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Anonymous
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 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.
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