Poem of the Week: You were never masters, but friends

bioephemera — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 06:43:15 +0000

While I was out of town this weekend, one of my friends lost her dog. As I read over the many caring comments on her Facebook page, it struck me how difficult it is to express condolences - especially on the loss of a pet. Like many others, I ended up simply saying "I'm sorry."

The significance of the relationship between pet and person is often minimized, even though we know that the unconditional love supplied by a pet can do astonishing things for human mental and physical health. Personally, I don't believe animals have souls, but neither do I believe they are soulless automatons. Cats and dogs are built of the same basic physiological systems we are. They learn. They remember. They experience hurt, fear, and love. They are ephemeral, and they die. They may not have quite the same mental lives or emotions we experience, but that shouldn't lessen them -- nor should it ever lessen the love we feel for them.

I've given this 1941 poem by Robinson Jeffers to a few friends when they lost their pets, and it struck me that I should post it here just in case any of you haven't seen it already. It's sentimental, yes, but it's also one of the most comforting things I've ever read. I can't read it without crying, and since it is hard to type while crying (my keyboard is getting very wet) I'd better close.

RIP, Aussie. . . . and many others.

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

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 nights 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 readâ
And I fear often grieving for meâ
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 that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.

No, dears, 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.

--Robinson Jeffers, 1941.

bioephemera Wed, 06/10/2009 - 02:43

mourn

Poem of the Week: You were never masters, but friends