Mother of dead dogs.

His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

Whosoever loveth me loveth my hound.

The dogs were really keening now, like Irish widows.

Forget career, forget the future, forget existential worries, just get yourselves a couple of dogs, and everything will be all right.