Update [2006-5-5 22:56:37 by Omir the Storyteller]: The poem has been edited slightly since it was first posted.

No, I’m not leaving. You guys aren’t that lucky (and neither is the Chimperor). I’ve just been having a couple of thoughts since yesterday when we discovered what Buster’s diagnosis is, and one of them is that people sometimes wish they could hear their own eulogy just to know what others are going to say about them when they’re gone. Maybe dogs do too.

So with that in mind, I wrote this little piece of doggerel over the last 12 hours or so. BooMan, don’t take this as in indication of your religious views by any means. I don’t even know what they are. It just sort of came out based on a discussion in the cafe a few nights ago, and if you like it can be told from the point of view of some other guy with a dog named Buster.

The Afterlife
by Omir the Storyteller

for Martin

If the fathers and the reverends are right about the afterlife
(I know, but I’m just sayin’) then when I have met my fate
And St. Peter calls me over and awards my harp and halo,
I’m sure that I’ll see Buster waiting just inside the gate.

He’ll jump and bark and put his muddy pawprints on my overalls
(Who needs a robe? Not me) and lead me through a meadow, breezy in
The sunshine, yipping, yelping, chasing, fetching, rolling, laughing,
As we walk toward forever in an endless field Elysian.

I’m told that there’s a mansion that’s prepared in all its glory
(yeah, I know, but I’m just sayin’) and in our celestial berth
He’ll sprawl out upon the carpet and proceed to chew my sandals
And we’ll laugh about the stupid stuff that happened down on Earth.

Perhaps I’ll get to shake the hands of famous men of history
And shake the paws of dogs that they’ve collected when we meet.
Any Jesus worth the name who loved the little children
Would unquestionably have a dog or two around his feet.

Einstein’s dog would ruminate on Special Relativity
While spinning one-two-three times smoothing out a patch of cloud.
Ghandi’s dog would sniff the butt of Moses’ retriever
While Oscar Wilde’s raised all the hell celestial law allowed.

The preachers and the pastors say that Heaven’s very beautiful.
A restful place with golden streets perpetually glowing.
But Heaven won’t be Heaven if I can’t have friends and family
And dogs — if Buster isn’t there, then thanks, but I’m not going.

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