A
Dog Named Beau
Written
by Jimmy Stewart
Beau
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 the story's long to
tell.
Suffice it to say that he
survived
And the house survived as
well.
On
the evening walks, and
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.
But
every once in a while, he
would stop in his tracks
And with a frown on his
face look around.
It was just to make sure
that 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.
And as I'd leave the room
he'd look at me
And get up from his place
by the fire.
He
knew where the tennis
balls were upstairs,
And I'd give him one for
a while.
He would push it under
the bed with his nose
And I'd fish it out with
a smile.
And
before very 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 pat his head.
And
there were nights when
I'd feel this stare
And I'd wake up and he'd
be sitting there
And I 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 he would have this
fear
Of the dark, of life, of
lots of things,
And he'd be glad to have
me near.
And
now he's dead.
And there are nights when
I think I feel him
Climb upon 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 my hand
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.
~
Jimmy Stewart ~
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