I'LL BE BACK a.k.a. My Dearly Departed Pooch Returns. Pts. 1-3

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.

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.

But every once in a while, 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 a while.
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 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.

"My Dog Beau" by Jimmy Stewart

 Pt. 2

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.

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 that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.

Pt. 3

You preserve both people and animals. Psalm 36:6

Strangely enough, the same thing happened to me!

For you see, one night after I retired for bed I felt ‘something’ settle against my right shoulder. Perhaps ‘settle’ is the wrong word. It was just suddenly there. This weight. While my room is pitch black after the lights are out, there was no mistaking the presence of an entity other than myself. And then, and then what seemed to be respiration. Whatever lay next to me was breathing. In and out. In and out.

A few nights later,

...She was back.

Suddenly, something was lying against my feet. There was no mistaking the weight of what by now I was convinced was none other than my little Buddy. I had been given the distinct honor of another nocturnal visit from my beloved pooch.

Oddly enough, there was no fear, and it was something I had hoped might happen again.

Fast forward several months.

As with most pet owners who have lost a pet it took me quite some time to begin to ‘get over’ the loss of my little Buddy. One night as I was walking, and that very moment thinking about my precious pooch, and passing the house which borders my own,

…I saw her.

My beloved Buddy was walking across the street ten feet in front of me!

And upon reaching my neighbor’s yard, the tiny white creature before me simply dematerialized.

I cannot account for the visitations of my beloved little dog, and have not attempted to account for them. They simply were. Whether my Buddy literally appeared in my bedroom, and subsequently in the street before me, or whether the phantom experiences were simply a gift from God, almost cinematic in context, I cannot say.

Whatever the case, I am gratified to have participated in these unique experiences, and they have convinced me of the reality of life after death; not only for those loved ones who have gone on before me, but for my beloved pets, as well.

It’s convenient for me to believe that My Buddy now basks in The Light that will never fade. In that place where basking and stretching and lingering knows neither beginning nor ending. I think the grasses must be lusher there. I think the flowers must be fairer there. I think the wind must be more winsome there. I think.

And though her master has given way to her Master, and though my care has given way to His care, no one bids her, “Come inside.” No voice bids her leave her solitary solitude. “Come in the house” is never verbalized, since she is in The House.

And such fantasies comfort me like none other. And I am too close to counting them reality. I just want, No I just expect to see My Little Buddy again. I can’t imagine not doing so.

I dreamed about My Little Friend last night; the first dream of its kind since her passing. And it occurs to me that it’s already nebulous to me. Seems like the dream involved heaven. Seems like it included My Buddy. Seems like The Master was trying to tell me something. Seems like.

(from the volume, “My Little Buddy” by William McDonald. Copyright 2017)