A dog sits waiting in the cold autumn sun.
Too faithful to leave, too frightened to run.

He's been here for days now with nothing to do,
but sit by the road waiting for you.

He can't understand why you left him that day.
He thought you and he were stopping to play.

He's sure you'll come back, and that's why he stays.
How long will he suffer? How many days?

His legs have grown weak, his throat's parched dry.
He's sick now from hunger and falls, with a sigh.

He lays down his head and closes his eyes.
I wish you could see how a waiting dog dies.

by George and Helen Papshvily

"What purpose did they serve, all the good dogs that once ran through the world and wait now in the shadowy quiet of the past?
They lightened our burdens and drove away our enemies and stayed when others left us. They gave aid and comfort, protection and security. They held a mirror wherein we might see ourselves as we long to be. They gave us a glimpse of the world beyond the narrow confines of our own species.
Although we make dull students, slowly they help us learn how to command and to protect with wisdom and justice and imaginiation.
They taught and still teach us the joy of giving generosity and kindness and love-without thought of gainful return.
And now-all the fleet hounds, the staunch mastiffs, the loyal shepherds, the dancing toys, the fumbling puppies, pets on silk pillows, workers plodding at their tasks, the special ones you loved best, those of ours we still miss-all the good dogs, goodbye, until on some brighter day, in some fairer place you run out again to greet us."