Our dog died last month. I am not tempted in his death to gloss over his faults and claim he was a better dog than he was. His faults made him real. We loved him as the strange and unique and challenging dog that he was. Each one of Cliff Barnes’ eccentricities, each of the funny and lovely and obnoxious ways he had of being in this world, thunders its absence in our lives now that he is gone. He wasn’t some platonic ideal of a dog. He was very specifically our dog. And his specificity demanded that we encounter him and love him, not our idea of him. Continue reading →
