When they ask you, if I died well, tell them then, the Bulldog's tale. A tale of courage, dogs bred bold, a tale of my kind, centuries old.
My blood comes from an ancient age, was valued more than king or sage. Sires and dams of courage rare, who took on all who thought to dare.
In my blood flows images of ancient kin, of silent stone circles, of small dark men. I see a savage beast in the flickering light, that those before me stood there to fight.
Rough British Bulls go through my sleep, I hold them fast with courage deep. I hold them for my master's blow, with pride I hold them, their noses low.
Before that even, we held the boar, from those rough dogs comes my core. We've hunted, guarded, protected and fought, we've done whatever man has taught.
So never think I would forsake these things, when soon my spirit takes to wings. And when they ask you how I died, say as a "BULLDOG" with courage and pride.
Iratxoak-Celtic Oak Farm
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