“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 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.

Ken from NY

Several years ago, when I was working at a local veterinary hospital, a woman brought in a little toy poodle. The dog was 12 years old and had been used a breder her entire adult life. She carried the dog in because it couldn’t walk. Also, just wasn’t acting right. It turns out the dog couldn’t walk because both of her kneecaps were slipping out of place. She was also in the beginning of a pyometra (infection of the uterus) common in unspayed dogs and frequeently fatal. She also had severe dental disease. At this news, the woman started making noises about euthanasia, or maybe “if I could find a home for her.” “I’ll take her!!” The woman handed her over with no qualms. Even at that time, as sick as she was, I was getting little tip of the tongue kisses. Her name was Snowball. As I held her close I told her she was now Fifi; that she deserved to be treated like Fifi dog for once in her life. Her spay was scheduled for the next day and the doctor repaired one kneecap at the same time. A week later came the dental. The infection in her mouth was so bad that it had eaten away the madibular symphysis, the connection at the chin where the left and right jawbones meet. We extracted ten teeth. Actually, they mainly fell out with a little help they were so loose. I can’t describe the smell.

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With the passing of a beloved pet, some of us write prose, and others may resort to verse, as I did.

I adopted a great big black tuxedo cat at the ASPCA on E. 92nd Street in Manhattan, and enjoyed him for 14 years, till he passed away.

The following is his requiem:

QUIESCET PERCY

On this day we come to bury
This noblest cat of wide acclaim.
We send him off on Charon’s ferry
Percy is his loved name.

Many greats do make this passing,
As brave Odysseus, full of tricks.
Beware this feline’s wide amassing.
Prepare to flood now, River Styx.

Aristocrats and cats, you’ll find,
When Percy be amongst your stead,
His purring is a one of kind,
And indeed shall wake the dead.

Planets shake and worlds collide.
Mountains quake and maelstroms stir.
Oceans flood and lands divide.
Nothing soothes like Percy’s purr.

All yee dwellers in Pluto’s realm,
Comes a high-born cat’s repose.
Furry-white tummy blinds Charon’s helm.
This bark’s led by big pink nose.

Great white whiskers, big white snout.
Great green eyes headlight this boat.
Shiny fur and body stout.
Great big black tuxedo coat.

The boat has landed, other side.
His journey finished, life complete.
Percy sure enjoyed the ride.
He jumps right off on big white feet.

-Clint , Percy’s adopter from NY

Last night I finished reading “Rescuing Sprite.” What a great love story. My heart goes out to you and your family.

In 1993 my wife and I lived in London, England for two years while working for Emerson Electric. At that time we bought a puppy in Wales—-a Welsch springer spaniel, who we named Llyswen after a town in Wales.

In January of 2006 my wife died from colon cancer. Then in April of that year I developed Graves Disease. I got so sick that I could no longer take care of Llyswen. Fortunately, I found a vet in Springfield, Illinois who is a breeder of Welshies and she agreed to take Llysen.

Not a day goes by that I do not think of Llyswen and wonder how she is doing in her new home. Like you, I miss her terribly.

Give a big hug to Griff

Now I know why Sean Hannity calls you “THE GREAT ONE.”

Best regards and thanks for a great read

Pete from Missouri

Meet my best friend Rudy who is a 6 month old Havanaese. It’s been years since I’ve owned a pet and I struggled with the thought of owning a another dog. However, ever since I brought this little guy home, I can’t imagine being without him. Rudy brings much happiness to my wife and I.

James from MD

Yes, I’ve had to make that hard decision, too. To let a close friend go rather than watch her suffer.

I grew up with dogs. The first dog I remember was a Shepard mix; Princes. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven. We always had dogs, mostly big ones, though. We even had a St. Bernard. I still remember the Thanksgiving turkey she half devoured. It was fresh from the oven and cooling on the counter. Mom was in tears.

When my kids were ten and five, I knew how they would benefit from a family dog, but I remembered the destruction the dogs I grew up with caused in my father’s house. I never considered a small dog. Small dogs were for old women and small men. My ego wouldn’t let me go there.

Then my daughter, after months of campaigning, wrote a school paper on the care of a family dog. It was laced with subtle hints that would ‘help me’ to change my mind. I came home one day to find a very energetic dark tan colored hound tied to the back porch. Both kids were desperately pleading ‘Chocolate’s’ case. “We will take care of him, Dad, you’ll see, he won’t get into trouble, Pleeeease, can we keep him?”
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