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.