If you knew my Cub girl, you might understand why this story has stuck with me all day.
Trakr lived 16 years and was a dog hero. A search and rescue expert. The last one to locate a 9/11 survivor.
Cub lived to be just barely 8, had epilepsy, hip dysplasia, and liver disease. (Not exactly a prime candidate for cloning.)
And I'm all about rescues and adoption. My dogs have all come home with me because they were in need. It could be argued that each one needed me, specifically. So, no creating new ones. Plenty of puppies arrive without anyone wanting them to. And plenty of those don't make it to a home like mine.
I've heard lots of people say that she'll always be that one dog, the one that makes all the others look mediocre. I'm sure even a clone of her would be mediocre. You don't clone a personality or a soul, after all. (And if you're reading this and thinking that dogs don't have souls, just keep your keyboard quiet and your cake-hole shut around these parts.)
Last night we were being exceptionally good dogparents and brushing their teeth. "I should've done better," I said, referring at once to the state of Tuesday's molars, which hadn't been stained when she came to live here, and to Cub's, one of which had to be removed because she cracked it (the pre-surgery bloodwork for that procedure was our first clue about the liver problem -- the beginning of the end).
When The Alpha tells me I was the best dog-mommy anyone could've been for her, I do believe him. But I also still cry.