Lad, A Dog/Afterword

Afterword The stories of Lad, in various magazines, found unexpectedly kind welcome. Letters came to me from soldiers and sailors in Europe, from hosts of children; from men and women, everywhere.

Few of the letter-writers bothered to praise the stories, themselves. But all of them praised Lad, which pleased me far better. And more than a hundred of them wanted to know if he were a real dog: and if the tales of his exploits were true.

Perhaps those of you who have followed Lad’s adventures, through these pages, may also be a little interested to know more about him.

Yes, Lad was a “real” dog—the greatest dog by far, I have known or shall know. And the chief happenings in nearly all of my Lad stories are absolutely true. This accounts for such measure of success as the stories may have won.

After his “Day of Battle,” Lad lived for more than two years—still gallant of spirit, loyally mighty of heart, uncanny of wisdom—still the undisputed king of The Place’s “Little People.”

Then, on a warm September morning in 1918, he stretched himself to sleep in the coolest and shadiest corner of the veranda, And, while he slept, his great heart very quietly stopped beating. He had no pain, no illness, none of the distressing features of extreme age. He had lived out a full span of sixteen years—years rich in life and happiness and love.

Surely, there was nothing in such a death to warrant the silly grief that was ours, nor the heart-sick gloom that overhung The Place! It was wholly illogical, not to say maudlin. I admit that without argument. The cleric-author of “The Mansion Yard” must have known the same miserable sense of loss, I think, when he wrote:

“Stretched on the hearthrug in a deep content, Fond of the fire as I. Oh, there was something with the old dog went I had not thought could die!” We buried Lad in a sunlit nook that had been his favorite lounging place, close to the house he had guarded so long and so gallantly. With him we buried his honorary Red Cross and Blue Cross—awards for money raised in his name. Above his head we set a low granite block, with a carven line or two thereon.

The Mistress wanted the block inscribed: ‘The Dearest Dog!” I suggested: “The Dog God Made.” But we decided against both epitaphs. We did not care to risk making our dear old friend’s memory ridiculous by words at which saner folk might one day sneer. So on the granite is engraved:

Some people are wise enough to know that a dog has no soul. These will find ample theme for mirth in our foolish inscription. But no one, who knew Lad, will laugh at it. “Sunnybank”

Pompton Lakes,

New Jersey.