The whelp who did the trick, I think he knows—
I think he feels it everywhere he goes.
A dog knows he’s a dog—there’s no pretend,
He starts out dog and he’s dog to the end.
At that, he’s got a dog’s sense of what’s right
And lives dog-loyalty according to his light.
And when a man less than a dog, he knows—
Though he may look like man and wear man’s clothes,
He knows the scut he is beneath it all.
The dog knew too—that’s why he tried to crawl
Back home—up to his kennel by the shed—
Dragged all the way—just like a lump of lead,
Because no self-respecting, decent hound
Would want to die upon his poisoner’s ground
If he could get away. Just what the use
Was, doing it—or what kind of excuse
He had, is more than I can figure out.
We raised that yellow hound—he’s gone about
For five years now and he was decent stuff,
And there’s no reason I know good enough
For what he got. A poisoner’s not the kind
To say—“That yellow cur of yours—you’ll find
Him here—I murdered him!” Or else—“That hound
You’ve got up there—I poisoned him, I found
Him running round my stable-yard today.”
When he’s through with his job, he doesn’t say
Those things, because it’s not a poisoner’s way—
His secret’s kept between himself and God
And that dumb brute that rots beneath the sod.