Bear

The best friend man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son, or daugh­ter, that he has reared with lov­ing care may prove ungrate­ful. Those who are near­est and dear­est to us, those whom we trust with our hap­pi­ness and good name may become trai­tors to their faith. The money a man has he may lose. It flies away from him, per­haps when he needs it most. A man’s rep­u­ta­tion may be sac­ri­ficed in a moment of ill-considered action. The peo­ple who are prone to fall on their knees when suc­cess is with us may be the first to throw the stone of mal­ice when fail­ure set­tles its cloud upon our head.

The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this self­ish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrate­ful or treach­er­ous, is his dog. A man’s dog stands by him in pros­per­ity and poverty, in health and in sick­ness. He will sleep on the cold ground when the win­try winds blow and the snow dri­ves fiercely, if only to be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encoun­ters with the rough­ness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pau­per mas­ter as if he were a prince.

When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wing, and rep­u­ta­tion falls to pieces, he is as con­stant in his love as the sun in its jour­ney through the heavens.

If for­tune dri­ves his mas­ter forth, an out­cast in the world, friend­less and home­less, the faith­ful dog asks no higher priv­i­lege than that of accom­pa­ny­ing him, to guard him against dan­ger, to fight against his ene­mies. And when that last scene of all comes, and death takes his mas­ter in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no mat­ter if all other friends pur­sue their way, there, by the grave­side will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watch­ful­ness, faith­ful and true, even in death.

—George Graham Vest

A dog, sim­ply named Bear, meant the world to a hand­ful. His life was filled with plea­sure, though never spoiled, and free­dom, though always dis­ci­plined. In the last year, his health started to decline. He had a glass eye for his cataracts, heavy med­i­cine for his tumors, but through it all, he was happy, and there was noth­ing but hap­pi­ness for thir­teen long years.

Bear’s life rep­re­sented a child­hood, and all the inno­cence, insou­ciance, and bliss asso­ci­ated with it. Painful, yet impor­tant, his pass­ing is seen as a dis­til­la­tion of matu­rity. This chap­ter has ended, so another one can begin.

Requiescat in pace.