Beyond the Rainbow Bridge they keep a country fit for dogs alone, with clover deep and running streams and every honest scent well known; no age can stiffen limb or heart, no pain can spoil the morning’s play, and all day long the hounds we loved go racing through the fields of day.
They chase the wind because it runs, they follow tracks no eye can see, and break into those sudden zoomies born of pure and simple ecstasy; the hills ring back their merry cries, the grass lies flat beneath their tread, and every leap proclaims the truth that love and joy are never dead.
Yet dogs remember. That is law. They do not cast old friendships by, nor lose the touch of kindly hands because the years have wandered by; and sometimes, so the tale is told, a spirit hound is granted leave to borrow for a fleeting hour the coat another dog may weave.
Then starts a race through house and field, a whirl of paws, a flashing dome of ears and tail, while deep within a faithful heart there stirs the scent of home; the living dog knows only bliss, the visitor recalls your name, then slips beyond the Rainbow Bridge, but leaves a spark to show he came.
(By John Shenton)