Unattended, the Bichon Frise puppy would tear into anything he could get his mouth on—newspapers, socks, a Steinert High windbreaker, my brand new fitted New York Mets hat.
At night, he’d cry and whine until someone would check on him. Many nights, I would trudge downstairs to sleep a few hours on the kitchen floor, one hand stretched into Clancy’s crate. Satisfied by the attention, he would nuzzle up against my arm and go to sleep. Clancy was hardly bigger than my hand. The runt of his litter, a cuddly white puff.
There must have been something about those nights because Clancy and I developed a bond. I’ve known many dogs in my lifetime—and he had plenty of people in his life—but I like to think we shared something special.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that bond recently, not the least because thoughts are all that’s left. On Nov. 28—the day after Thanksgiving—my family had to say good-bye to Clancy. He had turned 15 a week earlier.
In the weeks before his passing, he stopped eating. He slept all day. He labored as he breathed. He rarely barked or moved or noticed any of the world around him. I celebrated little victories in this period—his nibbling at food or showing a fleeting interest in playing. But they were merely consolation prizes.
This wasn’t the Clancy I knew. My Clancy loved to run in the yard, his gait more of a frolic than a sprint. He naturally bounced, it seemed, cheerfully pushing off just his back legs, then his front.
He lived to be a sidekick, and craved constant attention. He had a special way of telling you if he felt he was being ignored—during a family gathering on Christmas 2013, he interrupted a card game by depositing some “presents” near my grandmother’s feet.
By November, it became clear that version of Clancy had gone, no matter how much anyone tried to fight it. An X-ray on Nov. 28 sealed that fate when it revealed cancer had formed throughout Clancy’s lungs. There wasn’t much to do.
That day, friends tried to cheer me up by saying, “He had a long life.” And that’s true—at 15, he had been around for half of my life. He had been there for my first spring track practice as a freshman at Steinert, the long nights trying to memorize the preamble to the Constitution for American government class, the jubilation of receiving college acceptance letters and the apprehension of leaving home for the first time. He was there when I asked out my first girlfriend—and there, too, to provide comfort after my first heartbreak.
He had seen me bloom from awkward, unsure teenager into awkward, unsure adult, just as I saw him grow older—his chestnut eyes slowly clouding, the stiffness in the hips, the hoarseness of his bark. But to the end, age didn’t matter. Through it all, he was a constant companion.
We had this ritual where I would sit down and stick my right hand out, leaving it about a foot from the floor. Clancy would run to my hand, and push his neck up so that the top of his head brushed against my palm. He’d then walk forward, pressing his body against my hand all the while—the way a cat does when it wants to be pet. He’d stop walking when my hand was just about at his tail, and he’d turn around and do it again.
We did this every day. Even in his later years, when his joints started to fail and walking could be a chore, he’d always respond to the outstretched hand.
Days after Clancy’s passing, I stuck my hand out while sitting at the kitchen table, partly out of habit. The whole exercise had become something of a stress reliever for me over the years. I didn’t expect the dog to once again rush forth, but I needed something to soothe me in his absence. The irony struck me—I was seeking comfort from him because of him.
Gradually the post-Clancy world has taken hold, and life has marched on, as it always does. But I still miss the little things. Like how, when he wanted something, he would come to me with his eyes wide, and “talk,” a Morse code of barks, whines and whimpers.
Or how, when he wanted to play, he’d run to your feet, bark and run away, twisting his head around to ensure you were chasing him. If you weren’t, he’d run right back, and try again. Once you relented, you’d only have to take a step toward him before he’d scurry through the house, skidding along the hardwood floors.
But, mostly, I miss his gentleness. Whenever I’d give him a treat, he’d take it from my hand delicately, afraid to risk biting me. I’d never seen such self-awareness from a dog before. Normally, if a hand comes between a pooch and its food, then too bad for the hand. But Clancy retained his gentle nature to the end.
At one point, as we sat in the veterinarian’s office for what would be his last appointment, Clancy sighed and lay down, leaning his head against my knee—it seemed he too understood the stakes. The vet listened to his breathing, and said she needed to take an X-ray to verify what she thought was a tumor. When the vet confirmed her suspicions, she took Clancy, handed him to me for the final time and said, “Here, hold your brother.”
The vet wasn’t overstating things with that designation—at times, I would call him “Brother”—and it was an odd sensation knowing that these were our last moments together.
As I held him in my lap, I rested my head on his. I sat there for a moment, trying to collect myself. Then I stood up, handed Clancy to the vet’s assistant, and walked to the car without looking back.
I sat in the car in silence, staring at the sleeves of my jacket. The sun illuminated something on my coat. A tuft of curly, white hairs.
I’ve had plenty of dog hair on my clothing before, just never from Clancy. Bichons are what the American Kennel Club calls “hypoallergenic dogs.” They don’t shed.
But Clancy did in that moment. I chalked it up as a parting gift, secured one of the wavy hairs, and placed it in my pocket.
Weeks later, most of the physical reminders of Clancy have disappeared. His bowl and bed aren’t on the kitchen floor anymore. The white hairs on my coat have fallen off or blown away. Silence has replaced the familiar clinking of his dog tag. But he isn’t gone.
Therapists recommend aiding the grieving process by putting your thoughts into writing. It only seemed natural, as a writer, that I do this. But, for the longest time, I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
One day, long-forgotten memories suddenly surged forth. The screen filled with more words than I could possibly use. Clancy had come alive in my mind.
There’s no coming back—he’ll have to stay there now. But at least I can find comfort in the fact he’ll never be far away.
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2015 01 HP MFSE_Clancy,
