Saying Good-bye to an Old Friend

     I won't ever forget the day we got him.

     Copper was from a big litter of 10, maybe more pups.
     We chose him for his paws and his personality. He had the biggest paws of all of his brothers and sisters, and he was friendly. Not the least big shy, he came straight to us, nuzzled, yipped and played.
He got his name on the drive home from that muddy Alabama kennel.
     I wanted to name him Barkley, a fine, aristocratic name befitting a yellow Labrador retriever who was destined for greatness.
     The problem with that was that my baby girl, who was just two, couldn't say Barkley. She kept saying "Broccoli." I just couldn't imagine a good looking pup like that named after a green vegetable.  Besides, three-syllable names don't work well when you're calling a dog. Two are best.
     The boy wanted to name him Copper. That fall we had watched "The Fox and The Hound" 50 million times, and he was determined that this new addition would be named Copper. Never mind that he was neither a fox nor a basset hound. My girl could say, "Copper." That settled it.
     Copper immediately distinguished himself as mischievous. The wife couldn't mop a floor for him grabbing hold of the head and shaking it like captured varmint. An escape into the neighborhood landed him in a pack led by a stray who had perfected the art of scavenging household garbage. I can't tell you how many times I've picked up our neighbors' trash after forgetting it was garbage day and letting Copper out to pee. If he ever caught wind of a cat and he was on his leash, you could kiss your shoulder good-bye.
     He compensated for those failings by being fiercely loyal, extremely protective and intuitively sensitive. If he and my girl were together, he'd stand guard between her and any visitor or stranger. Knock on the door, and his bark would rattle the windows. If one of us was under the weather, he wouldn't leave your side.
     In recent years, he slowed a little, and when we brought him inside a few weeks back to protect him from the bitter cold, it was apparent that Copper's days were short.
     He moved even more slowly. His breathing was labored, and he wasn't too interested in eating. We loved on him and nursed him, and he appeared to get better, but his recovery was short-lived.
     Last Friday, we knew it was time to let him go.
     I laid in the floor beside him, stroked his nose and whispered to him.
     "It's OK, buddy. You're a good buddy."
     Ours had been a 13-year journey. He had been a playmate and protector for my family, a rascal for sure and 110-pounds of unconditional love.
     The vet helped leave the pain behind, and I buried him in the back yard, right beside Chip, Copper's best friend, a chocolate lab whose death about four years ago had me crying like a baby.
     After burying him, I decided to light a fire in the snow.
     We burned his dog house. It was getting old, and I was hesitant to pass it on, in the event it harbored something contagious. Somehow, a fire felt right. There in our fire pit, we celebrated a true companion and friend in a blaze of glory that, like Copper,  brought warmth to the cold and light to our lives.