They Called Him Rags
by Edmund Vance Cooke
They called him Rags, he was just a cur
But twice on the Western
That little old bunch of faithful fur
Had offered his life for mine.
And all he got was bones and bread
And the leaving of soldiers'
But he'd give his heart for a pat on the head,
A friendly tickle or
And Rags got home with the regiment,
And then, in the breaking
Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went,
I am not prepared
But we mustered out, some to beer and gruel,
And some to sherry and
And I went back to the Sawbones School,
Where I was an undergrad.
One day they took us budding M.D.'s
To one of those institutes
they demonstrate every new disease
By means of bisected brutes.
They had one animal tacked and tied
And slit like a full-dressed
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
His short tail thumped with a feeble force,
And he uttered a tender
It was Rags, yes, Rags! who was martyred there,
Who was quartered and
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
And his innocent blood was on the soul
Which he blessed with his
Well! I've seen men go to courageous death
In the air, on sea, on
But only a dog would spend his breath
In a kiss for his murderer's
And if there's no heaven for love like that,
For such four-legged
If I have any choice, I tell you flat,
I'll take my chance