Not quite what the OP asked for, but...

"How could you?"

When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.

My housetraining took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.

Now you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.

May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.


Gives me specks in both eyes every time.

i'm not crying

Quoted: Quoted: I am sorry Reading that poem...I have to admit, I teared up. Laugh if you want people. But, dogs have a place in a mans heart like none other. Same here man. I hate to have to hear that poem.......... Sorry for the loss VT. It never gets easy.

Hell...I did on coldsteel223 and Scorpion34 post. I got divorced after 25 years and my little pain in the ass fills a big void.    

Quoted: Quoted: I had a dog, his name was Red, He chased a car and now he's dead. Red's dead baby, Red's dead....... ........

That's just wrong man...fucking wrong.  

Quoted: The only thing bad about a dog is their lives are too damn short.

A four year old child's wisdom: Why dogs do not live as long as people? Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane, were all very attached to Belker and they were hoping for a miracle. I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family there were no miracles left for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for the four-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away. The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker's death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, "I know why." Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?" The four-year-old continued, "Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

Out of the mouths of babes...

Quoted: Quoted: I had a dog, his name was Red, He chased a car and now he's dead. Red's dead baby, Red's dead....... Wow dude your an asshole

yeah, what he said(my dogs agree too).

It's not a poem, but an update to my post on Page 1 of this thread.

It's only been week since my mom's dog Bob died.  She and my father came across one of those "friend-of-a-friend's" dogs that had to be adopted or would go to the pound or be put down.  Apparently he was Dead Dog Walking because time was running out before the decision would be made.

My mom had said she wanted to wait a good while before appointing Bob's successor, but apparently this was something they couldn't pass up.

My parents' new dog, and the latest winner of the Dog Lottery, two year-old Jake:






My mom and dad are two of the best masters Jake could possibly ever get.  Lucky him.  And good for my folks, too.

-p.

Gorgeous animal.

Your folks are good people.

Jake's a lucky dog.

Sorry to hear man.  

I haven't lost a dog personally but the last girl I dated lots hers when we were dating, and she really took it hard.

height=8

Quoted: Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....   Author unknown...

WOW!  This kicked my ass!  I lost Jewel (pic below) on Dec. 2 and still was holding back tears reading this.  She was 9y 8m.  My first dog.  Worst day of my life.

http://i37.photobucket.com/albums/e52/mikuhl/jewel02.jpg

By a General you may have heard of...

"Beau"
by Jimmy Stewart

He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it,
But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was young
He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay,
He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bag
But when you were with him things sure didn't drag.
He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,
And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day,
The delivery boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn't read our meter,
He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire
But the story's long to tell.
Suffice it to say that he survived
And the house survived as well.

On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,
He was always first out the door.
The Old One and I brought up the rear
Because our bones were sore.

He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were!
And if it was still light and the tourists were out,
They created a bit of a stir.

But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks
And with a frown on his face look around.
It was just to make sure that the Old One was there
And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house--
I guess I'm the first to retire.
And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me
And get up from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs,
And I'd give him one for a while.
He would push it under the bed with his nose
And I'd fish it out with a smile.

And before very long
He'd tire of the ball
And be asleep in his corner
In no time at all.

And there were nights when I'd feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I'd pat his head.

And there were nights when I'd feel this stare
And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there
And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.
And sometimes I'd feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night
And he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he'd be glad to have me near.

And now he's dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,
I'll always love a dog named Beau.

Jimmy reading the Poem

ROBIN  
Jim Corbett

I NEVER saw either of his parents. The Knight of the Broom I purchased him
from said he was a spaniel, that his name was Pincha, and that his father was a ‘keen gun dog’. This is all I can tell you about his pedigree.

I did not want a pup, and it was quite by accident that I happened to be with a
friend when the litter of seven was decanted from a very filthy basket for her inspection.
Pincha was the smallest and the thinnest of the litter, and it was quite evident he had
reached the last ditch in his fight for survival. Leaving his little less miserable brothers
and sisters, he walked once round me, and then curled himself up between my big feet.
When I picked him up and put him inside my coat (it was a bitterly cold morning) he tried
to show his gratitude by licking my face, and I tried to show him I was not aware of his
appalling stench.

He was rising three months then, and I bought him for fifteen rupees. He is rising
thirteen years now, and all the gold in India would not buy him.

When I got him home and he had made his first acquaintance with a square meal,
warm water and soap, we scrapped his kennel name of Pincha and rechristened him
Robin, in memory of a faithful old collie who had saved my young brother, aged four,
and myself, aged six, from the attack of an infuriated she-bear.

Robin responded to regular meals as parched land does to rain, and after he had
been with us for a few weeks, acting on the principle that a boy’s and a pup’s training
cannot be started too early, I took him out one morning, intending to get a little away
from him and fire a shot or two to get him used to the sound of gunfire.

At the lower end of our estate there are some dense thorn bushes, and while I was
skirting round them a peafowl got up, and forgetting all about Robin, who was following
at heel, I brought the bird fluttering down. It landed in the thorn bushes and Robin dashed in after it. The bushes were too thick and thorny for me to enter them, so I ran round to the far side where beyond the bushes was open ground, and beyond that again heavy tree and grass jungle which I knew the wounded bird would make for.

The open ground was flooded with morning sunlight, and if I had been armed with a movie camera I should have had an opportunity of securing a unique picture. The peafowl, an old hen, with neck feathers stuck out at right angles, and one wing broken, was making for the tree jungle, while Robin, with stern to the ground, was hanging on to her tail and being dragged along. Running forward I very foolishly caught the bird by the neck and lifted it clear of the ground, whereon it promptly lashed out with both legs, and sent Robin heels-overhead.

In a second he was up and on his feet again, and when I laid the dead bird down, he
danced round it making little dabs alternately at its head and tail. The lesson was over for
that morning, and as we returned home it would have been difficult to say which of us
was the more proud - Robin, at bringing home his first bird, or I, at having picked a
winner out of a filthy basket. The shooting season was now drawing to a close, and for
the next few days Robin was not given anything larger than quail, doves and an
occasional partridge to retrieve.

We spent the summer on the hills, and on our annual migration to the foothills in
November, at the end of a long fifteen mile march as we turned a sharp corner, one of a
big troop of langurs jumped off the hillside and crossed the road a few inches in front of
Robin’s nose. Disregarding my whistle, Robin dashed down the khudside after the langur, which promptly sought safety in a tree.

The ground was open with a few trees here and there, and after going steeply down for thirty or forty yards flattened out for a few yards, before going sharply down into the valley below. On the right-hand side of this flat ground there were a few bushes, with a deep channel scoured out by rain-water running through them.

Robin had hardly entered these bushes when he was out again, and with ears laid back and tail tucked in was running for dear life, with an enormous leopard bounding after him and gaining on him at every bound. I was unarmed and all the assistance I could render was to ‘Ho’ and ‘Har’ at the full extent of my lungs. The men carrying M.’s dandy joined in lustily, the pandemonium reaching its climax when the hundred or more langurs added their alarm-calls in varying keys. For twenty-five or thirty yards the desperate and unequal race continued, and just as the leopard was within reach of Robin, it unaccountably swerved and disappeared into the valley, while Robin circled round a shoulder of the hill and rejoined us on the road.

Two very useful lessons Robin learned from his hairbreadth escape, which he never in after-life forgot. First, that it was dangerous to chase langurs, and second that the alarm-call of a langur denoted the presence of a leopard.

Robin resumed his training where it had been interrupted in spring, but it soon became apparent that his early neglect and starvation had affected his heart, for he fainted now after the least exertion.

There is nothing more disappointing, for a gun dog than to be left at home when
his master goes out, and as bird-shooting was now taboo for Robin, I started taking him
with me when I went out after big game. He took to this new form of sport as readily as a
duck takes to water, and from then on has accompanied me whenever I have been out
with a rifle. The method we employ is to go out early in the morning, pick up the tracks
of a leopard or tiger, and follow them. When the pug marks can be seen, I do the tracking, and when the animal we are after takes to the jungle, Robin does the tracking.
In this way we have on occasions followed an animal for miles before coming up with it.

When shooting on foot, it is very much easier to kill an animal outright than when
shooting down on it from a machan, or from the back of an elephant. For one thing, when
wounded animals have to be followed up on foot, chance shots are not indulged in, and
for another, the vital parts are more accessible when shooting on the same level as the
animal than when shooting down on it.

However, even after exercising the greatest care over the shot, I have sometimes
only wounded leopards and tigers, who have rampaged round before being quietened by a second or third shot, and only once during all the years that we have shot together has
Robin left me in a tight corner.

When he rejoined me after his brief absence that day, we decided that the incident was closed and would never be referred to again, but we are older now and possibly less sensitive, anyway Robin - who has exceeded the canine equivalent of three-score-years-and-ten, and who, lies at my feet as I write, on a bed he will never again leave - has with a smile from his wise brown eyes and a wag of his small stump of a tail given me permission to go ahead and tell you the story.

We did not see the leopard until it stepped clear of the thick undergrowth and,
coming to a stand, looked back over its left shoulder. He was an outsized male with a beautiful dark glossy coat, the rosettes on his skin standing out like clear-cut designs on a rich velvet ground. I had an unhurried shot with an accurate rifle at his right shoulder, at the short range of fifteen yards. By how little I missed his heart makes no matter, and while the bullet was kicking up the dust fifty yards away he was high in the air, and, turning a somersault, landed in the thick undergrowth he had a minute before left.

For twenty, forty, fifty yards we heard him crashing through the cover, and then the sound ceased as abruptly as it had begun. This sudden cessation of sound could be accounted for in two ways: either the leopard had collapsed and died in his tracks, or fifty yards away he had reached open ground.

We had walked far that day; the sun was near setting and we were still four miles
from home. This part of the jungle was not frequented by man, and there was not one
chance in a million of anyone passing that way by night, and last, and the best reason of
all for leaving the leopard, M. was unarmed and could neither be left alone nor taken
along to follow up the wounded animal - so we turned to the north and made for home.
There was no need for me to mark the spot, for I had walked through these jungles by day - and often by night - for near on half a century, and could have found my way blind-fold to any part of them.

Night had only just given place to day the following morning when Robin who
had not been with us the previous evening and I arrived at the spot I had fired from. Very
warily Robin, who was leading, examined the ground where the leopard had stood, and
then raising his head and snuffing the air he advanced to the edge of the undergrowth,
where the leopard in falling had left great splashes of blood. There was no need for me to
examine the blood to determine the position of the wound, for at the short range I had
fired at I had seen the bullet strike, and the spurt of dust on the far side was proof that the bullet had gone right through the leopard’s body.

It might be necessary later on to follow up the blood trail but just at present a little
rest after our four-mile walk in the dark would do no harm, and might on the other hand
prove of great value to us. The sun was near rising, and at that early hour of the morning
all the jungle folk were on the move, and it would be advisable to hear what they had to
say on the subject of the wounded animal before going further.

Under a nearby tree I found a dry spot to which the saturating dew had not
penetrated, and with Robin stretched out at my feet had finished my cigarette when a
chital hind, and then a second and a third, started calling some sixty yards to our left
front. Robin sat up and slowly turning his head looked at me, and, on catching my eye, as
slowly turned back in the direction of the calling deer. He had travelled far along the road
of experience since that day he had first heard the alarm-call of a langur, and he knew
now as did every bird and animal within hearing that the chital were warning the jungle
folk of the presence of a leopard.

From the manner in which the chital were calling it was evident that the leopard
was in full view of them. A little more patience and they would tell us if he was alive.
They had been calling for about five minutes when suddenly, and all together, they called
once and again, and then settled down to their regular call; the leopard was alive and had
moved, and was now quiet again. All that we needed to know now was the position of the
leopard, and this information we could get by stalking the chital.

Moving down-wind for fifty yards we entered the thick undergrowth, and started to stalk the deer - not a difficult task, for Robin can move through any jungle as silently
as a cat, and long practice has taught me where to place my feet. The chital were not
visible until we were within a few feet of them. They were standing in the open and looking towards the north in the exact direction, as far as I was able to judge, in which the
crashing sound of the evening before had ceased.

Up to this point the chital had been of great help to us; they had told us the
leopard was lying out in the open and that it was alive, and they had now given us the
direction. It had taken us the best part of an hour to acquire this information, and if the
chital now caught sight of us and warned the jungle folk of our presence, they would in
one second undo the good they had so far done.

I was debating whether it would be better to retrace our steps and work down below the calling deer and try to get a shot from behind them, or move them from our vicinity by giving the call of a leopard, when one of the hinds turned her head and looked straight into my face. Next second, with a cry of ‘Ware man’, they dashed away at top speed.

I had only about five yards to cover to reach the open ground, but quick as I was the leopard was quicker, and I was only in time to see his hind quarters and tail disappearing behind some bushes. The chital had very effectively spoilt my chance of a shot, and the leopard would now have to be located and marked down all over again - this time by Robin.

I stood on the open ground for some minutes, to give the leopard time to settle
down and the scent he had left in his passage to blow past us, and then took Robin due
west across the track of the wind, which was blowing from the north. We had gone about
sixty or seventy yards when Robin, who was leading, stopped and turned to face into the
wind. Robin is mute in the jungles, and has a wonderful control over his nerves.

There is one nerve, however, running down the back of his hind legs, which he cannot control when he is looking at a leopard, or when the scent of a leopard is warm and strong. This nerve was now twitching, and agitating the long hair on the upper part of his hind legs.

A very violent cyclonic storm had struck this part of the forest the previous summer, uprooting a number of trees; it was towards one of these fallen trees, forty yards
from where we were standing, that Robin was now looking. The branches were towards
us, and on either side of the trunk there were light bushes and a few scattered tufts of
short grass.

At any other time Robin and I would have made straight for our quarry; but on this occasion a little extra caution was advisable. Not only were we dealing with an animal who when wounded knows no fear, but in addition we were dealing with a leopard who had had fifteen hours in which to nurse his grievance against man, and who could in consequence be counted on to have all his fighting instincts thoroughly aroused.

When leaving home that morning I had picked up the .275 rifle I had used the previous
evening. A good rifle to carry when miles have to be covered, but not the weapon one
would select to deal with a wounded leopard; so instead of a direct approach, I picked a
line that would take us fifteen yards from, and parallel to, the fallen tree. Step by step,
Robin leading, we moved along this line, and had passed the branches and were opposite
the trunk when Robin stopped.

Taking the direction from him, I presently saw what had attracted his attention - the tip of the leopard’s tail slowly raised, and as slowly lowered - the warning a leopard invariably gives before charging. Pivoting to the right on my heels, I had just got the rifle to my shoulder when the leopard burst through the intervening bushes and sprang at us. My bullet, fired more with the object of deflecting him than with any hope of killing or even hitting him, passed under his belly and went through the fleshy part of his left thigh. The crack of the rifle, more than the wound, had the effect of deflecting the leopard sufficiently to make him pass my right shoulder without touching me, and before I could get in another shot, he disappeared into the bushes beyond.

Robin had not moved from my feet, and together we now examined the ground
the leopard had passed over. Blood we found in plenty, but whether it had come from the
old wounds torn open by the leopard’s violent exertions, or from my recent shot, it was
impossible to say. Anyway it made no difference to Robin, who without a moment’s
hesitation took up the trail.

After going through some very heavy cover we came on knee-high undergrowth, and had proceeded about a couple of hundred yards when I saw the leopard get up in front of us, and before I could get the rifle to bear on him, he disappeared under a lantana bush. This bush with its branches resting on the ground was as big as a cottage tent, and in addition to affording the leopard ideal cover gave him all the advantages for launching his next attack.

Robin and I had come very well out of our morning’s adventure and it would have
been foolish now, armed as I was, to pursue the leopard further, so without more ado we
turned about and made for home. Next morning we were back on the ground. From a very early hour Robin had been agitating to make a start, and, ignoring all the interesting smells the jungle holds in the morning, would have made me do the four miles at a run had that been possible.

I had armed myself with a 450/400, and was in consequence feeling much happier
than I had done the previous day. When we were several hundred yards from the lantana
bush, I made Robin slow down and advance cautiously, for it is never safe to assume that
a wounded animal will be found where it has been left hours previously, as the following
regrettable incident shows.

A sportsman of my acquaintance wounded a tiger one afternoon, and followed the
blood trail for several miles along a valley. Next morning, accompanied by a number of
men, one of whom was carrying his empty rifle and leading the way, he set out intending
to take up the tracking where he had left off. His way led over the previous day’s blood
trail, and while still a mile from the spot where the tiger had been left, the leading man,
who incidentally was the local shikari, walked on to the wounded tiger and was killed.
The rest of the party escaped, some by climbing trees and others by showing a clean pair
of heels.

I had marked the exact position of the lantana bush, and now took Robin along a
line that would pass a few yards on the lee side of it. Robin knew all that was worth
knowing about this method of locating the position of an animal by cutting across the
wind, and we had only gone a short distance, and were still a hundred yards from the
bush, when he stopped, turned and faced into the wind, and communicated to me that he
could smell the leopard.

As on the previous day, he was facing a fallen tree which was lying along the edge of, and parallel to, the thick undergrowth through which we had followed the leopard to the lantana bush after he had charged us. On our side of the tree the ground was open, but on the far side there was a dense growth of waist-high basonta bushes.

Having signalled to Robin to carry on along our original line, we went past the
lantana bush, in which he showed no interest, to a channel washed out by rain-water.
Here, removing my coat, I filled it with as many stones as the stitches would hold, and
with this improvised sack slung over my shoulder returned to the open ground near the
tree.

Resuming my coat, and holding the rifle ready for instant use, I took up a position
fifteen yards from the tree and started throwing the stones, first on to the tree and then
into the bushes on the far side of it with the object of making the leopard - assuming he
was still alive - charge on to the open ground where I could deal with him. When all my
ammunition was exhausted I coughed, clapped my hands, and shouted, and neither during the bombardment nor after it did the leopard move or make any sound to indicate that he was alive.

I should now have been justified in walking straight up to the tree and looking on the far side of it, but remembering an old jungle saying, ‘It is never safe to assume that a leopard is dead until it has been skinned’, I set out to circle round the tree, intending to reduce the size of the circle until I could see right under the branches and along the whole
length of the trunk.

I made the radius of the first circle about twenty-five yards, and had gone two-thirds of the way round when Robin stopped. As I looked down to see what had attracted his attention, there was a succession of deep-throated, angry grunts, and the leopard made straight for us. All I could see was the undergrowth being violently agitated in a direct line towards us, and I only just had time to swing half right and bring the rifle up, when the head and shoulders of the leopard appeared out of the bushes a few feet away.

The leopard’s spring and my shot were simultaneous, and side-stepping to the left
and leaning back as far as I could I fired the second barrel from my hip into his side as he passed me.

When a wounded animal, be he leopard or tiger, makes a headlong charge and
fails to contact he invariably carries on and does not return to the attack until he is again
disturbed.

I had side-stepped to the left to avoid crushing Robin, and when I looked down
for him now, he was nowhere to be seen. For the first time in all the years we had hunted
together we had parted company in a tight corner, and he was now probably trying to find
his way home, with very little chance of being able to avoid the many dangers that lay
before him in the intervening four miles of jungle. Added to the natural dangers he would
have to face in a jungle with which, owing to its remoteness from home, he was not
familiar, was the weak condition of his heart.

And it was therefore with very great misgivings that I turned about to go in search of him; as I did so, I caught sight of his head projecting from behind a tree trunk at the edge of a small clearing only a hundred yards away. When I raised my hand and beckoned, he disappeared into the undergrowth, but a little later, with drooped eyes and drooping ears, he crept silently to my feet. Laying down the rifle I picked him up in my arms and, for the second time in his life, he licked my face telling me as he did so, with little throaty sounds, how glad he was to find me unhurt, and how terribly ashamed he was of himself for having parted company from me.

Our reactions to the sudden and quite unexpected danger that had confronted us were typical of how a canine and a human being act in an emergency, when the danger that threatens is heard, and not seen. In Robin’s case it had impelled him to seek safety in silent and rapid retreat; whereas in my case it had the effect of gluing my feet to the ground and making retreat - rapid or otherwise - impossible.

When I had satisfied Robin that he was not to blame for our temporary separation, and his small body had stopped trembling, I put him down and together we walked up to where the leopard, who had put up such a game fight, and had so nearly won the last  round, was lying dead.

I have told you the story, and while I have been telling it Robin - the biggesthearted and the most faithful friend man ever had - has gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds, where I know I shall find him waiting for me.

This thread just ripped my heart out again.  I lost my golden retriever Tasha, March 30, 2008 after having the joy and honor of her being my best friend of 12 1/2 years.  I miss her dearly.  On a happier note, last Friday I came home with two beautiful new golden retriever pups, Sasha and Mac  It is so nice to have these two wonderful beings in my life and now two wagging tails to meet me at the door when I come home.  I hope to be blessed with their company and love for as long as the good Lord will allow me that honor.  I am sorry for each of your losses of your best 4 legged friends but say always cherish the memories of them all and look forward to that day we all meet again when we cross the Rainbow Bridge

This thread is full of heartbreak.

But, also hope...