I'm sitting on the steps tonight; the air is soft and still.
Beyond the meadow in the woods, I hear a whip-poor-will.
Above the eastern hill, the moon is shining clear and bright.
And 'though the folks are sitting 'round, I feel alone tonight.
I'm thinking of a dog. You smile? Perhaps we can't agree.
But if I ever had a friend, he was a friend to me.
Each kindness he remembered, and my failings he forgot.
He loved me as I was, in spite of all that I was not.

We brought him home when he was nine, and that was years ago.
He cuddled close and wondered if I was his friend or foe.
But soon he got accustomed to the faces that were new.
He proved in time to be my pal, a loyal friend and true.
We walked together in the yard, we roamed the wooded path.
If he could just be with me, he'd face the snowstorm's wrath.
He loved the couch, and sitting close beside me on the seat,
His face expressed his feelings, those of happiness complete.

And when at times I journeyed home alone and found him here,
His welcome was the first I heard, 'twas hearty and sincere.
No one will ever have, like him, such high esteem for me.
I wish that I were half the soul that dog thought me to be.
Each day for all the time he spent, he greeted me, until
He died and left a vacant spot that nothing else can fill.
I wonder as I gaze above into the moonlit dome,
If somewhere Scooby's waiting for his mistress to come home.