In Memory of Clementine

I’m sitting down to write this at 5:12pm on Saturday, November 5, 2022. Less than two hours ago, my best friend passed away, so I would like to take this opportunity to share everything she means to me.

Why am I writing this so soon after her passing? Mostly because all I can think about is how much I love her and how badly her absence already hurts, so I’m hoping that going over the impact she had on me will do something. The unfortunate reality is that there was very little leadup to her passing, and while I had come to expect this sooner or later given her age, having her go from “oh, she seems a little stiff this morning” to “the surgery will not help her in any recommendable way” has left my brain whirling. Writing has proven to be the best outlet for me over the past few years, so I’m going to see if it can help here.

On that note, I apologize for all the bummer, personal shit that’s about to follow. Telling her story requires telling a portion of my own, and it’s mostly pathetic anecdotes that I normally keep tucked away in the past. But as I want to illustrate what a wonderful friend she has been to me, I will present those shames for others to see.

With that, please allow me to talk about Clementine.

We’ll start about thirty years ago, which likely seems absurd as Clementine only lived to 10 ½ years old, but it’s unfortunately best if we open by covering one of those pathetic anecdotes, specifically some facts about my father. In short, my father was not a good man, and I’ll list out some descriptors that apply to him.

Wifebeater, bipolar, alcoholic, thief, drug addict, bigot, child abuser, homophobe, racist, felon.

Not a good man. Before I was born, he abused the hell out of my mom and would lie and cheat other members of the family. He did not want me—he only wanted one child, my older brother—and he attempted to dispute parenthood over me six months after I was born, which was also when my parents got divorced. During their separation, my father managed to saddle my mother with half the debts he had accrued for himself, leaving her a single mother with two kids, over $30,000 in debt, and a monster of an ex-husband who—for some god-forsaken reason—insisted on seeing both my brother and myself.

He was a known drug addict at this time, by the way. Every other courtroom judge in the nation likely would have denied him any right to see his children, but the stars happened to align so that the judge overseeing that case was an “enthusiast” as well (she was convicted on several counts of possession around a decade later, as I heard). Thus, I consider the fact that I was forced to visit that awful man every other weekend to be a failure of our legal system more than anything.

Regardless, I spent years calling that man my father. It cannot be understated how distressing it to grow up with a man whose mental state fluctuates so wildly. Between his own imbalances and the effects of his legally and illegally obtained medications, he was anything but predictable, and I quickly learned how to perceive the slightest changes in his emotions because my own safety often hinged on knowing whether or not he was in a good mood.

I consider myself lucky that he only beat me a handful of times. Thanks to his myriad addictions, that man’s body grew weaker over the years, so he focused on verbal abuse. That of course still did significant damage to me—it is quite painful when the man you’re supposed to love and admire is actively working to break you—but I’ve seen how bad it can get for kids whose parents preferred to be “hands-on”.

(As an aside, the following paragraphs are not reflective of my current mental state. Although the loss of Clementine has hurt like nothing else, I have no desire to end my life prematurely.)

Suffice it to say that his inclusion in my life was scarring. By the time I was in my teens, I had grown to hate myself as much as he hated me, and I developed severe depression and suicidal thoughts. I felt incredibly disassociated with myself, like I was both a puppet and the puppeteer who was making me act like everything was okay. Even after my father finally abandoned me—he was fleeing the state over drug possession—when I was 15, the misery persisted.

I was 19 when I began actively considering how I would kill myself, culminating in me drafting my suicide note and planning to slice my wrists in the bathtub (I didn’t want to make a mess). Fortunately, something I cannot recall interrupted me, and I went back to pretending I was normal for a while.

Then, purely on coincidence—as I don’t believe she’s aware I ever harbored suicidal thoughts—my mom suggested we get a dog for my 20th birthday. I went along with it, not really giving it much thought.

I can now look back and say that whim led to the happiest days of my life.

My mom wanted a guard dog, so a German Shepherd seemed appropriate. She searched Craigslist, found a family out in the boonies with a litter of mixed puppies, and we went to go check them out, maybe put a collar on the one we wanted since the pups were only 6 ½ weeks old at the time (for reference, puppies should be adopted no younger than 8 weeks, ideally at 12 weeks). The family told us we had to take one today if we wanted it, so I picked the only one that didn’t have a name and we took her home with us.

On the drive back, I decided to name her Clementine. I just thought it sounded cute, but the name has its roots in the word “clemency”, or “mercy”.

I like to believe that she was God, or maybe the world, showing mercy on the dumbass kid who let his father decimate his self-esteem.

It’s hard to describe just how much having Clementine in my life transformed me. In the beginning, I felt overwhelmed by how much she needed, to the point I told my mother I wasn’t sure I could handle the responsibility, but I’m beyond glad to have stuck with her. Playing with that little puppy and taking care of her needs devoured my free time, yet I could not have cared less. Teaching her tricks, running around the yard with her, taking her for walks, napping with her—she became everything to me.

She became my reason to live, and I stopped wishing something would just kill me.

If I can be allowed a bit of hubris, I think she also needed me. When we got her, she had fleas, a bellyful of tapeworms, and ear mites, and I made sure those problems were treated ASAP. As she grew older, she then began to display severe skin allergies (apparently a somewhat common occurrence in German Shepherds), and I had the vets run every test possible to figure out how to relieve her constant itching. This led to us working with a dermatology specialist, and Clementine received custom treatment to mitigate her symptoms throughout her life.

I don’t have exact numbers, but I would estimate I’ve spent over $25,000 on her care. Hard to believe my broke, college student ass could have handled even the early stages of those costs, but I hope that illustrates just how much Clementine and her happiness meant to me.

We were a matched set. A guy who needed a dog to give him a purpose and a dog who needed someone who would devote the time and money to her health.

I would like to thank whatever force was responsible for pairing us together.

But getting back on track, that first year with Clementine was vital for me. Through her, I finally became a human being who did not hate himself and was content enough to simply exist, and the timing was perfect as my father chose that year to reenter my life.

I feel incredibly stupid for this now, but I tried to forgive him and get along, if only to fall in line with the beliefs the rest of my family had. I really, really tried to be a “good” son and move past all the horrible things he did.

But that man was rotten to the core. While he claimed to have converted to Christianity and taken all of the Lord’s gospel into himself, he was still not a good man.

The moment that freed me of his influence was when I was describing the costs of all Clementine’s vet visits to my father. You wanna know what he said?

“You should have had that dog put down.”

I didn’t say anything on that phone call, but something in me snapped. It was like I suddenly couldn’t care less about how he or anyone in my family saw me—I simply fucking hated him for admonishing me for putting in the care for my precious friend. After that, I started working to avoid speaking with him whenever possible, and I remember having several conversations with my mom about what an asshole he was. She would always retort with, “He’s not an asshole—he’s the whole ass.”

Things came to a head on my 21st birthday. We were preparing to go out to some fancy steakhouse with my family when my father decided to call. Naturally, he wasn’t just looking to wish me a happy birthday as he then described his plans to move back to California so he could be a bigger part of my life again. But before he could do so, he dictated that I would have to explicitly state that I forgive him.

I did not.

The years of resentment within me exploded out, and I explained in no uncertain terms that I didn’t forgive him and in fact hated him. He was somehow shocked by this and tried to convince me that I had been conditioned by mom to feel that way, but I assured that my loathing for him was my own. We argued a bit longer, then I chose to end things.

My last words to him were, “I have better things to do—goodbye,” and I have not spoken to him since.

He attempted to win me back by sending money and well-wishes through my brother, but I ignored the pleasantries and donated every dollar he sent me to a charity. That apparently didn’t make it clear that I wanted nothing to do with him, and my mom eventually had to tell my brother to tell that man what I was doing with everything he sent, which finally silenced him.

And I believe I have Clementine to thank for giving me the confidence and self-respect needed to shove off that wretch I mistakenly called my father.

They say a dog is a man’s best friend, and I cannot disagree less with that statement. In loving Clementine, I learned to love myself, and she was the partner I never knew I needed. She was always happy to see me, she comforted me when I was down, and she gave me more joy than I ever deserved. She was the focus of my life for the past decade, and I will never consider that time wasted.

Shortly after Clementine turned a year old, we picked her up a sister: a Border Collie we named Isabella. The two of them became inseparable, and I was happy that Clemmy had a friend to play with while I was working. We gave them two walks a day everyday and plenty of toys so they were never too bored, and I think my health—both physical and mental—has only improved since introducing the dogs into my life.

Of course, things weren’t always perfect, but there’s no need to go over the times Clementine chewed on something she shouldn’t have. Even those moments have become fond memories, and I’m glad I got to work and fight with her to decide on what constituted a bite.

The last 10 years flew by, but even my beloved Clementine wasn’t immune to time. She grew greyer and sassier, and she became a gorgeous and hilarious old lady. However, she started displaying rare moments of weakness in her rear legs, but as these never persisted more than a day, I discarded them as symptoms of her entering her elder years.

I want to blame myself for not taking those moments more seriously, but that’s simply my self-loathing bubbling back up. The truth is that she received checkups and blood tests multiple times a year, they never indicated she had any notable issues or sicknesses. But as the vet told me today, Clementine was likely feeling pain and stress in her legs for months but tried to hide it as most dogs do.

She always was a tough bitch. Just earlier this year, a neighbor’s dog got loose and attacked our new puppy, Paprika. But before it could get her, Clementine shoved her way in between them, taking a bite on the neck in the process of defending her newest family member.

Old and grey, yet she was still protecting everyone she loved.

God, do I love her.

I’m so sorry that I gave Clementine such an awful last day. She was sluggish on her morning walk, due to feeling pain in her back legs again midway through, but she seemed fine after we got home. I then proceeded with giving her a bath, and we did our usual song and dance of me carrying her into the tub because “Fuck you, Peter; I’m not taking a bath.” After that, I made my bed (as I like to clean my sheets whenever I clean the dogs), and that was when I looked out the window and saw Clementine.

She was laying against our fence, which was odd enough as she preferred to be inside whenever she could, but it was especially absurd since it was starting to sprinkle rain. She hates the rain as much as she hates baths, so I went out to check on her.

She was drooling, which I interpreted as her feeling nauseous. I tried to get her to walk inside, but as she could barely stand, I carried her into the house with the intent of letting her puke on the floor if necessary. An hour passed and she still wasn’t feeling better, and as she was trembling and still unable to walk, my mom suggested that I call the emergency vet. I described her symptoms, their technician advised that we bring her in ASAP, and it was in that moment that my stomach plummeted to the bowels of Hell.

I appreciate that the vets were very prompt. After checking in, they took her to the back and ushered me into a room. The doctor came in only minutes later, and within her first few words, I could tell this was going to be the worst day of my life.

Clementine had suddenly developed lethal internal bleeding, most likely due to a tumor rupturing in her abdomen. There was a surgery they could perform that could possibly help, but the vet advised that it was very unlikely to improve her condition or extend her life.

She then recommended a humane euthanasia.

It almost feels like I’m just writing another story when I put all this down here. That whole visit feels like a distant, traumatic dream, but it was only hours ago, and I know I’m never going to wake up and see my Clementine again.

I hate it.

The vet techs brought Clementine into the room, and I must have spent over an hour weeping over her half-sedated form. I kept apologizing for the horrible day I had given her and for not having the means to save her life, and I choked out every utterance of “I love you” I had for her. My mom eventually arrived to say goodbye to Clementine as well, and I had to ask her to press the buzzer that would summon the doctor to give the final injection as I didn’t have the strength to do it myself.

I am so thankful that I got to hold Clementine in her last moments. I can still feel how soft and warm she was as I stroked her back and soaked her neck with tears. I hope she was happy to have been held by me as well.

Clementine’s heart then stopped beating, and she was gone.

I wanted to stay with her longer. I wanted to stay there, seated on the floor and wrapping myself around her forever. I wanted to ignore the fact that if I took too long, the sedatives would wear off and her pain would return.

But I loved her with every atom of my being, and it would have been selfish to have forced her to persist.

She did not whimper or jump or anything. The euthanasia did its work, and she simply stopped breathing.

They offered to cremate her and send me the ashes, but I elected just to request a print of her paw. I understand the sentimentality but having a box of ashes that used to be my best friend just felt like it would extend my pain. I have the tags that were on her leash, hundreds of photos, and innumerable memories of our time together. A little clay paw print is the only thing I’d like to mark the end of her life.

Now, I’m here. I drove home, walked our other two dogs, then sat down to write this. I’m angry at my body for feeling hungry as I would have thought I’d be so heartbroken that I would have lost my appetite, but I’m going to interpret this as another sign of the strength Clementine gave me.

The me of 10 years ago would likely have killed himself by now. That guy would not have been able to survive losing her, so he probably would have swerved into oncoming traffic on the ride back in the hopes of being reunited with Clementine sooner.

But I know that’s not what Clemmy would want. She showed me love that I had wanted my entire life, and it would be unforgivable if I threw that life away just because she’s no longer in it. Nothing will ever fill the hole that has been carved into my heart today, but discarding myself entirely would be an insult to everything that beautiful dog did for me.

I will press on and bear the love and memories she gave me as my means of thanking Clementine for giving me a reason to live so long ago.

Just before the vet euthanized her, I said that Clementine was my best friend. I wish I had gotten that vet’s name, as she gave me a response that has been wonderfully cemented in mind amidst the anguish.

“She will always be your best friend.”

To Clementine: thank you so much for being a part of my life. I hope I was a good friend to you, as you were the brightest star in all my years. I’m so sorry I gave you a bath on your last day, but I hope you’ll wait for me until we can meet again.

I love you so much, my precious Clementine.

I will never forget you and all that you mean to me.

Sleep well, big girl.