I would like to believe that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered； here all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris， beautifully spotted； where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert； where each blissful hour is mealtime； where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams， remembering the old brave days on earth， and the love of one’s Master and Mistress.
I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace， at least， is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and head and limbs， and eternal sleeps in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps， after all， this is best.
One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say， “When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one.”
Now I would ask her， for love of me， to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again.
What I would like to feel is that， having once had me in the family， now she cannot live without a dog！ I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat， the black one I have permitted to share the living-room rug during the evenings， whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit， and in rare sentimental moods， even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs， of course， are better than others. Dalmatians， naturally， as everyone knows， are best.
So I suggest a dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well-bred， or as well-mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best， I am sure， and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat， made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did， walking around the Place Vendome， or later along Park Avenue， all eyes fixed on me in admiration； but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog.