She didn’t get much of a send-off, the old collie dog; Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note The old white van her hearse, laid in the back, tenderly enough, In an old blanket, which served her as a shroud; feathery tail drooping from one end, while from the other peeked that familiar long, pointed muzzle, the tip of a silky ear, and one of her soft, brown, limpid, liquid eyes now dulled in death.

We drove her, each remembering, through sunny Warwickshire lanes To the practical place; the place where they attend to such things; a pretty place, for such grim business, set amongst apple trees. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone Simply carried her in; laid her on a table; then a caress, a last goodbye, And we left her alone with her glory Both too choked up to speak.

We’ll have her back, in a day or so, duly processed, Beth-in-a-box. But she won’t bark anymore when she hears the door She’ll chase Amie round the garden no more And every time I go to the van I’ll see her there.

Goodbye, old friend, and thank you. We’ll miss you, Susie and Amie and I While we think of you, barking at the Pearly Gates, And nipping the ankles of the angels Whenever they sneeze.

Written by Phil James. 2004