heavy, I watch him amble after it, then settle down to chew it to shreds. He has never been much of a retriever.

  Then the clouds blow apart and I see the sun so bright it makes my eyes wet, knowing I’ll have to face the next thunderstorm alone.

  Arlene L. Mandell

  If It Should Be

  If it should be that I grow weak

  And pain should keep me from my sleep,

  Then you must do what must be done,

  For this last battle cannot be won.

  You will be sad, I understand.

  Don’t let your grief then stay your hand.

  For this day, more than all the rest,

  Your love for me must stand the test.

  We’ve had so many happy years.

  What is to come can hold no fears.

  You’d not want me to suffer so;

  The time has come—please let me go.

  Take me where my need they’ll tend,

  And please stay with me till the end.

  Hold me firm and speak to me,

  Until my eyes no longer see.

  I know in time that you will see

  The kindness that you did for me.

  Although my tail its last has waved,

  From pain and suffering I’ve been saved.

  Please do not grieve—it must be you

  Who had this painful thing to do.

  We’ve been so close, we two, these years;

  Don’t let your heart hold back its tears.

  Author unknown

  A Goodbye Prayer

  Bless my friend who’s gone away

  I honor him this lonely day.

  Lift my friend on wings of love

  To Heaven lit with cheerful sun.

  Dry my tears and soothe this pain

  Let my world be whole again.

  Kate Robinson

  Rainbow Bridge

  Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, they go to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water, and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.