McIntyre’s Eulogy on His Dead Bulldog
Senator Vest, of Missouri, once upon a time, delivered a eulogy upon the Dog, that has become classic because of its pathos and eloquence.
Odd McIntyre is the newspaper scavenger of New York city. He gathers up the unseen the unusual and the unheard of and interestingly and entrancingly sends it broadcast thru a syndicate of publications. The other day his Dog died and being sad and disconsolate, he wrote a eulogy on his dead friend. It will appeal specially to all Dog-lovers:
My dog Junior has passed on I use the term “ passing on” for I know the great soul of him can never die.
As this is written he rests in a little white silk-lined casket in the Hartsdale canine cemetery. Above is the cool, green sward he loved. Over his little mound will be placed a small tombstone with the inscription “Junior-- Faithful to the End.”
He was all of that, for Junior died a truer death obeying the command of his master. It was after midnight and Junior and I had gone for a stroll. Traffic was light and his leash had been removed to give him a few frolicking moments of freedom so dear to city bred dogs.
At one corner we started to cross the avenue. Junior, as was his custom, sat on the curb for my command “Go!” As I say the traffic was light and after scanning north and south I gave him the cry. Away he shot into the jaws of the Great Adventure.
A heavy touring car coming unexpectedly ran him down. He turned and crawled back toward me with his great, soft, pleading eyes. There was a joy-riding yell as the car shot onward out of sight. For this yell I bear no malice. Junior would not have it so. He was ever forgiving.
So I gathered him in my arms and he died without a whimper. Junior had been mine since puppyhood. He was my constant companion. He has traveled with me from coast to coast. When I sat at my typewriter and thoughts failed to come, he understood he crept very close and remained very quiet.
Junior was nearly eight. He was aristocrat among dogs. He was born on Fifth Avenue and on Fifth Avenue he died. Junior would not like for me to give the idea that because he was an aristocrat he was snobbish. No, he loved people. He was the friend of every man, woman and child.
Shortly after carrying him into my hotel there came a gentle knock at the door. Old Paddy, who cleans cuspidors, was there with tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. In his hand was a faded flower for which he had walked 10 or more blocks to buy in his crippled rheumatic way and place in Junior’s box. He choked back his sorrow to say a few words.
There are those who do not care for dogs. For them I have the greatest tolerance. In my heart I know they do not understand.
So it is at this hour of dusk I write of my beloved Boston bulldog. If he were with me he would be muzzling my hand with his cool, dewy nose. It is his hour to romp--to tease and bark with wild abandon. On my desk are two rubber balls he loved to retrieve. Tears are futile and cannot call him back, but I look at them and weep unashamed. Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Yet Junior taught me more of the enduring things of life than many people. He has left me the priceless heritage. That he should die obeying a command of mine has made the burden doubly poignant. It is crushing.
I like to think that when I, too, start on the Great Adventure, Junior will be there to greet me. I want to see his stubby tail wagging and his lovable lop ear perked in that joyous quizzical way he had. He was an expression of love and I refuse stubbornly to believe that such a fine thing can pass with what we mortals call death. I feel that he lives and my sorrow is a selfish grief because I loved and miss him so.
Gallipolis Daily Tribune
July 24, 1923
Transcribed by Ann Brown
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