Here is a poem I keep on by bulletin board at work--a constant reminder of a dog's unconditional love. Rags We called him "Rags." He was just a cur, But twice, on the Western Line, That little old bunch of faithful fur Had offered his life for mine. And all that he got was bones and bread, Or the leavings of soldier grub, But he'd give his heart for a pat on the head, Or a friendly tickle and rub. And Rags got home with the regiment, And then, in the breaking away -- Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went, I'm not prepared to say. But we mustered out, some to beer and gruel, And some to sherry and shad, And I went back to the Sawbones School, Where I still was an undergrad. One day they took us budding M.D.'s To one of those institutes Where they demonstrate every new disease By means of bisected brutes. They had one animal tacked and tied And slit like a full-dresses fish, With his vitals pumping away inside As pleasant as one might wish. I stopped to look like the rest, of course, And the beast's eyes leveled mine; His short tale thumped with a feeble force, And he uttered a tender whine. It was Rags, yes, Rags! who was martyred there, Who was quartered and crucified, And he whined that whine which is doggish prayer And he licked my hand--and died. And I was no better in part nor whole Than the gang I was found among, And his innocent blood was on the soul Which he blessed with his dying tongue. Well! I've seen man go to courageous death In the air, on sea, on land! But only a dog would spend his breath In a kiss for his murderer's hand. And if there's no heaven for love like that, For such four-legged fealty-well! If I have any choice, I tell you flat, I'll take my chance in hell. by Edmund Vance Cooke