Flash

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 heal or sit or stay;
He did things his own way,
Discipline was not his bag, but when you were with him things sure didn’t drag.

On evening walks, he’d see his leash, and always be first out the door.
The other one and I brought up the rear, because or bones were sore.
He’d charge up the street with me hangin’ on; what a beautiful pair we were.
And if it was still light and the cows were out; they created quite a stir.
But every once in a while he’d stop in his tracks, and with a frown on his face,
He’d look around.

It was just to make sure the old one was there, to follow him where he was bound.
And then there were times he’d go alone-to Mr. Golden’s house,
Maybe looking for a bone.
I’d go to get him; and he’d always be back-in a chair, on the porch all along.

We’re early to bedders in our house, I guess I’m the first to retire.
As I’d leave the room, he would look at me and get up from his place of fire.
He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs, and I’d give him one for awhile.
He’d push it under the bed with his nose-I’d dig it out with a smile.
But before very long he’d tire the ball; and he’d be asleep in his corner in no time at all.

And there were nights when I’d feel him climb up on our bed,
And lie between us; and I’d pat his head.
And there were nights when I’d feel his stare; I’d wake up and he’d be sitting there.

I’d reach to stroke his hair, and I’d feel him sigh-I think I know the reason why.
He’d wake up at night and he would have this fear of dark-of life-of lots of things;
And he’d be glad to have me near.

And now he’s dead.
There are nights when I think I feel him climb up on our bed
And lie between us, and I pat his head.
There were 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 the fact