This Dog Won't Go Gentle Into That Good Night

"...She's a female version of Archie Bunker, a canine Cartman."




On Tuesday night, I visited my grandmother and her dog Clover. This was going to be a goodbye play session. Grandma had made it clear for months that the now-13- or 14-year-old Cocker spaniel no longer had an acceptable quality of life, and by all accounts, this was a good idea.
This was Grandma's first pet, one she had given to my grandfather as a gift, not realizing that the puppy had been taken from its mother prematurely. Before my grandfather's passing 2007, my dad advised Grandma to bond with an animal for the first time in her life, seeing as my grandfather had health issues that meant she would eventually be the sole human in the household. Well over a decade and a half ago, a caramel-colored Cocker spaniel named Genny was my grandfather's easygoing little pal, but Grandma and Genny ignored each other. In having Clover, it so happenned that Grandma ended up with the only dog in all her emotionally distant experience with animals who had a flat-out weird, generally unpleasant personality, and it would have been nice if I could've turned back time and had Clover and Genny change places. I loved the dog, especially when she briefly submitted to games of fetch, or when her fur got long and shaggy, but she was not the ideal pet for a first-time owner. The only person she adored and treated respectfully is one of my cousins. Her humorous moments were rare and often brought on by her antisocial persona. She was a female version of Archie Bunker, a canine Cartman. When her first Christmas present came into Grandma's house, wrapped in tissue paper inside a bag, she somehow knew it was hers right away and kept her possessive nose in it all night.  Each time someone walked by, she growled, making the family laugh.

Clover was not who she used to be. She was Grandma's guard dog, which of course was an important job. She had a very cute face, big shiny eyes, a soft coat and spent years as a noisy, selfish oddball, but over the last year or so, had been confused, excreting on the kitchen's Pergo floor or the pinkish carpet of the office instead of in the backyard, and when outside, she would wander onto the adjoining neighbor's back deck to stare at the wall until someone found her. There was no longer any point in serenading her with boy band tunes while she sat by the fridge, waiting for someone to feed her meat by hand - the poor thing had also been severely losing her sight and hearing. She wandered around her home with boundary-free abandon, my little Raising Hope Cloris Leachman. My grandmother told me she had made a Wednesday night appointment for the end, which of course meant that tonight would be the big sleep, the final goodbye. I just had to come over for ice cream a day prior, scratch her chin, point her in the direction of the toy frog I had just tossed a few feet away, calling her "baby bear" and "cute little jerk-face".

Clover O'Mara, Christmas 2013.

To Clover I say, goodbye dear.  I know you won't go gentle into that good night; you'll give 'em hell in doggie heaven.