Or, like Bendigo, they might drown in a vat of cider and leave a lasting impression:

DEAD DOG CIDER (SCRUMPY)

After the singing of Norman & Betty MacDonald Bristol-Birmingham, UK
Tune: Bonnie Scotsman/Eight More Miles to Louisville
New chorus by Charlie Ipcar 1998

In eighteen hundred and forty-nine, in a little cider mill,
A poor old dog lay down to rest, for he was feeling ill;
He chose a most precarious perch, above the apple press,
And– in his sleep he tumbled in and perished in distress.

This caused his master for to grieve, likewise his mistress too,
And so their sorrows to relieve, they sampled of the brew;
"Gadzooks," cried Farmer Afwater, "the likes I ne'r did sup;
Let's summon all the neighbors in, and bid them take a cup."

Now, here's to Dead Dog Cid-er, the best there is by far;
Here's to Dead Dog Cid-er, no moaning at the bar;
You can search this wide world over, find many a beer or ale;
But when you've tried Dead Dog Cider – your search will be curtailed!

Now everyone that drank that night got drunk as drunk could be,
And wondered how the scrumpy had acquired such potency;
The farmer kept his council, as he took another drop,
When all at once that poor old dog came floating to the top.

A silence fell around the room, and everyone did frown,
For they recognized old Bendigo though he was upside down;
The parson lost his collar and collapsed upon the floor,
And the squire split his britches in the rush to reach the door...

"Oh, halt," cried Farmer Afwater, "for in his life I vow,
He never bit man nor beast, nor will he bite ye now;
And this shall be his epitaph, 'Here lies old faithful Ben
Who perished in the cider vat, only to rise again.'"*

So if you're down in Devon, and you stops off at a bar,
Just call for Dead Dog Cider, it's the best there is by far;
Refuse all imitations and you'll sleep just like a log,
You can always recognize it by – the hair of the dog...