The Best Dog in the World

Cooper came to us on a bright spring day. Appropriately enough, it was Mother's Day. He was my boy, the son I hadn't given birth to.

We sat the girls down the day before and announced the forthcoming addition to our family. "I thought you couldn't have any more babies, Mommy?" they asked quizzically.

They couldn't have been happier to discover the "addition" was going to be a dog.

Shirley, whom we referred to as Cooper's "other mother" or "first mother," had moved into an apartment and couldn't keep him. Her sadness was our joy.

He was a good dog, she assured us. She had adopted him from a dog pound when he was a puppy. He was well trained, never had accidents, loved children -- well, what would you expect someone to say if they were trying to give away a dog?

We soon would realize everything she said was true.

She brought a small decorated basket that held his favorite toys, and she brought his leash and veterinarian records. She stayed and visited for a while to calm him and to see what kind of family we were and where he would be living. Then the adoption was complete.

When she left, he bolted out the front door and raced through the neighborhood. We were frantic. We screamed. We chased him down and cried out his name. Finally, we brought him home.

It was the only "bad" thing he has ever done, unless you count sneaking up to sleep on my pillow when I'm not home. Well, he missed his mommy. Howe could anybody really be mad about something like that?

It was an open adoption, and we kept in touch with Shirley. She even made a few repeat visits, and he always remembered her. When we moved to our new home, we insisted she come see his new big yard and see how happy he was.

Cooper loved everyone. He had a bark but no bite. Everyone who met him -- even those who didn't really care for dogs -- was impressed by what a good dog he was. Given a few minutes, he could win anyone over, somehow convince them he wasn't really like other dogs.

We used to kid that if anyone ever broke into the house, he would smother them with kisses and show them to the VCR nd the good crystal. The primary exception was that he hated -- and I do mean hated -- birds. Our back yard was declared a no-fly zone. In fact, when airplanes flew over, he would go crazy. "Biiiig bird," we would coo in agreement with him. And he would bark it away.

The inground pool in the yard proved a surprise to him the day we uncovered it for the summer that first year. I'm not sure he knew what to think of it. I guess he forgot it was there. As he was on the attack for some birds who had breached the no-fly zone, looking up, running, barking madly, he landed plop in the center of the solar cover.

The girls' shouts brought me out of the house, and I jumped in -- clothes, shoes, glasses and all -- into that icy water, to save his furry behind. Was he grateful? Yeah, right. He hit the ground wet and running, barking at the loud-mouthed crows who mocked his unfortunate adventure.

When we brought caged parakeets, Felix and Felicity, into the fold, he acted a bit betrayed. How could we bring the enemy right into the house? For days it seemed the barking would never cease, but somehow over several months, he came to accept their presence. Just as he was not like the other dogs, he was able to see that they weren't like the other birds.

He loved to sleep. He would sleep behind the headboard all night while I slept, and if my husband was on night turn -- "Hot dog!" -- he would just go right back in and sleep all morning, too.

He loved hot dogs. He loved raw vegetables. Let's face it, he loved any food we were eating, except ketchup. If it was covered in ketchup, he could walk away and never look back.

He loved to go for a ride with his daddy, who called him "Gasoline-butt." Anywhere you wanted to go was fine with him, but picking up the girls from school was simply the best.

He loved spending the night with his Grandma Margaret and Pappy John. It was like a spa where he had his own personal chef and the humans were very well trained to see to his every whim. He was ever-so-grateful when we took a weeklong visit to Disney so he could be pampered at the "spa" for days on end.

He loved his pink stuffed bunny.

And he loved us very much.

In four years we had come to realize, as many a happy dog owner does, he wasn't just a good dog. He was the best dog in the world.

We're not a superstitious family, but Friday the 13th will always have a certain bleak foreboding to it in our house now.

At just 15 minutes to midnight on Friday, when I let Cooper out the back door before bedtime, he apparently decided to make another surprise escape. As I waited a moment for him to come back to the door, we heard a speeding car screech up the hill in front of our house, and we heard his agonizing yelps.

We were frantic. We screamed. We went to him and we cried out his name.

We took him to the vet's and then went home to cry through the night and wait for X-rays in the morning. We had made the painful decision to have him put down. We told the girls, and we drove back to the vet's to say our goodbyes.

But another look at the X-rays and a reassurance from the doctor that his recuperation would be "uncomfortable but not painful" brought us to the decision that we should at least try. After all, he was the best dog in the world. How could we let him go?

He was scheduled for Monday morning surgery, but the jangling phone late Saturday night startled us awake. The vet was so sorry. The best dog in the world had died in his sleep. We never got to bring him home.