Quote:
Originally Posted by Ferd
Ode to Roscoe
Shoes, plants and electric cords never found safety.
Roscoe ate everything, his hunger was too hasty.
Mr. Pressing didn't like ole Roscoe
He often said all dogs must go
But Roscoe loved Pressing
and Pressing loved Roscoe.
We will miss the ongoing saga
of Roscoe rambunctious romps
A tale as twisted as the Huallaga
and full of things he did chomp.
Good night dear friend
you shall be missed.
If dogs do go to heaven
don't let Mr. Pressing be a witness!
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I always enjoyed this one!
A DOG NAMED BO
He 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 rose bush just to spite me,
and when I'd grab 'im he'd turn and bite me.
He bit lots of folks from day to day,
the deliv'ry boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn't read our meter,
he said we owned a real man-eater.
He sat the house on fire,
but the story's long to tell;
Suffice to say that he survived,
and, the house survived as well.
And on 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.
And he'd charge up the street
with Mom hangin' 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 awhile
he'd stop in his tracks
and with a frown on his face, look around.
It was just t'make sure,
that the old one was there,
to follow him where he was bound.
We're early-to-bedders in 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 'im one for awhile,
and he'd push it under the bed with his nose
and I'd dig it out with a smile.
But before very long, he'd tire of the ball
and he'd be asleep in his corner in no time at all,
and there where 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 this stare,
and I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there,
and I'd reach out to stroke his hair;
and sometimes I'd feel him sigh,
and I think I know the reason why.
He'd wake up at night,
and he would have this fear
of the dark, of life, of lot's 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 up on 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,
and he's not there.
Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,
I'll always love a dog named Bo.
Jimmy Stewart 1908 - 1997
(recited on Johnny Carson's show....... made Johnny cry at that.)
Once in a while I say that I miss him and Mr Pressing says, "Yea, I really miss him too." Sarcastic!!! 
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