We called him 'Rags.' He was just a cur, <br />But twice, on the Western Line, <br />That little old bunch of faithful fur <br />Had offered his life for mine. <br /> <br />And all that he got was bones and bread, <br />Or the leavings of soldier grub, <br />But he'd give his heart for a pat on the head, <br />Or a friendly tickle and rub <br /> <br />And Rags got home with the regiment, <br />And then, in the breaking away- <br />Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went, <br />I am not prepared to say. <br /> <br />But we mustered out, some to beer and gruel <br />And some to sherry and shad, <br />And I went back to the Sawbones School, <br />Where I still was an undergrad. <br /> <br />One day they took us budding M. D.s <br />To one of those institutes <br />Where they demonstrate every new disease <br />By means of bisected brutes. <br /> <br />They had one animal tacked and tied <br />And slit like a full-dressed fish, <br />With his vitals pumping away inside <br />As pleasant as one might wish. <br /> <br />I stopped to look like the rest, of course, <br />And the beast's eyes levelled mine; <br />His short tail thumped with a feeble force, <br />And he uttered a tender whine. <br /> <br />It was Rags, yes, Rags! who was martyred there, <br />Who was quartered and crucified, <br />And he whined that whine which is doggish prayer <br />And he licked my hand and died. <br /> <br />And I was no better in part nor whole <br />Than the gang I was found among, <br />And his innocent blood was on the soul <br />Which he blessed with his dying tongue. <br /> <br />Well I've seen men go to courageous death <br />In the air, on sea, on land! <br />But only a dog would spend his breath <br />In a kiss for his murderer's hand. <br /> <br />And if there's no heaven for love like that, <br />For such four-legged fealty-well <br />If I have any choice, I tell you flat, <br />I'll take my chance in hell.<br /><br />Edmund Vance Cooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rags-3/
