My dog died.
I buried him in the garden
next to an old rusty machine.
There, not below,
nor higher,
Will he meet me sometime?
Now he already left with his fur,
his rudeness, his cold nose.
And I, a materialist who does not believe
in the heavenly promised sky
for no human,
for this dog or for all dogs
I believe in heaven, yes I believe in a heaven
where I will not enter, but he waits for me
waving its fan tail
so that when I arrive I have friends.
These verses were written Pablo Neruda to one of his dogs. Those of us who love dogs are outraged that there are still so many savages who continue to legitimize the mistreatment and torture of the dogs they use to hunt.
