Brutus The Alpine Rescue Dog

They baptised him up on the Berner ridge, the dog thought Brutus was a splendid name. He trained between the summit and the bridge a perfect pupil who adored the game. The day when churchbells sounded through the day a thousand tourists tortured tired feet, tomorrow was the second day of May the local Vicar took a bite to eat. They saw him leaving the Café De Mange but not again until the evening Mass, a hundred people saw the Avalanche it started at the top of Brenner Pass. Brutus had been the Vicar's special friend, he powered up the mountain's icy slope. He slobbered and he fretted, would the end be simply death or was there any hope? He barked the loudest he had ever done, the scent was something slightly in between the stench of porkers having lots of fun and yellow roses up near the latrine. He did not scold the Vicar for his fear, instead the odor was a pleasant breeze his canine tongue inserted in one ear the holy man sat up and had a sneeze. Brutus lived long, in fact some twenty moons, up in the church inside the Vicar's flat was fed each meal from ancient silver spoons and died a proud and happy dog, and fat. He had succeeded early in his life, and glory followed him like turbulence, he took a Weimaraner as a wife but she got cataracts inside a lens. So they retired her with a new mate up near Geneva in the lower land while he stayed with the Vicar and his fate it was a thing that few would understand. So was he resting on his laurels then? Performed no other service to mankind? Oh no, inside the Vicar's holy den he read the Bible to improve his mind.