Last Will and Testament of a family pet.
This was written by Eugene O'Neill, the first American writer
to win the Nobel prize for Literature. ~~
I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family, friends and
acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years is heavy upon
me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last
will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is
there until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will
suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a
memorial to me.
I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser
than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste
their time hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying
about objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There
is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith.
These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who
I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn
and Roy and Willie and Naomi and - but if I should list all those who
have loved me it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is in
vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts
and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.
I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve
for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time
of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful
for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them
remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe
to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and
lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be
right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick,
bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having over
lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by, before I become too sick
a burden on myself and on those who love me.
It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a
sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of
life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may
come after death, who knows? I would like to believe with those of my
fellow Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise
where one is always young and full-bladdered; here all the day one
dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris, beautifully
spotted; where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the
houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is
mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with
logs forever burning and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames
and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the
love of one's Master and Mistress.
I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But
peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and
head and limbs, and eternal sleeps in the earth I have loved so well.
Perhaps, after all, this is best.
One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, 'When
Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could
never love another one.' Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have
another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog
again. What I would like to feel is that, having once had me in the
family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow
jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat,
the black one I have permitted to share the living-room rug during the
evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in
rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of
course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone
knows, are best.
So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred,
or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my
prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will
do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by
comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and
leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in
Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around
the Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in
admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a
mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself
quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come
closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent years. And, for
all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my
old home.
One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit
my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your
hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: 'here lies one
who loved us and whom we loved.' No matter how deep my sleep I shall
hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging
a grateful tail.
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