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Epitaph to a Dog

Karin Dhadamus
Nov 12, 2015
3 min read

It has been raining all day long, and when I say rain, it is nothing like seen back home. Rain here in Buenos Aires means tropical quantities; here, unlike in the tropics, the rain lasts all day long.

I cannot stay home as I need to do some urgent food shopping in view of the arrival of my friend and of my dog. I have missed them both so badly, it is time they come 'home'. A home they have never been to but will surely unconditionally like and embrace. In spite of the rain...

It is no weather to venture far from home. I make the mistake to leave my place without the gorgeous handmade Argentine umbrella I bought at Paragueria Victor last week. So there I am , stuck in the market of San Telmo with two heavy bags filled with fruit and vegetables on my arms, one at each side. I want to change dollars too, but the cheese & salami stall is closed until five. I sit and have an espresso at coffee town; I stroll around to explore the upper part of the market where I am 'picked up' and offered another coffee for some talk. In less than 30 minutes I am sipping on my 2nd coffee, my fourth today.

A bit later I sit on a white wooden bench in front of a still closed stall and sneek into CT's wifi. Still no hope the rain will stop soon. My stomach aches and I blame it on my nerves. Cause my friend and my dog are coming today.

From a nice Brazilian lady, with whom I find myself brushing up my portuguese, I buy two delicate white glasses, they can be used for champagne, or ice cream if it matters.

Meanwhile the salami stand is open . The older man is not as reserved as he seems. The exchange rate for the dollar has come down and only politics in this country are to blame. I change my dollars and order salami, olives and cheese for tonight. I tell him my friend and dog are coming and he definitely shares the love for dogs with me.

He mentions a poem by Lord Byron written for his dog Boatswain, who had just passed away. I feel ashamed I am not as well read as this 'simple' 74-year old man.

Once home in between two forever lasting showers, I am eager to find Lord Byron's poem. And I'd like to share it here below:

Near this Spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his Vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human Ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of Boatswain, a Dog who was born in Newfoundland May 1803 and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808 When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth, Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth, The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below. When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been. But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth – While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power – Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye, who behold perchance this simple urn, Pass on – it honours none you wish to mourn. To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise; I never knew but one -- and here he lies.