Akela WW-RN, CGC
On May 8, 2003, I made the difficult decision to let my beautiful Akela cross to the Rainbow Bridge. His mental illness was steadily getting worse and it was time to let him go where he wouldn't be afraid anymore. It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. This page is his memorial.
[The Spirit of a German Shepherd Dog
I was standing on a hillside in a field of blowing wheat
And the spirit of a German Shepherd Dog was lying at my feet.
He looked at me with kind dark eyes, An ancient wisdom shining through
and in the essenceof his being I saw love there too.
His mind did lock upon my heart as I stood there on that day
And he told me of this story about a place so far away.
I stood upon that hillside in a field of blowing wheat
And in a twinkling of a second his spirit left my feet.
His tale did put my heart at ease my fears did fade away
About what lay ahead of me on another distant day.
"I live among God's creatures now in the heavens of your mind
So do not grieve for me, my friend as I am with my kind.
My collar is a rainbow's hue, my leash a shooting star
My boundaries are the Milky Way where I sparkle from far.
There are no pens or kennels here for I am not confined
But free to roam God's heavens among my Shepherd kind.
I nap the day on a snowy cloud gentle breezes rocking me
And dream the dreams of earthlings and how it used to be.
The trees are full of liver treats and tennis balls abound
And Milkbones line the walkways just waiting to be found.
There even is a ring set up the grass all lush and green
And everyone who gaits around becomes the Best of Breed.
For we're all winners in this place, we have no faults, you see
And God passes out those ribbons to each one, even me.
I drink from waters laced with gold
my world a beauty to behold
And wise old dogs do form my pride
to amble at my very side.
At night I sleep in an angel's arms her wings protecting me
And moonbeams dance about us as stardust falls on thee.
So when your life on earth is spent and you stand at Heaven's gate
Have no fear of loneliness for here you know I wait.
author unknown
I was standing on a hillside in a field of blowing wheat
And the spirit of a German Shepherd Dog was lying at my feet.
He looked at me with kind dark eyes, An ancient wisdom shining through
and in the essenceof his being I saw love there too.
His mind did lock upon my heart as I stood there on that day
And he told me of this story about a place so far away.
I stood upon that hillside in a field of blowing wheat
And in a twinkling of a second his spirit left my feet.
His tale did put my heart at ease my fears did fade away
About what lay ahead of me on another distant day.
"I live among God's creatures now in the heavens of your mind
So do not grieve for me, my friend as I am with my kind.
My collar is a rainbow's hue, my leash a shooting star
My boundaries are the Milky Way where I sparkle from far.
There are no pens or kennels here for I am not confined
But free to roam God's heavens among my Shepherd kind.
I nap the day on a snowy cloud gentle breezes rocking me
And dream the dreams of earthlings and how it used to be.
The trees are full of liver treats and tennis balls abound
And Milkbones line the walkways just waiting to be found.
There even is a ring set up the grass all lush and green
And everyone who gaits around becomes the Best of Breed.
For we're all winners in this place, we have no faults, you see
And God passes out those ribbons to each one, even me.
I drink from waters laced with gold
my world a beauty to behold
And wise old dogs do form my pride
to amble at my very side.
At night I sleep in an angel's arms her wings protecting me
And moonbeams dance about us as stardust falls on thee.
So when your life on earth is spent and you stand at Heaven's gate
Have no fear of loneliness for here you know I wait.
author unknown
Do Not Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there. I did not die.
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there. I did not die.
Where To Bury A Dog
There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.
For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost -- if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.
If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call -- come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there. People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.
The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.
by Ben Hur Lampman , from the Portland Oregonian, 1925
There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.
For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost -- if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.
If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call -- come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there. People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.
The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.
by Ben Hur Lampman , from the Portland Oregonian, 1925
Sleep well, my friend. I miss you, Buddy!