Grover

Nope, nope nope. No dogs. I am a cat person. I have no interest in a slobbery, filthy, idiot bark machine.

When we were first married, Diana desperately wanted a dog as a trial run for raising children. I was firmly against it. But like all wonderful things in my life, she eventually wore me down. I had two conditions: He had to be called Grover and we had to become the greatest friends in the history of the world. 

If you want to read about our Grover “Meet Cute,” be sure to check out Diana’s beautiful essay here: https://mailchi.mp/56bb29a1571e/the-summer-of-fro-s-1160829

We had a rocky start. Grover famously peed all over our dog training book. He also spent an entire day distributing the contents of a gigantic potted plant to every corner of our apartment. Our friends would find excuses not to come over for fear of being attacked by our little furry monster.

But then…balls. Tennis balls became life. It mellowed him out and gave him purpose. I’d chuck the ball high into the air and he would leap majestically to catch the bounce. Thock. Thock. Thock. Hundreds, thousands, millions of throws. Thock. Thock. Thock.

Somewhere in there we became best friends. We loved each other fiercely. Late at night, I would creep downstairs, spoon him on the floor and tell him all my fears and doubts, sometimes crying into his black fur. Grover would always assure me with one of his patented sighs. 

As our family grew, we stayed close. No matter how many times a baby pulled his tail or dumped stewed carrots on his head, he knew the next morning we’d be at the park rain or shine. Thock. Thock Thock. 

A couple quick Grover facts: He was a terrible watch dog. The time we got robbed the thief essentially had to step over him to get our TV. Dancing of any kind made him hump uncontrollably. He also loved to lick blue jeans, especially of the jeans wearer was not a dog person.

Five years turned to ten and then sixteen. I used to joke that Grover and I made an agreement that he would never die. He held up his end of the bargain, even though his hips went years ago. He went deaf and almost blind and dementia sent him on late night missions all over our house, click clacking in search of something he never found.

We stopped playing ball.

Last week, Grover fell down the stairs and cried out for me in the middle of the night. It was the most heart breaking sound I’ve ever heard. He was scared and broken and tired. So very tired. 

We decided to let him out of the deal

In the days leading up, I slept on the couch downstairs to be near him. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone on his last nights on Earth. The morning the nice lady came over to put him to sleep he hobbled over and licked my hand as if to say, “It’s okay man. I’m ready.”

We made a fire and played John Prine songs and told him we loved him over and over. And then he was gone. 

 There will never be another dog like you, G-Money, Gobi, Gilbert, Gobert, Grove Stand. You’ll always be my special little guy. I love you, Grover.