![]() ![]() Vrain Canyon, Colorado, in a surreal haze of mortal terror and fatigue. The next day, not knowing what to do with myself, I stuck to my plans to go climbing and navigated the slick granite of the South St. I stayed up with him all night until he passed, his flanks heaving under my hand then flexing imperceptibly as he panted a final fusillade of shallow breaths. He told me with his eyes in the month leading up to his death and especially on his final day. When Clyde went, it was quick, and natural, and it was his time. Clyde was my anchor through years of diabolical iatrogenic health issues on more than one occasion, the thought of leaving him alone was enough to keep me from ending my life. ![]() If Clyde had known you since he was a puppy, he would freak out at the sight of you, dancing and howling and baying “Woo-woo-woo” until he’d received enough ear scratches to calm down again. Clyde made it to age 14: quite old for his size and for his breed, and having lived a life full of travel, time at the rocks, and the love he soaked up from us, his family, and his many close friends. I’d had Clyde since he was two months old, a small, pug-nosed ball of brindle-furred, squeaky love who grew-all too quickly-to become a tall, long-limbed, long-snouted, lope-gaited 80-pound hound dog. ![]() I lost my Plott hound Clyde last May in one long, endless day that blurred into night that blurred into day again. Heading out the door? Read this article on the new Outside+ app available now on iOS devices for members! ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |