As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.
I have a rather collector's item book which Echo helped me locate the subject which the author addressed a letter too and autographed the copy. As I wanted to read this book, I happened upon this copy and could not believe what the price was, as it was "cheap", compared to most you come across. To the point, this book is probably priced at 900 dollars and I could not afford 3 pages of it.
It is an enjoyable book, but the value in it was something the Author never wrote. It was something his writer Father wrote almost 100 years ago, and I understood what the man said and felt exactly the same way.
I have written on the subject of dead pets, for that matter roadkill. In reading near death experiences, I came across stories of animals waiting for their owners in Heaven. I firmly believe that if you have the Spirit of God in you, that you impart that breath of life to an animals soul and evolve them to a higher plane. I also without a doubt have had experiences with my Irish Setter Ruby after she died. She touched my hand with her nose the way she would when I hung it over the back of a chair. Ruby actually appeared to my brother and he asked her what on earth she was doing there.
I will see all my animals again. God does not waste life. I figure that all the ducks, roadkill and whatever which is good and has come to my life will be there too, to my delight.
I have written enough of a prelude to this and now you can enjoy some real writing.
I buried my hunting horse the other day. He died of lockjaw, a slow death and a painful one. Shorty carred me on every shooting trip that I have made the past five years. I shot off his back on occasion adn when I dismounted if no fences intervened he followed me about at heel like a trained retrieiver. Even now, though I forget that the little horse is under ground and cannot come when I have fired a gun my first impulse is to look up to see if he is coming over a yonder rise. A gunshot was his signal that I wanted him. A sharp pang always hits me when I realize the Old Boy can never come to me again for I buried him myself as the last thing I could do for him. I dug the grave myself and wrapped his head in my hunting coat so that the dirt could not get in his eyes and ears, raised his head and pillowed it, straightened out his stiffened legs, put pattern papers I had fired over his body and shoveled in the dirt. It took me all day to dig the grave and cover him over. When it was finished I fired three shots above the grave from one of the repeaters he used to carry. And then I told him goodby.
It was all very foolish of course when he was only a horse. But he was a good horse evenr faithful and infinitely wise, and loyal throughout his life.
I suppose that hover lightly a horse slept in life that he sleeps very sound in death. I suppose that he hears neither the soft patter of the rain nor the roar of the blizzard, neither gentle call of the bowhite nore the vengeful crack of the high powered rifle. I suppose that he will neve hear, I could fairly wish that it were otherwise. All of us fear the ghosts of the dead, if we could see them in the dark we would flee in terror. But I'd be glad to know that the Spirit of Shorty Horse could wander about our old hunting grounds.
I know that when the leaves were brown and the quail hidden in the dpeths of the jack oak woods he would come to the first crash of the gun, and, all unseen, follow me patiently through the forest and field as in the days of old.
Maybe sometimes I imagine that I hear him, the soft padding of his feet, the swish of the saddle leather, and the slap as a stirrup caught his side from scraping a tree. People might not like me or they might be busy with others but if they could, all unseen, My dead horses and my dead dogs would be with me, I'd ask for nothing more.
Amen and Amen to what you said Major Charles Askins Sr.
Nuff Said
agtG