The breeders named her Sarah. Not only is that a ridiculous name for any dog, it was totally inappropriate for her. When Dear Wife brought her home, she spent a few moments sniffing the corners before hopping up on the bed, settling on the pillows and looking around as if to say “This is where I belong”. Dear Wife re-named her Cleo, short for Cleopatra because she quite obviously saw herself as a queen.
Her original role in life was to be a show dog and her bloodlines reflected her pedigree. However, being skittish and somewhat nervous around strangers, at the age of three months it was deemed that she did not have a suitable temperament for such a world. Instead she was sold into the much happier and healthier life as a spoiled rotten house pet. Dear Wife already had one Australian Shepherd, named Madison who was bred from herding stock – a very different animal. Yet although their personalities couldn’t have been more dissimilar, the pair bonded instantly and became inseparable friends until Madison’s death in 2002. While Madison was stiff, serious and hard-working, Cleo was lithe, puppyish and agile, a natural athlete.
She had a turn of speed that had to be seen to be believed. She never actually caught any of the jackrabbits she chased in the deserts of Arizona, but she certainly gave a few of them a good scare. One evening we were taking a short cut across a patch of undeveloped land, not too far from our house when she took off after a cottontail. I would love to have put a radar gun on her because I doubt my car could have matched the speed at which she tore across the ground. Not from a standing start it couldn’t. She and the cottontail disappeared into the night, with only a light cloud of dust to indicate where she might be. I’m not sure how far the rabbit took her but it was a good five minutes before she came trotting back, smiling happily and fortunately, with no evidence she’d won the race. But it wasn’t just her speed – the flexibility of her spine would have been the envy of a yogi and she could leap a good four feet straight up from a standing start. By the time dog agility contests were becoming fashionable she was already past her prime which was a pity as she had all the makings of a champion.
Her coat was astonishingly soft, retaining a puppy-like quality well into her advanced age. Over time we got used to the clouds of hair which entered every aspect of our lives, Clothing to furniture to food, there was nowhere you wouldn’t find Cleo hair. We often thought if we could simply find a way to harvest it and turn it into clothing, we could clothe the entire nation. Actually, we did hear of a lady who for a fee, would take bags of dog hair and turn them into sweaters. Sounds good until you wonder what it would smell like the first time you went out in the rain. Wet dog, mmm hmmm!
For all her distrust of strangers, she was a dog who thrived on human contact and was visibly distraught when separated from Dear Wife and me for any length of time. There were occasions when we had to wonder if she actually realized she was a dog at all as it was common for her to react with horror if we inconsiderately treated her as one. She would often stare at us through the glass doors, quite obviously saying “There’s been a terrible mistake – you’ve locked me outside along with the dogs!”
Despite being plagued with arthritis for most of her life, Madison almost saw her sixteenth birthday; easily outlasting the average life span for the breed. Because she’d always been so healthy, as well as looking and acting much younger than her age, we simply assumed Cleo would live even longer. Sadly it was not to be. When her old friend passed on it was as if Cleo simply gave up and in a matter of months she aged by several years. In no time we had another old dog on our hands and while she never really suffered any illness as such, she was beset with most of the ailments by which old dogs are afflicted. Her eyesight, hearing and eventually, sense of smell left her and she became a confused and senile old lady. Where Madison appeared to be blissfully happy in her dotage, Cleo seemed distressed and frightened; as if she knew something was wrong but didn’t understand what it was.
It’s never an easy decision to let go of a beloved friend, particularly one who’s been such an integral part of your life for a decade and a half. But there comes a time when every dog owner has to recognize that their pet’s quality of life has deteriorated to the point when they’re simply no longer happy. After a lot of long talks, hugs and tears, we finally reached that point this weekend. We’re blessed in that Kris, our dogs’ primary veterinarian, is also a close friend and she kindly agreed to come to the house. The plan was to make the whole process as comfortable and straightforward as possible. Sasha, our nutso dog was locked upstairs but Wiley, an older dog herself these days, was allowed to stay and give moral support. She lay with her head close to Cleo’s the whole time.
But, bless her heart, Cleo had to play with us one more time. After giving a shot to relax her, Kris prepared to administer the lethal dose. As it’s often hard to find a vein on an older dog, this was going to be directly into the heart. Except even with a stethoscope, Kris couldn’t find it, which suggested it was either beating very faintly or had stopped altogether. Not a problem, injecting into the lungs, while not being instantaneous, is as near as. Or rather it wasn’t. Twenty minutes on, dear Cleo was now breathing stronger than we’d seen in months. Curiously, this made the process less painful, particularly as though her body might still be functioning; we were each convinced we’d “felt” her leave a little while ago. That was the point when Wiley placed her nose half an inch from Cleo’s, then settled back down with her head on her paws. Just like she was escorting the spirit on its way. A second dose was administered and finally, after gladdening our hearts for almost fifteen years, our baby slipped away from us.
Happy trails Cleo my friend. We’ll never forget you.
Her original role in life was to be a show dog and her bloodlines reflected her pedigree. However, being skittish and somewhat nervous around strangers, at the age of three months it was deemed that she did not have a suitable temperament for such a world. Instead she was sold into the much happier and healthier life as a spoiled rotten house pet. Dear Wife already had one Australian Shepherd, named Madison who was bred from herding stock – a very different animal. Yet although their personalities couldn’t have been more dissimilar, the pair bonded instantly and became inseparable friends until Madison’s death in 2002. While Madison was stiff, serious and hard-working, Cleo was lithe, puppyish and agile, a natural athlete.
She had a turn of speed that had to be seen to be believed. She never actually caught any of the jackrabbits she chased in the deserts of Arizona, but she certainly gave a few of them a good scare. One evening we were taking a short cut across a patch of undeveloped land, not too far from our house when she took off after a cottontail. I would love to have put a radar gun on her because I doubt my car could have matched the speed at which she tore across the ground. Not from a standing start it couldn’t. She and the cottontail disappeared into the night, with only a light cloud of dust to indicate where she might be. I’m not sure how far the rabbit took her but it was a good five minutes before she came trotting back, smiling happily and fortunately, with no evidence she’d won the race. But it wasn’t just her speed – the flexibility of her spine would have been the envy of a yogi and she could leap a good four feet straight up from a standing start. By the time dog agility contests were becoming fashionable she was already past her prime which was a pity as she had all the makings of a champion.
Her coat was astonishingly soft, retaining a puppy-like quality well into her advanced age. Over time we got used to the clouds of hair which entered every aspect of our lives, Clothing to furniture to food, there was nowhere you wouldn’t find Cleo hair. We often thought if we could simply find a way to harvest it and turn it into clothing, we could clothe the entire nation. Actually, we did hear of a lady who for a fee, would take bags of dog hair and turn them into sweaters. Sounds good until you wonder what it would smell like the first time you went out in the rain. Wet dog, mmm hmmm!
For all her distrust of strangers, she was a dog who thrived on human contact and was visibly distraught when separated from Dear Wife and me for any length of time. There were occasions when we had to wonder if she actually realized she was a dog at all as it was common for her to react with horror if we inconsiderately treated her as one. She would often stare at us through the glass doors, quite obviously saying “There’s been a terrible mistake – you’ve locked me outside along with the dogs!”
Despite being plagued with arthritis for most of her life, Madison almost saw her sixteenth birthday; easily outlasting the average life span for the breed. Because she’d always been so healthy, as well as looking and acting much younger than her age, we simply assumed Cleo would live even longer. Sadly it was not to be. When her old friend passed on it was as if Cleo simply gave up and in a matter of months she aged by several years. In no time we had another old dog on our hands and while she never really suffered any illness as such, she was beset with most of the ailments by which old dogs are afflicted. Her eyesight, hearing and eventually, sense of smell left her and she became a confused and senile old lady. Where Madison appeared to be blissfully happy in her dotage, Cleo seemed distressed and frightened; as if she knew something was wrong but didn’t understand what it was.
It’s never an easy decision to let go of a beloved friend, particularly one who’s been such an integral part of your life for a decade and a half. But there comes a time when every dog owner has to recognize that their pet’s quality of life has deteriorated to the point when they’re simply no longer happy. After a lot of long talks, hugs and tears, we finally reached that point this weekend. We’re blessed in that Kris, our dogs’ primary veterinarian, is also a close friend and she kindly agreed to come to the house. The plan was to make the whole process as comfortable and straightforward as possible. Sasha, our nutso dog was locked upstairs but Wiley, an older dog herself these days, was allowed to stay and give moral support. She lay with her head close to Cleo’s the whole time.
But, bless her heart, Cleo had to play with us one more time. After giving a shot to relax her, Kris prepared to administer the lethal dose. As it’s often hard to find a vein on an older dog, this was going to be directly into the heart. Except even with a stethoscope, Kris couldn’t find it, which suggested it was either beating very faintly or had stopped altogether. Not a problem, injecting into the lungs, while not being instantaneous, is as near as. Or rather it wasn’t. Twenty minutes on, dear Cleo was now breathing stronger than we’d seen in months. Curiously, this made the process less painful, particularly as though her body might still be functioning; we were each convinced we’d “felt” her leave a little while ago. That was the point when Wiley placed her nose half an inch from Cleo’s, then settled back down with her head on her paws. Just like she was escorting the spirit on its way. A second dose was administered and finally, after gladdening our hearts for almost fifteen years, our baby slipped away from us.
Happy trails Cleo my friend. We’ll never forget you.
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