http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUNJjIwlHk8He 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 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 tourists were out,
they created quite 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 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 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 — 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.