The Day Of The Dog

In a sheltered spot of a sunny street, I saw on a wintry morn, A meeting of dogs of every degree, Both nobly and humbly born. A paper thrown on the sidewalk down Engaged them all to stay, And they listened the while a mastiff read,-- “The dogs are having their day!”

“The place of the dog,” so the paper said, “Has been a precarious one, Dependent on birth, upon personal charm, And not upon duty done; But now that a dog is judged by his work, These things have vanished away. The mongrel pup is as good as the rest,-- The dogs are having their day!”

“And what is this work?” asked a tiny Skye; “Is it anything strange or new? We always have served with all of our hearts, We always have been true blue.” “’Tis soldier work,” a Newfoundland cried, “So all of the papers say; Just hear what the mastiff is going to read,-- The dogs are having their day!”

“A shepherd dog,” the chronicle says, “Two miles and a half ran he, In minutes ten, through a storm of shell, For help for his Company. A nameless dog, of no descent, Rushed into the thick of the fray, And dragged a wounded soldier back,-- The dogs are having their day!”

“They went as searchers through No Man’s Land, They guarded the loaded wains; Courageous, loyal, they kept their watch O’er the wounded in railway trains; They served as sentinels, none could pass Where they crouched and sleepless lay; They carried messages far and fast,-- The dogs are having their day!”

I listened a while as the mastiff read, For he paid little heed to me, And his audience greeted with barks of joy, Each proof of efficiency; The dog-star is riding high, I thought, And though it was long on the way, The faithful at last are receiving their meed,-- The dogs are having their day!