Happy 21st

Dear Luke, You are missed buddy. You were one of a kind. Smartest dog ever, and eager to please. You would have been 21 years old this week. That's the one thing that just isn't fair. I wanted you to live one day longer than me. Love you Luke.

Happy Birthday Luke

You were among the greatest gifts, and most touching "honors" that ever came in to my life. Our time together riding around the mountains and country side, hiking trails, and wading in the river will never be forgotten as long as I live. You were a blessing that cannot be described, and a once in a life time companion. Stay Boy. One day I'll be coming to find you.

Happy Birthday Old Boy.

You're missed.

Merry Christmas Old Boy

 

 

I'll always love a dog named Luke.

A touching poem by Jimmy Stewart on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byA3JAdqPQk

God made a Dog (He certainly did).

 

I love this video. 

TAKE JOY IN OLD DOGS

Their joys are simple.  A soft bed.  A scrap fallen from the table that the younger dogs missed. The memory of a treed squirrel.  A stormless night.

White whiskered faces and legs crooked as question marks.

Old Dogs…their sweet Buddha bellies hang over crossed legs as they fall asleep in a coveted patch of sun.  Dreaming of out-racing their shadows down long, shady lanes.

Once they danced by your side.  The very definition of joy unleashed.  A perfect poem caught in shining eyes and wagging tails.  They have followed you faithfully for years. And would plunge into fires, untamed wildernesses, raging waters if you asked.

Now, they struggle to catch up.  Their pace slow but their hearts still valiant.

Their cloudy eyes are starting to dim and go distant, tuning in to some invisible world.  Just beyond your reach.

Don’t go you say, as you scratch the tender part between their ears.  Stay longer.  I can’t imagine a world without your fur pressed close to my cheek.  There are still so many roads we haven’t explored.

And they look up at you with a wisdom that just slays you.

Their backs are bent, not from the weight of years, but from the invisible wings they are growing

That will soon take them to a place where once more they are warriors of speed

Drunk with the sights and scents of a thousand meadows.

Able to leap high enough to touch the wing of the tiniest butterfly.

         A place where they will now wait for you to catch up.