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; 
But when we are certain of the 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 puppy 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 in the fourteen years which nature permits 
Are closing in asthma, or tumor, 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, 
When the 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-term loan is as bad as a long. 
So why in Heaven (before we are there!) 
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Please God, Tell Me

Please God, tell me
That this warm and sunny day
Is not the only day you have 
To take my dog away.
She's small and quick and always has 
Such lovelight in her eyes,
Please tell me that it's not today 
That we must say goodbyes.

My little dog has always 
Stood faithful by my side.
It surely can't be time for us 
To take that final ride.
Not when the air smells oh so sweet
Not when there's a ball to throw,
She and I need just one more day.
Tell her it's not time to go.

I know you might be lonely 
Up there in all that blue.
But please don't take my dog, God, 
She wasn't meant for you.
She's small and warm and feels so good 
When I cuddle in her fur...
I guess I understand how 
You might want to play with her.

But please, God, let her stay with me 
For just a little more...
She loves me so and I love her 
And that's what dogs are for.
And if by chance, she wants to go 
And find that bridge to cross.
Then God, let me be brave as she
And smile to mourn my loss.

©2003 Deborah Sweigart - weeDOGS.com 

Permission to crosspost or use this poem in your group or publication is granted providing the above copyright information is included.

I am the voice of the voiceless: 
Through me, the dumb shall speak; 
Till the deaf world's ear be made to hear 
The cry of the wordless weak. 
 

From street, from cage, and from kennel, 
From jungle and stall, the wail 
Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin 
Of the mighty against the frail. 

I am a ray from the centre; 
And I will feed God's spark, 
Till a great light glows in the night and shows 
The dark deeds done in the dark. 

And full on the thoughtless sleeper 
Shall flash its glaring flame, 
Till he wakens to see what crimes may be 
Cloaked under an honoured name. 

The same force formed the sparrow 
That fashioned Man, the King; 
The God of the Whole gave a spark of soul 
To each furred and feathered thing. 

And I am my brother's keeper, 
And I will fight his fight, 
And speak the word for beast and bird, 
Till the world shall set things right. 

Let no voice cavil at Science - 
The strong torch-bearer of God; 
For brave are his deeds, though dying creeds, 
Must fall where his feet have trod. 

But he who would trample kindness 
And mercy into the dust - 
He has missed the trail and his quest will fail: 
He is not the guide to trust. 

For love is the true religion, 
And love is the law sublime; 
And all that is wrought, where love is not, 
Will die at the touch of time. 

And Science, the great revealer, 
Must flame his torch at the Source; 
And keep it bright, with that holy light 
Or his feet shall fail on the course. 

Oh, never a brute in the forest, 
And never a snake in the fen, 
Or ravening bird, starvation stirred, 
Has hunted its prey like men. 

For hunger, and fear, and passion 
Alone drive beasts to slay, 
But wonderful man, the crown of the plan, 
Tortures, and kills, for play.

He goes well fed from his table; 
He kisses his child and wife; 
Then he haunts a wood, till he orphans a brood, 
Or robs a deer of its life. 

He aims at a speck in the azure; 
Winged love, that has flown at a call; 
It reels down to die, and he lets it lie; 
His pleasure was seeing it fall. 

And one there was, weary of laurels, 
Of burdens and troubles of State; 
So the jungle he sought, with the beautiful thought 
Of shooting a she lion's mate. 

And one came down from the pulpit, 
In the pride of a duty done, 
And his cloth sufficed, as his emblem of Christ, 
While murder smoked out of his gun. 

One strays from the haunts of fashion 
With an indolent, unused brain; 
But his sluggish heart feels a sudden start 
In the purpose of giving pain. 

And the fluttering flock of pigeons, 
As they rise on eager wings, 
From prison to death, bring a catch in his breath: 
Oh the rapture of killing things! 

Now, this is the race as we find it, 
Where love, in the creed, spells hate; 
And where bird and beast meet a foe in the priest 
And in rulers of fashion and State. 

But up to the Kingdom of Thinkers 
Has risen the cry of our kin; 
And the weapons of thought are burnished and brought 
To clash with the bludgeons of sin. 

For Christ, of a million churches, 
Come near to the earth again; 
Be more than a Name; be a living Flame; 
"Make Good" in the hearts of men. 

Shine full on the path of Science, 
And show it the heights above, 
Where vast truths lie for the searching eye 
That shall follow the torch of love. 

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Dog's Prayer

Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.

Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between the blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world's sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear. 

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside... for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements... and I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth... though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land... for you are my god... and I am your devoted worshiper. 

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life, should your life be in danger. 

And, beloved master, should the Great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest...and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands. 

--Beth Norman Harris