Bo

I have just woken up to the sad news that our old boy Bo didn't make it through the night. His poor old heart just wasn't up to fighting the infection and he died at about 11:30 last night. OH was with him.I think I cried all my tears yesterday when I thought it was a stroke and that he would have to be put to sleep. He was very distressed last night and I'm just relieved that he is peaceful now with no pain and bewilderment.Goodbye old fella

He never came to me when I would callUnless I had a tennis ball,Or he felt like it,But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was youngHe never learned to heelOr sit or stay,He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bagBut 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 fireBut the story's long to tell.Suffice it to say that he survivedAnd 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 rearBecause 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 tracksAnd with a frown on his face look around.It was just to make sure that the Old One was thereAnd 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 meAnd 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 noseAnd I'd fish it out with a smile.And before very long He'd tire of the ballAnd be asleep in his cornerIn no time at all.

And there were nights when I'd feel himClimb upon our bedAnd lie between us,And I'd pat his head.And there were nights when I'd feel this stareAnd I'd wake up and he'd be sitting thereAnd I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.And sometimes I'd feel him sighand I think I know the reason why

.He would wake up at nightAnd he would have this fearOf 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 himClimb upon our bed and lie between us,And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I thinkI feel that stareAnd 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.

The poem is by James Stewart the actor