Jennifer (left) and Samantha (right).

The name Copper’s Dream was inspired by one of the most revered and loved individuals in my life – a reddish-brown Cocker Spaniel who I named after the hound in Disney’s movie “Copper and Tod – the Fox and the Hound.”

As an eight year old child who had dreamed for years of having a dog and repeatedly been denied, one Christmas season in 1985, I made up my mind to convince my parents and the greater forces above to grant me the wish that my child’s heart had always yearned for.  I found every possible way to bring up the subject – at the dinner table, when I was picked up from school, and as a proposed bargaining chip when I was reminded to do homework…  But if my eight year old tenacity was having any kind of effect on my parents’ stony resistance, they certainly were not letting on.

About two weeks before Christmas day, I would wake up early each morning and run down to the Christmas tree, where I stood before its majestic greenery and prayed to God and Santa Claus (I figured addressing both higher beings was my best bet) to grant my lifelong dream.

Two days before Christmas, I rushed downstairs when I heard the garage door open to greet my parents after they had been running errands for several hours.  I still distinctly remember my mother’s instructions to get a towel, because I was supposed to assist my father with washing the car.  At the time, it did not occur to me it might be odd to begin washing a car so late at night.  With child-like innocence, I grabbed several towels and galloped off into the garage, happy for something to do in those carefree days when free time was so plentiful.

Upon reaching the car, my father told me to spread open the towel.  I did as he instructed and then waited patiently as he bent over and reached for something in a box on the passenger seat.  Then, in my outstretched arms, he placed a two month old Cocker Spaniel puppy, its head still moist from its recent bath.  My father explained it was an early Christmas present, because he figured giving me a puppy on Christmas day would ruin the surprise.

I was stunned and speechless.  The puppy looked like a stuffed animal – it was perfect.  That night, after having spent hours petting and cuddling with my new pet, I sat in the living room beside the backyard’s sliding glass doors with tears streaming down my face.  My parents had laid down the law – the puppy was to sleep outside in its makeshift bed.  But the puppy also stood on the other side of the glass crying and shivering.  It was more than my eight year old heart could bear, but with my parents unrelenting, I and the puppy cried ourselves to sleep – he outside, and me inside.

Over the next fifteen and a half years, I grew from a shy, inquisitive eight year old child into a young woman of twenty-three.  In that time, the fond memories I shared with Copper became too numerous to count.  No one’s spirit was as majestic or rebellious as Copper’s.  Despite intensive puppy training class, Copper had an unquenchable desire to run away and explore the neighborhood, and every chance he got, he would slip through an open door or bolt as we were leashing him and run off into the jungles of suburban Daly City for adventures he could not experience at home – all the while, our frantic calls ringing behind him.  I still remember my father refused to concede the dog had the upper hand and one day made Copper sit on our front lawn while we cut the grass and removed weeds.  My mother had insisted that Copper would run the second we all looked away, but my father, armed with a baseball bat which he would wave at Copper every now and then to remind him of who was boss, was indignant – no dog would disturb his authority as man of the house.  Sure enough, within the hour, as soon as Copper detected we were all engrossed in our own tasks, he took off down the street.  My father, not to be outdone, jumped on my kid’s bike and flew after Copper to try to catch him, still waving the baseball bat with one arm.  Needless to say, after that episode, Copper was never trusted off leash again, not even by my father. 

When we finally adopted our second dog, Scooter, a Cocker Spaniel mix whose nature was to stay close to home and never ventured out of the yard even when we accidentally left the gate open, Copper would serve as the mischievous ring leader and run away with Scooter as his ready follower.  Although we were always worried sick during these regular adventures, Copper would never fail to reappear, sometimes after a few hours, sometimes after a few days, and always with some kind of trophy, whether it was a child’s leftover sack lunch or an enormous female Chow Chow who had taken a liking to the small, but mighty Cocker Spaniel.

Sadly, by the time I graduated from college and moved into my own place for the first time in 1999, Copper was already fourteen and beginning to slow down.  For the first time in my life, I enjoyed taking him in the Stanford foothills and on campus off leash, because I could now outrun the aging Cocker Spaniel if he ever wandered off, which he rarely had the energy to do anyway.  For eight months, when I worked the dreary job of being a financial analyst right out of college, my only reason to get through the long days of looking at spreadsheets was the thought of running through the golden foothills with Copper and Scooter ahead of me, the long rays of the setting sun lighting up the edges of their fur.

For me, the notion that dog’s life was very short in comparison to that of a human never really sunk in – Copper had been a part of my earliest childhood memories, and I simply had no concept of life without him.  I used to joke with friends that the day Copper died would be the day that I would also have to end my life, because it was just not possible to live without him.

The day I went outside and found Copper paralyzed from the neck down and foaming at the mouth was the first time that my mind had to confront the mortality of my beloved companion.  In a panic, I rushed to scoop Copper up in my arms, put him in my car, and drive to the nearest animal hospital.  Fortunately, Adobe Animal Hospital in Los Altos was a first rate emergency clinic boasting over fifteen full-time doctors - my father, who had grown up in India, felt ambivalent about the level of medical attention that was available to animals in the United States when most people in India did not even receive basic medical attention, but I was just grateful that Copper would have the best possible chance of surviving his stroke.  When I arrived, I was relieved that a vet tech immediately came out to my car to assist me in carrying Copper to the back, as my emotions had become so unsteady that I could barely even walk after him.  Within minutes, Copper had been hooked up to dozens of different machines, and I could hear the beeping that signified that his heart was still pulsing.  I was scared, but hopeful.

A few days later, Copper was released to me in stable condition, but he had not regained the ability to walk.  For the next few weeks, because I still had to work full time, I relied on my unconditionally loving family members to help me hand-feed him and clean him after he went to the bathroom still lying on his side.  After some time, my parents began to broach whether Copper’s quality of life made it worth all the constant attending to that he needed.  Heartbroken, I stubbornly refused to even consider euthanasia as an option.  Even though Copper could not walk, he was still eating, alert, and capable of enjoying the affection that we lavished on him.

It was fortunate that I was steadfast in my decision, because within a few days, miraculously, my mother reported that she had left Copper in the sun in one spot of the backyard, and she found him halfway across the yard when she returned a few hours later.  In the weeks that followed, Copper began dragging himself across the yard as he regained the ability to move his front legs.  We never dreamed he would actually walk again, but sure enough, in another few weeks, he began standing like a newborn calf, wobbly and shaking, until he flopped into a pile.  Eventually, Copper almost fully recovered, but you could always tell he was a stroke survivor when he ran at full speed, his head cocked, with the gait of a drunken man who could never quite run in a straight line. 

Sadly, after this small miracle, only about a year later, at the age of fifteen and a half, Copper stopped eating.  We tried homemade chicken gruel and water using a feeding tube, but while this worked for a few weeks, eventually, he refused to take even this liquid food. 

I was distressed beyond words.  I had always abhorred the idea of euthanasia as a humane death for any reason, preferring instead to let Nature run its course.  But Copper was slowly starving to death.  He was no more than skin and bones by the time he stopped eating all together.  Operating on him to discover exactly what type of cancer might be plaguing him did not seem to be a logical answer.  Within a day or two, I made the most difficult decision I have had to make my entire life – I decided that euthanasia was the only humane option.

That last afternoon I had with Copper is still etched sharply in my mind.  My boyfriend at the time, and now husband, drove with me into the Stanford foothills one last time.  I had wanted to make Copper’s last day special, but even that proved to be difficult, as the poor, tired dog had to be carried around on the trails and had lost control over his bowel movements.  After a few hours, we decided it was time.  We brought Copper back home where I had some moments with him alone on the grassy lawn and cut some of his golden fur to keep in a small bag.  Then, we drove to Adobe where my parents met us.  Again, in the “quiet room,” I had a few more moments to say good bye, but by then, tears flowed uncontrollably down my face and all I could really do was constantly put my cheek against Copper’s long, flowing ears and face to connect with him one last time.  I kissed him several times, but mostly, I just kept running my hands over his head and face – I wanted to comfort him in case there was any fear in his heart.

Finally, the doctor arrived, and I indicated I was ready.  As she prepared the injection, I kept petting Copper and leaned my cheek to his face one last time.  As the doctor settled down in front of us, I snuck in my last kiss on top of his forehead.  When she finally inserted the needle in his leg, I continued to pet him and watched as the light in his eyes slowly turned dull.  When the doctor determined his heart had stopped and closed his eyelids, all the remaining tears I had left rushed out all at once.  The last image I have of Copper was of his still majestic frame lying on his side, his golden fur cascading all around him, a single blood red rose on his body which my mother had cut from her garden and brought for him.

Ever since that time, there did not seem to be a better way to honor the life of such a magnificent and noble dog than to dedicate a nonprofit organization in his name.  I’m sure Copper would have wanted every dog in this world to be able to live out the full, happy, and adventurous life that he was able to do, and it gives me solace to know that even though Copper is gone, his spirit and memory live on in the work of Copper’s Dream.

One day, we believe Copper’s Dream will be realized, and euthanasia in this nation will only be used in those cases where it is truly serving to give a humane end to an animal that would otherwise suffer a painful death.  Until then, Copper’s rebelliousness and energy will serve as constant inspiration for those of us at Copper’s Dream to fight on to achieve his vision.