It all started with Clive. I hadn’t planned on getting a dog, let alone one with a lopsided ear and a penchant for chaos. But sometimes life surprises you in the best possible way.
I found him at the shelter four years ago, pacing nervously in a corner while the other dogs barked and vied for attention. He wasn’t much to look at back then—scruffy, anxious, and so thin I could count his ribs. But something about the way he stopped pacing and locked eyes with me as I crouched down told me he was the one.
“You want to come home with me, boy?” I’d asked softly, unsure if I was convincing him or myself. His tail wagged just once, but it was enough.
Since then, Clive has been my partner in every way that matters. He’s not just a dog; he’s a personality—a full-on character in my life story. For starters, he’s terrible at being sneaky. If he “borrows” a sock, he parades it around the house like a prize, tail wagging furiously. And don’t get me started on his floppy ear, which gives him a permanently quizzical expression, like he’s perpetually asking, Are you sure about this?
Our days follow a rhythm that feels like it’s always been there. Mornings start with Clive nudging me awake, his wet nose insistent against my arm. If I pretend to ignore him, he huffs dramatically and plops his head on the pillow next to mine, which always makes me laugh.
We have our rituals: a walk in the woods after breakfast, where Clive insists on sniffing every leaf and chasing squirrels he has no hope of catching; afternoons spent in my little garden, where he lounges nearby, rolling in the grass as if it’s the best thing on Earth; and evenings curled up on the couch, his head resting on my knee as I sketch or read.
The truth is, Clive makes the ordinary extraordinary.
Take today, for instance. It was one of those perfect autumn afternoons when the air is crisp but the sun is warm enough to make you forget it’s October. We walked to the meadow just beyond the woods, a spot that always feels like ours. Clive, as usual, bounded ahead, darting between wildflowers and sending grasshoppers scattering.
I spread out a blanket and sat down with my sketchpad. “Stay still, you rascal,” I called out as he launched himself at a pile of leaves, emerging covered in bits of orange and gold.
He trotted over, tail wagging, and plopped down right in front of me, as if to say, Go on, draw me. I’m ready for my close-up.
I started sketching, trying to capture the way his floppy ear framed his face, the way the sunlight glinted off his fur, the way he looked at me with that mix of trust and mischief. He stayed still for all of five minutes before spotting another squirrel and dashing off.
“Clive!” I yelled, laughing as I chased after him.
Eventually, we both collapsed back on the blanket, out of breath but happy. He rested his head on my lap, and I scratched behind his ears, thinking about how much he’s changed my life. Clive doesn’t care about the things that used to keep me up at night—my worries, my insecurities, the relentless to-do lists I once let define me. He cares about right now: the feel of the grass beneath him, the sound of the wind through the trees, the simple joy of being together.
I’ve learned so much from him about being present, about finding joy in the little things. When Clive sees a patch of mud, he doesn’t hesitate—he dives in, completely unapologetic. When he spots a butterfly, he chases it with a level of enthusiasm most people reserve for lottery wins.
I’ve started to see the world through his eyes, and let me tell you, it’s a beautiful place.
As the sun began to set, painting the meadow in shades of pink and gold, I packed up my sketchpad and called Clive. He came trotting back, tail wagging, his fur tousled and his goofy grin firmly in place.
“Let’s go home, buddy,” I said, giving him a playful shove.
We walked back through the woods, side by side, the air filled with the scent of pine and the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Clive leaned into me every so often, as if to remind me he was there.
And that’s the thing about Clive—he’s always there. He’s my anchor, my reminder to slow down and enjoy the moment, my best friend in every way that matters.
Sometimes I wonder if I saved Clive that day at the shelter, or if he saved me. Either way, I know this: my life is infinitely better with him in it.