Cooper, our basset hound, was a jerk. A lumpy-headed, bug-eyed, stink bomb of a jerk. Yet, we loved him more than any dog we’ve ever had. This is the story of why, even with all his flaws, we loved him to the moon and back.
Cooper joined our family nine years ago, a rescue from the Asheville Humane Society. Abandoned and neglected, he arrived with food issues and a penchant for scavenging anything edible, including, to our disgust, other dogs’ droppings. He’d steal food off your plate if given the chance and his breath could knock you out.
He was a master manipulator, scratching at the door pretending he needed to go out, only to launch into his “food dance” – a frantic hopping routine accompanied by trills and whines – demanding treats. Mornings weren’t complete without at least three rounds of appeasing his insatiable appetite.
Cooper’s love for comfort was legendary. He’d burrow under the covers, his rear end strategically positioned near your face, emitting noxious gases throughout the night. He was the “bed boulder,” immovable and grumpy when it was time to make the bed. He’d sprawl on anything soft, from pillows to freshly raked flower beds, much to our chagrin.
His antics were endless. He’d get stuck under the shed chasing rabbits, bark incessantly at the neighbor’s cat (every. single. day.), and growl if you tried to move him from his claimed spot on the recliner. These escapades earned him a litany of nicknames: “The Trailhound,” “The Appalachian Big Paw,” “The Jerk,” “The Dog that Nobody Likes,” and a few less printable ones. We even developed a “Cooper voice,” a deep, dopey tone perfect for expressing his imagined thoughts, usually revolving around food and mischief.
But despite his “jerk” tendencies, Cooper was pure joy. He was goofy, playful, and full of personality. Even in his senior years, he’d romp around like an “85-year-old toddler,” tossing toys in the air and engaging in playful (though not very effective) wrestling matches. He loved everyone, human and canine, despite a humiliating defeat in his only dog fight, which involved a picket fence and a less-than-graceful retreat.
In 2020, Cooper injured his back, leaving him with a wobbly gait. He recovered, but in late August, he lost the use of his left rear leg. The vet’s diagnosis was devastating: no feeling in his leg, fluid in his lung, a heart murmur. Surgery was not an option.
We made the heartbreaking decision to let him go peacefully at home with the help of 4 Paws Farewell Mobile Hospice Clinic. He spent his last day surrounded by love, enjoying his favorite treats and lounging on his beloved back porch. The grief was overwhelming, but we knew it was the right thing to do.
Cooper’s passing left a huge void in our lives. He was more than just a pet; he was family. He taught us patience, resilience, and the profound meaning of unconditional love. While we may remember him as “the jerk,” we’ll always cherish the laughter, joy, and even the frustration he brought into our lives. We’ll love him forever.
