You,
oh Lord, preserve both people and
animals. Psalm 36:6
I am in the process of publishing a
book entitled, “A Man’s Tribute to His Devoted Dogs.” While I have owned four
precious pooches throughout the decades, this particular volume recounts my
love for and life with the second and third of the four. And the story I am now
telling you recounts several of my experiences which occurred after the death
of the second.
I can so relate to Jimmy Stewart’s
poem about his dog, “Beau.”
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 he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he'd be glad to have me near.
Perhaps a week
before my little Shih Tzu crossed the Rainbow Bridge we laid down for a nap. At
the time she was in ill health, but was not actively dying. Suddenly, Buddy
began to shiver. And for the life of me, at the time, I could not understand
why.
(But I think I
know now).
My little pooch
experienced a comparatively quick, but difficult passage. She and I kept the
‘night watch’ together, as she labored to cross that dark bridge which awaits
all of God’s creatures. My wife had gone to her room, as she could not tolerate
our little Buddy’s respiratory pattern. As our little tyke lay on her pillow at
the end of the bed, her breaths came in fits and starts. Slow and shallow.
Quick and labored. For hours on end. At some point, I must have fallen asleep.
When I awoke I soon noticed the pasty, white color of her tongue. It was almost
time.
Just hours later
Buddy’s personal angel escorted her across the Rainbow Bridge.
… Jimmy tells it so well.
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 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.
(to be continued)
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I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.
(to be continued)
By
William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 51. Copyright pending
If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line.
************
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin
Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin
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