Poems about dogs we've lost and lost | Neolithic humans, buried with their dogs 4,000 years ago

Who hasn't loved and lost a dog?

If your loss is fresh, or still raw after so many years, read no farther.
Please add any poems I've missed, or books, or your own thoughts about your own beloved dogs.
@negativer, your collie - not taken by death, but by a parent's decision to rehome the dog - will haunt me all the days of my life. Yes, I'm toying with the idea of hosting a writing contest with the theme of dogs who changed our lives. Someone stop me. If nothing else, inertia usually gets in the way of me following through on thoughts like these.

Dog = God spelled backward


Another Dog’s Death

by John Updike

For days the good old bitch had been dying, her back
pinched down to the spine and arched to ease the pain,
her kidneys dry, her muzzle white. At last
I took a shovel into the woods and dug her grave

in preparation for the certain. She came along,
which I had not expected. Still, the children gone,
such expeditions were rare, and the dog,
spayed early, knew no nonhuman word for love.

She made her stiff legs trot and let her bent tail wag.
We found a spot we liked, where the pines met the field.
The sun warmed her fur as she dozed and I dug;
I carved her a safe place while she protected me.

I measured her length with the shovel’s long handle;
she perked in amusement, and sniffed the heaped-up earth.
Back down at the house, she seemed friskier,
but gagged, eating. We called the vet a few days later.

They were old friends. She held up a paw, and he
injected a violet fluid. She swooned on the lawn;
we watched her breathing quickly slow and cease.
In a wheelbarrow up to the hole, her warm fur shone.

Here's a wee bit of better news!

Dog Watches Owner Dig Grave

As explained by the pet owner’s son, writer Franklin Hardy, on Twitter, the vet called to say the dog needed to be put down. But, no need to come into the office, the doctor said: He’d do the deed at their home. “My dad dug the dog’s grave and let the dog watch,” Hardy wrote. But it was all for naught when the vet realized he’d made a mistake after all. “Then the vet came and checked the dog and said it was a false alarm,” he wrote along with photos of the pup alongside his intended grave.

A Dog Has Died


My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.


Dog's Death

by John Updike

She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"

We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.

Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried

To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.

Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.


The House Dog's Grave (Haig, an English bulldog)

by Robinson Jeffers

I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment,
You see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the night through
I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read--and I fear often grieving for me--
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
To think of you ever dying
A little dog would get tired, living so long.
I hope than when you are lying

Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dear, that's too much hope: you are not so well cared for
As I have been.

And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. . . .
But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.


By Virginia Ellis

Oh, little friend, do you recall,
When you made this house your home?
You were just a ball of fluff,
Not even halfway grown.

You stumbled when you learned to walk,
It was hard to steer four legs;
You learned to sit, and stay, and come,
And, of course, you learned to beg.

You loved those walks we used to take,
You never left my side;
And if I got my car keys out,
You were ready for a ride.

You sensed when I was happy,
Or was feeling kind of low;
You’d rub up against my knee,
You always seemed to know.

You’d fetch a ball or get a toy,
Without even being told;
But, was your face crestfallen,
If I felt the need to scold.

You found the outside world exciting,
Do you remember your first snow?
You’d not come back inside the house,
Because you loved it so.

Going to the vets for shots,
I guess was your greatest fear;
You seemed to know each scheduled date,
Though you went but once a year.

You were afraid of lightening, too,
And of booming thunderstorms;
You’d run and jump upon my bed,
Where it was safe and warm.

I never once felt lonely,
As long as you were here;
You were at my feet or on my lap,
You constantly were near.

Oh, I am going to miss you,
No question about that;
But, little one, for your pain to go,
I had to send you back.

You’re going back to heaven now,
From whence long ago you came;
You’ll be welcomed back by God, Himself,
Who knows your doggy-name.

I think there’s Frisbees up in heaven,
And rubber, squeaky toys;
And angels who will play with you,
And little girls and boys.

But, there won’t be any thunderstorms,
And no vets with shots up there;
You won’t even need a leash,
You’ll run freely in God’s air.

And when my time on earth is done,
And at heaven’s gate I’m near,
I don’t want any harps or horns,
Just … happy barks to hear.

So, see you later, little friend,
I’m glad you’re now pain-free;
And I’m glad you’re sitting next to Jesus,
Now … you wait right there for me.


"Ah, are you digging on my grave"

by Thomas Hardy

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? — planting rue?"
— "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
— "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? — prodding sly?"
— "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say — since I have not guessed!"
— "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave…
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

Neolithic Humans Buried Their Dogs With Them 4,000 Years Ago

Analysis of the remains of 26 dogs found near Barcelona suggest the dogs had a close relationship with ancient humans
By Marissa Fessenden
February 14, 2019

The buried dogs aren't the oldest found in a human grave. That distinction belongs to a puppy found in a 14,000-year-old grave in modern-day Germany. The care given to that puppy to nurse it through illness was particularly intriguing to the researchers who discovered it....

.... the practice of burying dogs with humans was common at the time, the late Copper Age through the early Bronze Age. Perhaps the canine companions helped herd or guard livestock. What is certain is that ancient humans found the animals to be important enough to stay close to even in death.

Read more: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/people-buried-their-dogs-them-4000-years-ago-180971502/#fljfCAvxfHvTOpyq.99
Give the gift of Smithsonian magazine for only $12! http://bit.ly/1cGUiGv
Follow us: @SmithsonianMag on Twitter

Comments 43

Oh my God, this is so beautiful ... and so heartbreaking 😭💔

Posted using Partiko Android

11.10.2019 23:03

Thank you for reading and commenting!
I'm partial to the Pablo Neruda (always, Pablo!) and Robinson Jeffers, anything understated. The "Memory" poem, not so much, until she gets to no thunderstorms in heaven, but plenty of angels and -- [sob!] - boys and girls there to toss Frisbees.... sniff!

11.10.2019 23:23

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11.10.2019 23:21

you are beautiful, i have missed you.
...Yes, I'm toying with the idea of hosting a writing contest with the theme of dogs who changed our lives.
Do it!
I have missed writing too. I probably would not complete the task, I haven't done much lately, but I often have great intentions.

12.10.2019 00:55

Ditto that! 💔 I've missed you and your writing, too (thank you!) and if a contest would motivate you to make the time to write your own contribution, I'd totally plan this thing.

12.10.2019 13:50

It is heart breaking

12.10.2019 00:57

Golden Eyes

When golden eyes no longer glow,
and we both know it’s time to go,

Don’t look at me with eyes so sad,
but think of better times we had,

When sunlight did upon us shine,
and happy days were yours and mine,

And through the grass we both did run,
and on our backs we felt the sun,

Think not of this dark final hour,
think not of when our lives turned sour,

Think not of hopelessness and pain,
but think of joy and laugh again,

For in that final act of love,
you released me to heaven above,

Where finally from pain I’m free,
where one day you will join with me,

Where together again we will rejoice,
and you and I as with one voice,

Will in perfect harmony sing,
of the joy and pain that love can bring,

And remember me just as I will,
always think of you until,

At last again I see your face,
grieve not, I am in a better place.

Carol Walker

We've lost our 15 year old doberman pincher 8 years ago, that was heartbreaking and the pain is still here.

12.10.2019 01:07

Your doberman made it to age 15? For that breed, that's extraordinary!
We never forget.
Thanks for the Carol Walker poem. I love this:
And through the grass we both did run,
and on our backs we felt the sun,

12.10.2019 13:51

@carolkean I read the first one with no problem BUT the next one I did not get through the first paragraph. I am sure they are beautiful to read but I just can't.

12.10.2019 01:36

It's been a few years since we lost our furry friends, and the new pair of collies is only age 3, so I felt up to it. For now. If you would write about your dogs, I'd host that contest. :)

12.10.2019 13:52

@carolkean I do not have any pets now, after losing all 3 in a three-month time span 4 years ago my husband says he never wants to go through the pain of losing anymore.

13.10.2019 02:37

Two of my favorites, or more correctly, a two part poem in honor of his beloved Newfoundland, Boatswain, written by Lord Byron, shortly after his dog's death.

Boatswain contracted rabies, and Byron himself attended him in an effort to restore his health, but when Boatswain ultimately succumbed, Byron was devastated.

The first part of the poem is what is usually published, and has been adopted by the Newfoundland Club of America as being in keeping with a description of the best members of the breed. It certainly fit my own Newfoundland, Ebony.

But the second part of the poem, in which Byron gives vent to his raw grief, sorrow, and deep anger at the loss of his friend, whom he considered better and truer than any human . . . this has always called to me, because it so describes the bond between the Newfoundland and his or her human. It is a bond like no other.

It is beautiful, powerful, and agonizing.

Epitaph to a Dog
George Gordon Byron - 1788-1824

Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808.

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below:
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnotic'd all his worth,
Deny'd in heaven the Soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.

12.10.2019 07:04

And this, written years later, after I gave up my Newfoundland in a mistaken attempt to do right by her.

If I could have a single day in my life as a do-over, this would be the day, and I would instead keep her firmly by my side until the day she died. She was in every way the best friend I ever had.

Byron's Dog

I read him the poem
of Lord Byron's dog
virtuous friend

Whose short life
had been so cruelly cut
bringing sadness and grief
so profound

The irony evaded me
In less than one short year
I, too, would lose my trusted friend
Not fate, but by my hand

And she,
at Boatswain's age was sent
to dwell with strangers

Whilst I,
whom she would die for,
died for her.

8 August 2002

I've written a number of other poems about her over the years, including some long and rambling verse, but this I think captures my feelings the most concisely and effectively.

Thank you for these poems, as they are all wonderful, and I especially love those by Updike. I've always loved him as a novelist and essayist, and we read him in The New Yorker for years, but I had forgotten how very much I also love him as a poet. The man definitely had a way with words.

12.10.2019 07:32

Thank you for the Byron poem - epic!!!
And for your own. I remember you telling us about being forced to rehome a dog. I was forced to rehome two cats, and my remorse over that will never ebb.
So, if I host that contest, would you enter....

12.10.2019 13:54

Yeah, the Lord Byron poem was in a Newfoundland breed book that I got when we first got Ebony; I was seventeen, and she was my graduation present from my mom, since I'd been researching dog breeds for years.

The poem stopped me in my tracks the first time ai read it, and it has never let me go. You can feel Byron's ragged grief in every word.

And yes, of course I'll enter. It would be my pleasure.

12.10.2019 15:18

Holy crap, Carol! You have undone me, and it's not even six in the morning! I had to take breaks from reading because I was crying so much I couldn't see the screen. These are all wonderful, but the second Updike was the killer. I haven't lost a dog of my own since I was a child, but I get attached to everyone else's animals too, and my best friend lost her old border collie last year. I cried over him as though he was my dog. Her husband wrote a poem about him years ago. If I can get him to write it down for me, I will pass it along. He recited it to me long before the dog had died, and even then he couldn't say it out loud without choking up. Our dogs own our hearts, for sure.

12.10.2019 12:49

For you, losing goats must be the same as losing a canine companion.
I'd love to see your friend's husband's poem, if he's willing to share it.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting!

12.10.2019 13:56

Losing goats is like losing a member of the family. Luckily, it doesn't happen very often.

13.10.2019 16:31

Wonderful post. Heart warming stories. I had not thought of the death of a beloved dog for a long time. His name was Bobby, he looked like a brown wolf. He was afraid of fireworks. One december night he hid under a car, the driver, Mr. Martínez, moved the car and smashed his hind legs.
It did not kill him, but he was in great pain.
My father said he'd take care of it. I thought he meant he'd help Bobby walk again, stop his pain.
We did not have vets in our town.
My father did what was customary. He used poison, or so I was told.
I was 10 then. I hated fireworks, christmas, dogs, and my father for a while.

13.10.2019 02:02

Ohhhhhh BOBBY!!!!!
Now this is the kind of story I would include in a collection of contest entries.
Along with @negativer and his collie.
Except, how could we bear to read these stories???

Bobby looked like a brown wolf

I love him I love him I love him I love him
...moved the car and smashed his hind legs.
It did not kill him, but he was in great pain.

Dad says "I'll take care of it," and child thinks Bobby is in good hands.
And that was my world, too, in childhood.
Our dog Mike always ran to greet us as we'd get off the school bus.
One icy January day, he slid on the ice and got struck by the bus.
Dad of course wouldn't think of driving to the nearest vet (half an hour away, on icy roads)
Mike died hours later....

Bring on the happy dog tales!!!!

But we need to vent these horror stories that really happened
We need to know we're not alone
We need to believe Bobby will greet us, tail wagging, when we cross to the other side.
There has to be another side, a continuation of "us" after this life

13.10.2019 14:11

:) Right. There has to...
It was good reminiscing about it. Thanks creating the moment and the mood for it.
There are of course happy stories too, wild occurences and crazy things these little friends do and leave for us to remember with an indelible smile

13.10.2019 15:38

By any chance or miracle, do you still have a photo of Bobby?
Or can you tell me what breed he most resembles? (A Leonberger, maybe?)

13.10.2019 19:40

Maybe one of these wolf-like dog breeds?

13.10.2019 19:41

First of all, I am so happy about the prize. Such a wonderful surprise. We called Bobby a wolf, even though we knew he was not a pure breed. Most dogs in small our towns weren't, but he had the wolf-like presence of this Tamaskan in the picture, only with more hair around the face and chest and totally light brown with some darker areas along the spine. His tale was quite a spectacle, wide and abundant like a palm leave.

13.10.2019 20:51

No photo - but somehow I imagined Bobby with a big, bush-whacking tail.
But you say it so much better: quite a spectacle, wide and abundant like a palm leaf. #loveit! Above all, I love the way you wrote about fireworks, Christmas, dogs, and your dad, and implied that you moved beyond that anger.

No photos!

None of our dog Mike, either, and that was the Midwest, the 1970s. Photos were taken once or twice a year - of people - pets rarely rated.
So what do I do: with our firstborn son, a thousand photos the first year.
With our collies and cats: hundreds upon hundreds of snapshots (all digital).
I believe detachment was the norm, and treating pets like human family member is a recent cultural development, at least in America, where people bring along their cats and dogs to portrait studios for the family picture.
And if we don't humanize our cats and dogs, we're inhumane. There's a fine line here, but I'm not going to get into that now. Just: What healthy cat or dog wants to be confined to the indoors-only life? Captivity vs Safety.
Thanks again for sharing your memories of Bobby. (And fireworks!)

13.10.2019 23:21

Thank you, @carolkean for this wonderful exchange of memories and feelings. I did move beyond the anger I felt because of Bobby's death. Coincidentally, this morning I ran into the one person who helped me with that.
I was 19, I think, and I was an angry young man who couldn't care less about animals or people for that matter. I was starting college and one day, getting on the bus, I stepped on this young girl's white shoe. I had ruined it and it was 6 am. She just smiled at me and said "not a big deal". I was not even able to apologize. By the end of the day, same bus, same girl. I approached her and apologized. She invited me to a workshop where hopefully I would learn to drop burdens. I accepted the invitation without hessitation and that was the beggining of my healing process.

13.10.2019 23:35

That is fantastic story!!!

The girl in the white shoes
She reminds me of stories I've heard (first-hand!) from pilgrims to Mejugorje,
who see a girl in white in the rain and everyone else but her is mud-splattered.
Ok, that's a stretch but her smile, her "As we forgive those who trespass against us" attitude AND her invitation to you because hello, she's there AGAIN at the end of the day. And was she one of those angels among us that the Bible teases us with...do such beings exist...or does God sometimes use humans to be "we the hands, we the eyes, we the voice of Christ"...
Sorry. I was indoctrinated from infancy with promises of the Bible but my brain was never wired for belief. Just a yearning for those promises to be true. (Minus the threat of hell, or some people I really love would be candidates for hell.)
Time for bed!!!!
Thank you Henrry. I really love the story of The Girl in the White Shoes, and what she did for you. You've come a long way from the angry young man you describe. You're now like one of those angels among us, yourself.

14.10.2019 03:22

Thanks for your kind and encouraging words.
I have run into several angels who have taught me the value of doing good, regardless.

Just a yearning for those promises to be true. (Minus the threat of hell, or some people I really love would be candidates for hell.)

Hahaha. We are on the same age on this. I have written several posts on the issue of belief. I guess, deep down I just want God to do all he dictated in his holy book he could do.

14.10.2019 23:52

Yes, yes, yes, that's it: "I just want God to do" all that the Bible promises he can and will do, if we but believe, and our faith may be as tiny as a mustard seed. Too many martyrs tortured, burned at the stake, killed for trying to "Spread the Good News" that Jesus loves us. "Turn the other cheek." The awaited Messiah of the Jews was supposed to be a military conqueror, and Jesus was a carpenter, not a warrior, who led nobody in battle.
But there are good people and angels among us, regardless of what God they believe in. Bless you Henrry!!

15.10.2019 12:07

Oh this is one gut wrenching post! I was sitting here sobbing, and then came the comments!

13.10.2019 20:35

Awwww. Henrry's should come with a Trigger Warning. :)
And @crescendoofpeace, forced to rehome her big newfie, and feeling the pain and remorse years later.
And... everyone.
If there's a heaven, any human who goes there will find beloved dogs, cats, even farm animals waiting there. And how about the great beasts of the wild who especially deserve to be immortalized.... elephants, lions, tigers, bears....
Why doesn't Jesus have a pet dog in the Bible...?

13.10.2019 23:30

Oooh, I have the answer to that.
If Jesus had a pet dog, nobody could have arrested him or crucified him - they'd have had to get past that dog first. :)

13.10.2019 23:31

@crescendoofpeace's comment was the last one I could bear. I'd like to go live in a pack of wild dogs after that one.

13.10.2019 23:44

I did post a disclaimer.... I'm glad you knew enough to stop when you did. I'm sorry for the pain and horror this raises.

I came within inches of seeing my ginger tom attacked and eaten by a Doberman after its owner issued the command "Get the kitty" - after phoning me to say that was what she planned to do if I couldn't get that cat locked up before her dog got to it. Oddly, I was able to put that near-horror movie out of my mind for years, but it came back to me a few months ago and now I cannot unsee the scene that I was actually spared seeing.

There is nothing, nothing, that could induce me to send an attack dog after a beloved cat (vaccinated, neutered, with montly flea-tick-worm meds)--a healthy 2-year-old cat (not some rabid, flea-bitten stray) that was merely crouching over some mouse in acres of tall grass... NOTHING excuses phoning that cat's owner and saying... and...well, you've heard this stale, tawdry, old tale before.

Thank God the Doberman heard my voice, and ran to me, not to the cat.
There is a God

14.10.2019 03:13

I think you've spoken about this neighbor before. Sounds like a piece of work.
I can not imagine this. Who does this? Is this legal?
I wouldn't be able to send a dog to kill even a flea bitten stray. But to kill one someone loves and cares for? Why did he (he?) hate the cat so much, a cat that could only have been a sweetie if it was yours.
Horrible. So glad you were there.

14.10.2019 03:26

I was there because this neighbor phoned me first and summoned me to witness the execution. -_- It was surreal. The dog headed for the cat then turned to the sound of my voice, flunking his mission. Thank God. Yes, it is legal for property owner to kill a pet that strays across the boundary line, where I live, last I checked. And now I must never speak of this again if I am ever to "unsee" that which so nearly seen. Thanks for reading and commenting.

14.10.2019 11:43

Sorry about that. ;-)

14.10.2019 03:32

I've left out the part where I was moved beyond words by your contribution. No need to apologize, either of you! It's just that eventually all that grief wore me out.

14.10.2019 14:35

I can completely relate. And thank you.

14.10.2019 17:26

I concur, the great painters often showed him surrounded by animals and kids . . . where was their faithful dog?

14.10.2019 03:32

No herding dogs in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago?
Neolithic people had them 4,000+ years ago!
Something is wrong with this picture.

14.10.2019 11:59

YES!!! What, no herding dogs in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago? off to google it...

The Canaan Dog is a pariah dog that has survived in the desert region of Israel for thousands of years. Believed to be the dog breed that the Hebrews used in biblical times to herd and guard their flocks and encampments, some are still used by Bedouins and Druse for this purpose today.

...the guard and herd dog of the ancient Israelites, guarding their camps and flocks. At the time of the Diaspora, the Israelites were forcefully removed from their land and had to leave behind their dogs. These dogs reverted to the wild.
Avoiding extinction, they remained undomesticated for the most part, although some lived with the Bedouins and earned their keep by guarding the herds and camps.... In June 1989, the Canaan dog entered the American Kennel Club (AKC) Miscellaneous Class. Its profile was raised when John F. Kennedy Jr. purchased a Canaan dog... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canaan_Dog

14.10.2019 12:12

Canaan Dog
The Canaan Dog, also known as the Bedouin Sheepdog and Palestinian Pariah dog, is a breed of pariah dog, which has been in existence in the Middle East for thousands of years. There are 2,000 to 3,000 Canaan dogs across the world, mostly in Europe and North America.

14.10.2019 12:12