The Shepherd Dog Of The Pyrenees

 The beautiful Great Pyrenees

Traveler: Begone, you, sir. Here, shepherd, call your dog.

Shepherd: Be not affrighted, madame. Poor Pierrot

Will do not harm. I know his voice is gruff,

But then, his heart his good.

Traveler: Well, call him, then.

I do not like his looks. He is growling now.

Shepherd: Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot,

He is as good a Christian as myself.

And does not like a stick.

Traveler: Such a fierce look!

And such great teeth!

Shepherd: Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth!

Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth.

Come here, my Pierrot. Would you like to hear,

Madame, what Pierrot's teeth have done for me?

Traveler: Torn a gaunt wolf, I'll warrant.

Shepherd: Do you see

On that high ledge a cross of wood stands

Against the sky?

Traveler: Just where the cliff goes down

A hundred fathoms sheer, a wall of rock

To where the river foams along its bed?

I've often wondered who was brave to plant

A cross on such an edge.

Shepherd: Myself, madame.

That the good God might know I give Him thanks.

One night, it was November, black and thick,

The fog came down, when as I reached my house,

Marie came running out; our little one,

Our four year old Louis, so she cried, was lost.

I called Pierrot: "Go, seek him, find my boy,"

And off he went. Marie was crying loud

To call the neighbors. They and I, we searched

All that dark night. I called Pierrot in vain;

Whistled and called, and listened for his voice;

He always came or barked at my first word,

But now, he answered not. When day at last

Broke, and the gray fog lifted, there I saw

On that high ledge, against the dawning light,

My little one asleep, sitting so near

The edge that as I looked his red beret

Fell from his nodding head down the abyss.

And there, behind him, crouched Pierrot; his teeth,

His good, strong teeth, clenching the jacket brown,

Holding the child in safety. With wild bounds.

Swift as the gray wolf's own, I climbed the steep,

And as I reached them Pierrot beat his tail,

And looked at me, so utterly distressed,

With eyes that said: "Forgive, I could not speak,"

But never loosed his hold till my dear rogue

Was safe within my arms. Ah, ha Pierrot,

Madame forgives your barking and your teeth;

I knew she would.

Traveler: Come here, poor fellow, faithful friend and true,

Come, come, be friends with me.

The Pyrenees Mountain Dog, better known in America as the Great Pyrenees,

are known for their faithfulness and bravery and have been used for hundreds

of years to guard the flocks of Basque shepherds living in the Pyrenees 

mountain region of southern France and northern Spain.

"The Shepherd Dog Of The Pyrenees"

 A poem by Ellen Murray