It's been a sad week here at Struan Farm, New Zealand's America's Cup win excluded. Our beloved dog Clifford went to sleep, aged 18. He really didn't want to leave us, but his back legs and bladder gave out. While he wasn't in pain, we couldn't let him go on like that. We can blame the feral turkeys he loved to chase, that makes the most sense.
We adopted Clifford from the Deighton family when they moved to Dubai many years ago now (15?16?). Originally he was meant to be a companion for John's dad Maurie, here at the farm. But it was clear from the beginning that Clifford was really our dog. Later on he commuted back and forth between town and country, but (like me) he preferred the country. Rabbits and turkeys to chase, possums to kill, security to provide for Karen when John was away. Swims with John down at the river.
I was in charge of his visits to the vet for skin problems and other issues, so he became known as "Clifford Barrett." He loved kids and pats, barked at anyone with a beard and always barked at Farmer John. He hated cats, and would absolutely go after any wild cats that appeared on the property. Except when an injured kitten dropped on the road appeared in the backyard who decided Clifford was mum. He found that all a bit confusing, but accepted the little creature tagging after him and sleeping on his bed until it died of its injuries. At one point hubby John ran him over with the tractor, another almost crushed him under the garage door. The dog was a survivor, until now.
There's a big hole in our hearts. I can't think about him too much without getting teary. We keep wanting to find him when we go outside. I'm even missing the morning and evening sprints to the workshop for meals.
Clifford is buried out on the point behind our house here at Struan Farm near the second tawa grove, looking out on the hills. He was a unique personality and irreplaceable, really. Rest in peace, (sometimes) good boy.
Here are a few pics from over the years.
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