golden retriever puppy

(Golden) Beau
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 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 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 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 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.