A DOG STORY
by
Walter Stanford

One evening, in the card room of the 'Ananias Club'
Four members, having finished up their usual evening of 'Rub'
With fresh cigars and Scotch and Sodas placed in easy range
Began their usual evening truthful anecdote exchange.

And following a story by the oldest member, Scroggs
The conversation ultimately settled down on dogs.
It seemed that Scroggs had owned a hound that fairly 'took the bun'
His knowledge of geography astounded everyone.

Scroggs lost him in America, Siberia, and Spain
But on every occasion he had landed home again
But, sad to say, through tender feet and walking such a lot
He suffered so from bunions, Scroggs had had to have him shot.

  Then Johnson told another yarn about a knowing brute
That used to play quite decently the concert flute
And Thompson, not to be outdone, said that reminded him
About his sister's husband's uncle's Irish Setter, Jim.

Jim, being taught to hold a pipe, got such a taste for shag
That after he was never seen without a pipe or fag
And in the end had met his death with awful suddenness
Through cancer of the tongue, brought on by smoking to excess.

Then Lyreson spoke, he said, "I cannot see how men of sense
Can give the name of instinct to such plain intelligence
There's many a human fathead, who would take a second place
If matched for reasoning powers with members of the canine race.

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