ArcaMax

My dog, who emitted her typical deep sigh seconds before the medicine stopped her heart, just didn't understand the fuss around her -- and why she couldn't quite get up to romp around with everyone as she had before.

She was a good dog, but she was not a perfect dog. In the haze of grief that settles around the stark finality of death, there seems to be a desire to glaze life with hyperbole instead of detailing the truth of life. She barked a lot. She didn't tolerate other dogs and only some people. Her habits, for better or worse, became part of our family's baseline of normal.

We had failed to socialize her in the same ways as the farmers market dogs -- the rugged ones with leashes attached to belts of those who already hiked that morning or the ones carted around in carriers with equally slow shuffling owners. She had not been properly acclimatized to people, other dogs, or hiking.

She was a good dog, with all bark and some bite. As she grew older, she cultivated disdain for people who came to our house arbitrarily. Some she would tolerate. Some she would stick her face in their crotch as I'd tug to pull her back into proper human decorum.

She'd pensively stare down the person and decide that something wasn't right. She'd grow quiet and unmoving, which some dog lovers took to mean calm affection, but I knew it was a second away from the hair on her neck slowly rising, accompanied by a low growl. We could never figure out who she'd like and who wouldn't pass muster.

She was a good dog with our kids but loved my husband more than anyone. She tried to win his affection even though he had a much more regimented place for dogs in a family. He had trained her to stare longingly at him from about 5 feet as he cooked.

I, however, had grown up with a kitchen that was made smaller by the rest of the pack eying the floor as I maneuvered around them. She would lay near the stove, usually in front of the shelves where I'd need to fetch something. I'd ask her to please move as I'd inch open the drawer, and she'd wait until I slid her paw across the tile, when she'd sigh and readjust just enough for me to grab a bowl.

The kitchen will be larger now, and emptier.

She was a good dog, but a middling guard dog. She declared the deep, immediate danger we were all in when as dogs trotted by our house with their owners. Yelling through the house at her that "it's fine, Kira" did very little to calm her, as her little alarm woofs would get lower and taken back to the living room window with indignation. Toward her later years, I'd tell her she was doing a good job protecting us from the mom with the stroller. She'd still pull up her face into a smile despite losing an eye for the full effect.

And yet, when we plopped cats in front of her, her scans reported no threat, and she'd meander back over to the couch for a nap.

She was a good dog, but she was achingly common. For years, I termed her the Generic Las Cruces Dog because variations of her stature and coloring were repeated in different dogs we'd seen around town and owned by friends. She has primos everywhere. She was also the most typical food-motivated dog. When she spent dinner in the living room where she had been all day, unable to get up and even limp over, I knew our time was up.

She was a good dog, perfectly ordinary, and ours for a beautifully normal speck of time.

After she passed, and we all took time to process the moment, I leaned over to press my forehead against her cheekbone, an act unthinkable a minute before, as she would have whipped over to try and lick me. "One more lesson for us," I whispered. "You were a good, good dog."

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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