Sam was five when we met. A bushel of white curls with piercing black eyes peered out at me from the caged crate. Little did I know, in four short years, Sam Clinton would change my understanding of life, death, and love—forever.

I was reluctant to take him in. Sam had belonged to the father of a friend who, upon retiring, was no longer up to the task of being a pet parent. If a fully accomplished man wasn’t willing to take on such responsibility, who was I? Yet, I agreed, and Sam was shipped from Arizona and into our lives; and, no, it wasn’t love at first sight.

Sam was quick to make himself at home. He secured his spot on the couch—not on the cushion like a normal dog, but along the back as a cat would. He took up a third of the bed at night, despite weighing only fourteen pounds. He also hated any weather that wasn’t hot and arid, refusing to go outside if there was a hint of grey in the skies. Once, I beckoned him from the door to go for his evening walk. He stared, jumped off the couch and trotted to his bed, his black eyes following me as if to say “I dare you to try.” 

In addition to declaring himself master of the house, he also earned the title “bully of the block,” thanks to his habit of intimidating poodles and Rottweilers alike. His hostilities ended with other dogs though. Sam loved people. There was not a lap that passed through our house that he didn’t weasel his way into. Neighbors would purposely drive the long way around to see him sleeping in the bay window. I could see why, despite all his attitude, Sam was cute.

But I still wasn’t taken with him. Looking back, I can see the wall that had been erected between me and the world, one that had been in place for so long that I thought it normal to feel nothing. Perhaps some divine source sent Sam to teach me, or maybe he simply sensed my reluctance to love him and would have none of it. Either way, there was no escaping Sam’s affection. He memorized my work schedule and the sound of my car, priming his spry body to jump on me the moment I entered the house. He waited outside of locked rooms. He crafted the perfect squeal, just high pitched enough to make you cave and give him whatever he wanted (which was usually your lap). 

It was less than a year into his new life that we noticed the first signs of what would eventually be his defining battle. We chalked it up to a “funny tummy,” and his habit of grazing the floors like a vacuum cleaner. In a matter of months, however, the truth would change our lives. For whatever reason, Sam’s liver wasn’t working. Multiple tests and multiple credit cards later, we still had no answers as to why. A strict diet and medications became the norm, along with what we dubbed “attacks,” in which his entire digestive system would betray him. Yet, Sam would ride through those battles and come out the other end ready to take on the world.

Sam’s illness only exacerbated his stubbornness. He would go on hunger strikes because he hated the prescription food. I became a veterinary chef, mixing everything from baby food to cottage cheese in an effort to entice his appetite. When that didn’t work, we resorted to feeding him by hand-- once for six months straight. Like any human on a diet, he snuck what he wasn’t supposed to have. Once, I came home to find he had removed a pack of white chocolate Reese’s peanut butter cups from a perch in the kitchen (I still haven’t figured out how) and meticulously unwrapped the plastic to reach the goods inside.

As Sam declined, we learned to adapt, but not always perfectly. He wore diapers so he wouldn’t have to go out outside. We cut oversized socks into sweaters since his weight-loss made him less tolerant to the cold. Eventually, much to our dismay, we had to restrict his access to sections of the house, for fear that his diminished coordination would result in injury. Of course, never one to be left out, he repeatedly risked harm by attempting to scale the partitions or chew through them. He became more aggressive too. One time he bit my hand for snatching a tissue from his mouth as he was trying to eat it. I yelled at him, and the look of sadness, regret, and confusion in his eyes still haunts me. 

Sam’s health ebbed and flowed. One night, my husband and I were convinced, “This was it.” We placed his bed at the foot of ours and rested our hands close to him so that he had our scent. At some point in the middle of the night, Sam waddled into the living room and released the entire contents of his bowls, bringing him back to life. After that, it became a running gag. Anytime he was ill, we’d say, “Just one big poop Sam and you’ll feel fine.” 

In late April of 2020, with my husband recovering from COVID, we went on our first walk as a family in what felt like forever. Both Sam and my husband struggled with the trip, but they made the effort, and were happier for it. At one point, Sam’s tired little body could no longer sustain the pace of even a stroll. I picked him up and carried him the rest of the way home. My husband had to walk. 

Sam passed in the early hours of Mother’s Day 2020. It wasn’t a surprise. The previous morning, it was as if a circuit had blown inside of him, and his body began to shut down piece by piece. He had spent the majority of his final day resting on my chest, his eyes gazing in and out of this world. When the time came, he was met on all sides by his family-- me, my husband, our youngest cat Calliope, and even our oldest cat Ronan, whose temperament can only be described as that of a small African dictator.

I had never felt grief like I did the moment Sam left me. I hesitate to even describe it because I’m not sure the right words exist to do it justice. The most I can say is picture being pushed violently off a cliff. The wind cuts at your skin. The pain is bad, but the fear is unbearable. Anger turns into rage which turns you into someone unrecognizable. But that’s okay, because at any moment you’ll hit the ground and all of it will be over. Only the ground never comes. In fact, you watch it move out of reach over and over and over again, until you pass out from the stress. In those brief moments, nothing exists, not even the pain. When you come to, the cycle starts anew. Eventually, you reach the ground, but instead of slamming into it you land without even noticing. Your skin is covered with these nasty little scars, the kind that open at the mention of his name, or at the glimpse of a picture you forget you had on your phone. And somehow, despite the pain, you can’t help but pick at those scars.

I learned three lessons from the half-life of Sam Clinton. One, love is unconditional. Sam and I never really saw eye to eye. And, if I’m being honest, I often felt burdened by him—not by the illness, but rather the impossibility of what we faced. It wasn’t until I was standing in the vacuum that Sam left behind that I realized how much of my life I had given to him, and how much more I was willing to give—even for one more day. 

Two, love is incomplete without loss. You don’t know how much a life means to you until it’s gone. There are so many things I wish I had done differently, but big pictures never come into focus until you are further away.

Finally, there is a quote I heard years ago on an episode of Oprah’s SuperSoul Conversations with businesswoman Sheryl Sandberg. She said, “Death does not end a relationship, and death does not end love.” I didn’t understand those words at the time. I can’t forget them now.

At the height of his life, I took Sam to meet my mother. After introductions, my mother turned to go upstairs to rustle up something to eat. She asked Sam if he wanted to join her. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at me. I smiled and said, "Go on." 

Sam turned and trotted up the stairs.