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.
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.
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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