A bereaved young woman called me the other day to order one of our Soft-Hearted Pillow Pet Urns for her newly departed very best buddy, Beau. As is usually the case, she and I barely made it through the conversation in one piece. Later she sent me a beautiful tribute she had created for her friend, Beau, which included a cute photograph of her buddy along with the poem, “Beau”, written by Jimmy Stewart.
I was reminded of the night that Jimmy Stewart read that poem on the Johnny Carson Show; I think there wasn’t a dry eye in the nation that night or around the water cooler the next day.
I am reprinting it here for those who may wish to read it again and as a special tribute to my new friend, Kelly, and her best buddy whom she “loves with all of her heart forever and ever”, Beau.
BEAU – 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 ws 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.
We 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 awhile, 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 awhile.
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.