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,
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend.
Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
- ► 2017 (183)
- What next ?
- The Inspection
- I Worry
- Happy BIrthday ...
- Read this
- Poor Minette
- An Inspector Will Call
- A Little Ray of Light
- Traveling with Two Cats
- Dear Friend,
- Fantasia on a Theme
- Cold ? how cold is it ?
- Thank you ...
- Cat Food and Soup
- Being A Grownup
- An Ode to a Dog - by Jimmy Stewart
- Baby Duma
- Baby Bunny
- That Pup
- Friday Flowers
- Winter Zoop
- Compass & Rose (UK)
- Ahhhhh That Sound Again
- Snowing ...
- RIP David Bowie
- Saturday .. cats and househunters
- How would you like to look out your window
- at Downton ...
- Sunday nights
- HAPPY NEW YEAR
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