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.

We would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were!
And it if 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.

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.

This poem was taken from "Jimmy Stewart
and His Poems" by Jimmy Stewart, a short
collection of poems published by
Crown Publishers, Inc. in 1989.

The one you left at the pound
The one you had for seven years
and no longer wanted around.

I adopted your dog today
Do you know he's lost weight?
Do you know he's scared and depressed
and has lost all faith?

I adopted your dog today.
he had fleas and a cold,
but don't worry none.
You've unburdened your load.

I adopted your dog today.
Were you having a baby or moving away?
Did you suddenly develop allergies or was
there no reason he couldn't stay?

I adopted your dog today.
he doesn't play or eat much
He's very depressed, but
he will learn again to trust.

I adopted your dog today.
And here he will stay.
He's found his forever home
and a warm bed on which to lay.

I adopted your dog today.
And I will give him all that he could need.
Patience, love, security, and understanding.
Hopefully he will forget your selfish deed.

If you bury her in this spot, she will come to you when you call -
come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death and down the
well remembered paths and to your side again.

And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they shall not growl
at her or resent her coming, for she belongs there.
People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by her footfall,
who hear no whimper; people who may never really have had a dog.

Smile at them, for you shall know something that is hidden from
them and which is well worth knowing.