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Every year the dog rescue runs a membership gathering at which there is a ceremony honoring the dogs who have passed away in the prior year. Someone (not me!) always reads this stupid poem.
Quote: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...
I can't help but think this encapsulates the highly childish view of "heaven" that most xtians have.
(January 14, 2014 at 12:47 pm)Minimalist Wrote: I can't help but think this encapsulates the highly childish view of "heaven" that most xtians have.
My first wife, an Evangelical who hadn't spent two hours of her life reading her precious holy book, looked forward to riding horses in God's heavenly pastures. Her idea of Heaven was little more than an awesome vacation that never ended.
And yes -- she believed she would be reunited with beloved dead pets.
(January 14, 2014 at 12:47 pm)Minimalist Wrote: Every year the dog rescue runs a membership gathering at which there is a ceremony honoring the dogs who have passed away in the prior year. Someone (not me!) always reads this stupid poem.
People are always sending it to me as an email. It is, as you say, a rather childish view, but it doesn't get under my skin. I can understand that they were not ready to say good-bye to a beloved dog.
For a more realistic farewell, here are the last stanzas of a poem I wrote for a much-loved Irish Setter in 1999. She was lying on the grass beside me while I was digging her grave a few days before the euthanasia appointment. Our land has so many rocks you never no how long it will take to dig a hole.
Quote:digging a setter-sized hole
I'm not sure about my reason for
digging a setter-sized hole.
I am not some neolithic hunter,
and I don't believe at all
your worn-out body will get rebuilt
like a Canadian Tire alternator
replacing
those hind legs that betrayed you last month,
those bleary, oozing eyes,
those pressure points bereft of fur,
that broken canine.
I am not some medieval farmer,
and neither do I expect that
I will stroke your ethereal fur beyond the stars.
I am a rational 20th century man
in the last year of that century,
and I suppose that
after I lower you into that setter-sized hole,
I will never see you again,
and I will grow older,
perhaps another 20 years,
until they lower me into a man-sized hole.
And yet I wanted
to dig you a setter-sized hole.
I guess, old girl, I'm afraid
if we get too rational to acknowledge love like yours,
it might disappear from the world.
If you could reason with religious people, there would be no religious people — House
I'm not sure about my reason for
digging a setter-sized hole.
I am not some neolithic hunter,
and I don't believe at all
your worn-out body will get rebuilt
like a Canadian Tire alternator
replacing
those hind legs that betrayed you last month,
those bleary, oozing eyes,
those pressure points bereft of fur,
that broken canine.
I am not some medieval farmer,
and neither do I expect that
I will stroke your ethereal fur beyond the stars.
I am a rational 20th century man
in the last year of that century,
and I suppose that
after I lower you into that setter-sized hole,
I will never see you again,
and I will grow older,
perhaps another 20 years,
until they lower me into a man-sized hole.
And yet I wanted
to dig you a setter-sized hole.
I guess, old girl, I'm afraid
if we get too rational to acknowledge love like yours,
it might disappear from the world.
I really like this. Makes me wanna let my dog sleep on the bed....almost.
