I haven't talked about Cliff at all since he died back in May. Too personal, too fresh, too sad, still. Yeah, he was a dog. And it's easy to say, "He was just a dog. Get the fuck over it." And I get that to a point. But you, obviously, have never had a dog quite like Cliff. And when you absolutely needed to get away from the general public and humans in general, Cliff was absolutely the friend that you needed to take with you to find that cleanse. Right now, I'm peopled out and need a fresh cleanse, but I don't have my co-pilot anymore to accompany me.
A fresh cleanse in the past meant me and my buddy heading up towards the Never Summer Wilderness atop the Poudre Canyon, finding "our spot" to set up camp, catch a couple trout, split a package of cheddar brats, watch a campfire for hours, and discuss hot topics like why people suck so terribly. My phone doesn't work up in that part of the mountains, thankfully, so it "forced" me to lay in my hammock with Cliff right next to me within petting reach, sipping on whisky and listening to the Allmans. No distractions, aside from the occasional car in the distance. Typically, the sound of the river would drown even the motorists out. That place was the perfect spot on this earth to take a breather from humans, reset, and figure out what's important. And with the best dude on this earth. He wouldn't just lay there asleep, or constantly grab a stick wanting to play, or whatever distraction...he would listen. He would engage, physically and emotionally. He'd look at you. He'd nudge you with his snoot when it was time to retort. He would lay his head on your chest when he felt you were sad or exhausted or upset. And later in the evening, when the whisky and other treats had swept rough moods under the pine cones, he would get up and shuffle and wag to Van Halen or Motorhead or whatever other release tune we had cocked and loaded. Whatever a spirit animal is, he was it. He was my bro. As I write this, it's winter. It's gray. We're getting another foot of snow tomorrow. And that's fine--it's Colorado in winter and we desperately need the precipitation. But it's got me jonesing for mild evenings around a fire, far from the general public, and with my guy. My guy that's been on so many fishing trips with me. As a pup--a 100lb pup--he would follow my fly line during every cast, while up to his ribs in cold mountain water. When a trout was hooked, he would become ridiculously interested and meet the fish about seven feet in front of me to check it out thoroughly before it went into the net. As I released fish, Cliff's head would immediately go under the water to see where it went. It was adorable. And genuinely on-brand for this kindred spirit of mine and April's. I'm peopled-out right now. I'm tired of everyone. I'm not being an asshole about it, I don't think, I'm just worn out. I need a breather. Far away. But it just doesn't appeal the same without Cliff. He put everything into perspective with his silence, his eye contact, his snoot nudges, his giant paw on my knee. Cliff was the big lummox that dragged me down into the river at said spot in the mountains one evening. That was a rough night. After cursing his existence, I tried to drink away the pain a of soon-to-be back surgery fall, but it didn't work. It just made my break-down of camp and drive down the mountain that much more challenging. But he was there for me. Ears back and giant brown eyes, he knew he goofed. He knew he pulled too hard in a fast river while lashed to me. On the way down the hill that night, while I could hardly move, he laid his head on the center console while in the backseat. He was present and concerned. That's Cliff's heart. The kids have been talking about getting another dog, but I'm not ready. I knew Cliff for 13 years. We were very close, clearly. We fished every river in Colorado together. Camped all over the damn place. Explored Missouri and Nebraska with the family. He would hike with April weekly, join us at breweries, play with our neighborhood kids, greet guests at our giant barbecues. He was just the goddamn best. And I'm not ready to "replace" him. It'd be like going out and finding a new best friend if Kevin or Bryan or Vinnie fucking died. Not that easy, man. I miss that sonofagun every damn day. I was actually fishing in Montana when he passed. He wouldn't get up to say goodbye before I left, and I just thought he was pissed that I was going without him. Thought he was pouting, by not getting up from laying in the backyard to come say goodbye. I gave him some shit. Told him I'd be back soon and would take him fishing. Stop pouting, Cliffy. No, he was sick. I got to FaceTime with him from 700 miles away. He licked the screen, said goodbye. That was it. God bless my wife and kids and neighbors for helping with the loss while I was gone. I hate people, but not them. I've had a lot of dogs in my life. Some cats. Some other critters. And they're all just pets. Some pretty good pets. But Cliff wasn't a pet...he wasn't just a dog. He was as good of a friend as you can find. And as much of tough time that I'm having with people right now, I think of Cliff while writing this, and it makes things a little better. Because he loved unconditionally. He understood and forgave. He showed more empathy than most humans I know. He loved being around us and loved being alive. I miss all or our times together, especially at our little camping grove atop the Poudre Canyon. But goddamn, am I glad we had them. From now on, when I have a sinking spell caused from mankind, I'm going to think about Cliff. He made everything better. Miss you, old man.
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AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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