When he died, a taxidermist preserved his skin, and he was placed in the museum at Berne, where he stands to this day, I am told, with the little flask around his neck.

I saw him there one time, and although Barry was only a dog, and I an officer in my country's service, I stood with uncovered head before him.
For he was as truly a hero and served human kind as nobly as if he had fallen on the field of battle.
"He had been trained like a soldier to his duty, and no matter how the storms raged on the mountains, how dark the night, or how dangerous the paths that led along the slippery precipices, at the word of command he sprang to obey.

Only a dumb beast, some people would call him, guided only by brute instinct, but in his shaggy old body beat a loving heart, loyal to his master's command, and faithful to his duty.
"As I stood there gazing into the kind old face, I thought of the time when I lay wounded on the field of Strasburg.

How glad I would have been to have seen some dog like Barry come bounding to my aid! I had fallen in a thicket, where the ambulance corps did not discover me until next day.

I lay there all that black night, wild with pain, groaning for water.