"Beau" 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 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'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 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.
