Poem in Memory of a Lost Dog

By Tanya M. Petrokov

From The Lanark Animal Welfare Society (LAWS) L.A.W.S., P.O. Box 156, Smiths Falls, ON, K7A 4T1:

Jimmy Stewart, the famous actor, wrote a poem in memory of his dog who had passed on. It is beautiful and worthy of being shared here:

He never came to me when I would call-unless I had a tennis ball

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 own way.

Discipline was not his bag but when you were with him things sure didn’t drag.

He’d dig up a rosebush to spite me and when I would grab him he would bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day, the delivery boy was his favourite 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 is long to tell. Suffice to say, he survived, and the house survived as well.

On 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’d 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’d stop in his tracks. With a frown on his face, and look around.

It was just to make sure that old one was there to follow him, where he was bound.

We’re early bedders at our house, I guess I’m first to retire and as I would leave the room he’d look at me from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were, upstairs,

I’d give him one for a while

He’d put it under the bed with his nose and I’d push out with a smile.

Before very long, he’d tire of the ball and he would be asleep in his corner in not time at all.

And there would be nights when I’d feel him climb upon the bed and lie between us and I’d pat his head.

There were nights when I’d feel his stare, and I’d wake up and he’d be sitting there.

I’d reach out to stroke his hair,

And sometimes I’d feel him sigh

I think I know the reason why

He’d wake up 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 be between us and I’d pat his head.

And there are nights when I think I feel that stare and

I reach out my hand to stroke his hair

And he’s not there.

O, how I wish that wasn’t so

I’ll always love a dog named Beau.