Here's to Best Friends

So our dog, Clover, died Thursday.

She was with us for nearly 17 years. In that time, we've had a wedding, six addresses, eight cars, six job changes and two kids. But only one dog. One good dog.

Clover came into our lives under somewhat false pretenses. I believed my future wife, who said she was going to the animal shelter to just “have a look around.” She believed the folks at the shelter who told her it was Clover's “last day.” (Clover was named to commemorate her lucky break.) But she apparently didn't believe our landlords when they said “no pets allowed.”

So Clover was a clandestine canine, hidden with great skill and care for more than a year. Until one fateful day when our landlord made a surprise visit. Busted.

So I went to speak with him. He was a World War II-era vet, a really nice guy, but very old school. How to convince him? I appealed to his inner Sinatra. “Sheesh. These kooky dames with their doe eyes and soft hearts, what are you gonna do? You gotta let them have their way, right?” He smiled and agreed.

Clover, in her prime, was rocket fast and whip smart. Feisty and fearless, well, except for thunderstorms and fireworks. During the roughly two years we lived in a rented farmhouse, she would start each day by shooting at Mach 2 across the big shady yard to its farthest reaches, doing her business, and then flying back like a cannon shot to the spot where I was standing. “So what are we gonna do now?” her expression clearly begged to know. I don't think she ever quite forgave us for leaving that heavenly place of wide open space, great smells and plentiful squirrels.

After that, the kids arrived. Clover's loyalties shifted from my wife, who brought home those crying, grabby babies, to me. For the last decade, Clover has been my shadow. Always nearby.

But let the record show that she was not always a good dog. She barked at every visitor, every pizza man, everyone who walked within view of our home. She never did warm up to our kids, whom she viewed as far too dangerous and unpredictable. See, smart. Occasionally, when we gave her a bath, she would streak from the bathroom, jump onto our bed and pee. “I'm all wet. Now you're going to be wet. How do you like it?”

Finally, though, her luck ran out. She had kidney problems and anemia and a heart murmur. When the rocket could no longer walk, we knew, she knew, it was over.

Our vet was kind enough to make a house call. She called us “exceptional owners.” All I know is that Clover was an exceptional dog, and one of the best friends I'll ever have.