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My husband and I , with our dog, Tate, moved to Buenos Aires.. Life has never been the same since ~ Back in the USA ... life is still not the same !
It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new.
But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful.
There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.
Alan Cohen
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend.
Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
Groucho Marx
The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

An Ode to a Dog - by Jimmy Stewart

He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it.
But mostly he didn't come at all.
When he was young
He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay
He did things his way.
Discipline was not his bag
But  when you were with him, things sure didn't drag.

He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,
and when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.
He bit lots of folks from day to day,
The delivery boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn't read our meter,
He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire
but that story's too long to tell.

Suffice it to say that he survived
and the house survived as well.

On evening walks, Gloria took him
He was always first out the door.
The Old One and I brought up the rear.
Because our bones were sore.

He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were !
And if it was still light and the tourists were out,
they created a bit of a stir.

Every once in awhile, he would stop in his tracks
and with a frown on his face look around.
It was just to make sure The Old One was there
And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house - I guess I'm the first to retire.
As I'd leave the room, he'd look at me
And get up from his place by the fire.
He knew where his tennis balls were upstairs.
and I'd give him one  for a while.
He'd push it under the bed with his nose
And I'd fish it out with a smile.'

Before long he'd tire of the ball
And be asleep in his corner in no time at all.
and there were nights when I'd feel him climb upon our bed
and lie between us.
And I'd pet his head.
And there were nights when I'd feel his stare and I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there
And I'd reach out my hand and stroke his hair.

and sometimes I'd feel him sigh and I think I know the reason why.
He would wake up at night and have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he'e be glad to have me near.

And now he's dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
climb up on our bed and lie between us,
and I pat his head.
And there are nights when I think I feel that stare
And I reach out to stroke his hair,
but he's not there.
Oh, how I wish that wasn't so
I'll always love a dog named Beau.




this is dedicated to my boy, Tate,

4 comments:

mrsduncanmahogany said...

Sad. We love them to bits don't we?

NotesFromAbroad said...

Yes we do. I cry every time I read this :)

Micheline said...

How lovely. This brought tears to my eyes.

NotesFromAbroad said...

Micheline, I should know better than to even read things like this. They always make me cry :)

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