This has been a day of adjustment.    I got up at about 6AM to feed Roxie, who was insisting that it was time to eat.  However, I was able to go back to bed for an hour.

I spent the day getting sour dough ready, baking a cake and putting chicken in the crockpot before I joint Janet and Toni at Antoinette's for lunch and a CWI discussion. 

I fixed Kraft Mac and Cheese with hot dogs for Dick for lunch. 

We had crock pot chicken with rice and kohlrabi for our supper. 

Tomorrow will be easier.   The family are sending sympathy cards and messages.   Dick and Brenda even sent flowers.  The flowers will keep our little fuzzy friend alive a bit longer.   I heard her walking around the house last night.

Here is the poem that Jimmy Stewart wrote:


     "Beau"


       by Jimmy Stewart

     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.

/This poem was taken from /_Jimmy Stewart and His Poems_ /by Jimmy Stewart, a short collection of poems published by Crown Publishers, Inc. in 1989. To order this book, call the Full Circle Book Store at 1-800-683-READ. Refer to ISBN number 0-517-57382-2. It's a little illustrated hardback that costs about $12. /