By Jimmy Stewart and was published in the book,
Jimmy Stewart and His Poems (NY: Crown, 1989).
He never came to me when I would call, unless I
had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it, but mostly he didnt 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 didnt drag.
He bit lots of folks from day to day, The delivery boy was his favorite prey,
The gas man wouldnt read our meter, He said we owned a real man eater,
He set the house on fire, but the storys 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 Im the first to retire,
And as Id leave the room hed look at me; And get up from his place by the
He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs; And Id give him one for a while,
He would push it under the bed with his nose; And Id fish it out with a smile,
And before very long, hed tire of the ball,
And be asleep in his corner, in no time at all,
And there were nights when Id feel him, climb upon our bed,
And lie between us, and Id pat his head,
And there were nights when Id feel this stare,
And Id wake up and hed be sitting there,
And Id reach out my hand and stroke his hair,
And sometimes Id feel his 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 a lot of things; and hed be glad to have me near.
And now hes 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 hes not there; oh, how I wish that wasnt so,
Ill always love a dog named Beau.