Today's piece is yet another epitaph for a pet: Sydney Smith (1771-1845) wrote the following poem for his dog Nick. I know I shouldn't give in too much to bittersweet feelings, but this is a short, sweet piece with a plainspoken sense of blessing. Says me.
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Here lies poor Nick, an honest creature, Of faithful, gentle, courteous nature; A parlour pet unspoiled by favour, A pattern of good dog behaviour. Without a wish, without a dream, Beyond his home and friends at Cheam, Contentedly through life he trotted Along the path that fate allotted; Till Time, his aged body wearing, Bereaved him of his sight and hearing, Then laid him down without a pain To sleep, and never wake again. -- from The Dog in British Poetry, Robert Maynard Leonard, ed. (London: David Nutt, 1893) p. 175.