In Memoriam: Copper

Copper's impact on the household is impossible to describe. My late roommate purchased him years ago, when he was retired from the show ring, with the intention of breeding him to the tricolor female that we owned at the time, UKC Gr. Ch, AKC Ch. La Isla's Wickfair Watersprite (Sprite). It would have been a pairing to remember. Sprite was from West Coast royalty, while Copper was from a longstanding Texas kennel that had previously produced Top Ten winners. Sadly, it was not to be. My roommate died of complications from diabetes shortly after getting Copper and Sprite followed her over the bridge shortly after that. I had no breeding rights to Copper, but he remained in my household for another decade, just being a splendid pet and companion.

At first, Copper could only be politely described as "standoffish." He had been raised in a kennel and, through no fault of his own, had the attitude that many kennel-raised dogs have. Over time, he grew into parallel house sharing: If I sat on the couch, he'd be happy to share the other end of the couch for a bit. While not snappy, he reminded me of Emperor Kuzco from "The Emperor's New Groove." Reach out to pet him and you could practically hear him saying "No touchy!" in Kuzco's voice. I was happy to let him live his life as he chose, as I was busy with Badger and teaching basic agility lessons. Much to my surprise, Copper was also good at agility--at least the running and the obstacles part. The only part he never got was the "teamwork" part. That kept him off the competition courses, but he still enjoyed running like the wind and leaping over jumps. "Hup, HUP, HUP, BIG HUP! HERE!" Sometimes, he would come. Other times he would run across the field and bark at the horse in the neighboring pasture. It was all good. It was just for fun.

Over time, Copper would come to enjoy my presence and that of other dogs. He was never a super-affectionate dog, but he enjoyed sitting in my lap while I wrote. At night, he was one of three dogs that always slept in my room, along with Yaddle and Leela. Every night, he would drape himself over me wherever he had decided to settle in, and we would shift about until we were both comfortable. Some nights, he would come up to sleep with his head on my shoulder, a blissful expression on his face in these unguarded moments. Other nights, he would curl up with Leela in the crook of my knees.

Copper and Leela were special together. At 16 years, she is mostly blind and almost completely deaf. At 15.5 years, he was entering the beginning stages of dementia and was often perplexed by ordinary things that his brain had a hard time assimilating. They were an elderly couple, growing old together, protecting each other from the challenges of age. A week ago, when he felt confused and threatened by my rearranging the living room, Leela was there to comfort him, spending two days granting him reassurance through her presence. Today, Leela woke up for the first time without her guide, her eyes and ears as she moves through daily life. I know that she will be fine, but seeing her "look" for him during morning snacks was heartbreaking.

Copper was about ten when he started to slow down some. He still loved to jump, but his back didn't care for it much. He would still go outside, into the yard, although his activity was mostly trotting around and barking at the goats. In later years, when he became arthritic, he was mostly confined to his ex-pen to keep him safe but where he could still enjoy the fresh air and see the world around him. Periodically, he would follow me out to the garden, if I let him, and I let both he and Leela meander around where I could see them.

It was about December when he started to lose weight, no matter how much I fed him or what I fed him. When I lost two of my dogs in February, I was convinced that he was going to be a third, considering how much he had declined and so quickly. At his age, I decided that I wasn't going to put him through the indignity or potential pain of daily shots or other treatments, so he received the best palliative care a dog could receive. He had no idea that he wasn't just the most loved and pampered dog on the face of the planet. With his diet and his household privileges, he was convinced that he was King Copper.

About two weeks ago, I knew the end was coming soon. Copper decided that he would come out at night with me, to put the goats in their shed. He shuffled to the front of the porch and lurched down the steps. Even doing that made him tired, poor guy. I quickly crossed the yard and put the does up, then hurried back to where he was. He had an audience of several cats, watching his every move. I knew exactly where he was, even before I got there. He shuffled along the path toward the yaupon trees near the front of the yard and I could see, that in his mind, he was running like the wind.

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Yesterday, Copper refused to drink his morning buttermilk. He loved his daily buttermilk and would drink as much as I would allow. We hung close to each other, me giving him pets and bits of cheese and baked chicken, him deigning to bless me with little Copper licks. He sat with me, in my lap, as I did my writing, as he usually did, then moved to my pillow on the couch that I use for naps. At midday, he had a scrambled egg with his flea pill in it. Finished eating, he got up from the couch, shuffled over to the water dish, snuggled Leela, and then, after a while, returned to the couch. Midafternoon came and, with it, bath time. As he aged, Copper's grooming habits had declined, so he got a weekly bath to keep his fur from getting sticky. He sat quietly in the sink, as he was wont to do, leaning in as I massaged his fur with warm, soapy water. He was breathing just a little hard as I gave him towelsnuggles, but that was not unusual. His breathing was occasionally a bit labored with the high humidity we've had lately, even with the air conditioning running the way it has been.

When all of the excess water was removed from Copper's coat, I put him on the couch, intending to get him the last of the chicken. As I walked from the living room, I saw him sit up, as if he was going to jump from the couch and follow me. I returned to him--jumping was no longer allowed--and he drew up extremely tall. He threw his head back, let out a gasp, then sank to the couch cushion. He lifted his head at my approach, but it was all that he could manage. I picked him up, carried him to my writing chair, and held him close. He put his head in the crook of my elbow--and he was gone. I lifted his head in disbelief, but there was no light in his eyes.

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This morning, I awoke to a Copperless house. He wasn't there begging for my breakfast--he and Yaddle would put their paws up on the arm of the couch to maximize their begging positions. He wasn't there to guide Leela to the water dish. He wasn't there to help me write. He was just . . . gone.

Copper, you won't ever know what you meant here to me. I hope that you are running happy and free, with Sprite and Dana looking on. "Hup, HUP, HUP, BIG HUP! GO OUUUUUT!" Go out, Coppercooperman, and keep running. Run like the wind, until we meet again.