OH, THE POSSIBILITIES

For eighteen months, I have been worried about Clover's bones. Not constantly. That would be ridiculous.

Mostly constantly.

Irish Wolfhounds grow fast. Really fast. Their bodies shoot upward and outward while their joints and bones are still trying to catch up, and their growth plates stay open much longer than those of smaller dogs.

Which means there are rules. So many rules.

No repetitive jumping. Don't overdo the exercise. And stairs? Mortal enemy.

Our stairs have spent most of Clover's life gated and blocked as though something terrible lives at the top of them. Getting into and out of vehicles wasn't much better.

When Clover was small enough, I picked her up and put her into my car or Justin's truck. Then I picked her up and put her back down again. This system worked beautifully until my Irish Wolfhound puppy committed the completely unexpected act of becoming enormous.

Eventually, picking her up became less of a safety measure and more of a potential orthopedic event for me.

After that, everything was carefully managed. Easy. Slow. No launching yourself into space. For eighteen months, I have guarded this dog's skeleton like it contains state secrets.

But now?

Clover is eighteen months old. Her growth plates should be closed, or very close to it.

Do I know for certain that every last one has officially packed up and gone home? No. And after eighteen months of worrying about the stupid things, I'm apparently incapable of simply declaring, “Good enough!”

So the rules aren't gone yet. But they're loosening.

The stairs are making limited appearances. Once or twice a day, I let her use them.

Do I still watch? Please. Of course I watch. I'm a recovering helicopter mom. Recovery takes time.

But after eighteen months of being on guard, the end is finally in sight.

And I am ridiculously excited.

Because Clover's world is about to get much, much bigger.

We can go hiking. And I don't mean a nice little walk through the woods. I mean hiking. Real hiking.

The kind Shamrock and I used to do.

Scrambling over boulders. Climbing mountains. Picking our way across streams. Maybe even dancing underneath a waterfall.

There are so many places Clover hasn't seen yet, and we're finally reaching the point where I don't have to look at every adventure and think first about what she can't do.

I get to ask a much more exciting question.

What do you want to try, Clover?

Maybe agility.

Copper did it. Shamrock did it. And I have a feeling Clover might love it.

I can picture her flying over jumps and charging up the A-frame. The teeter should be entertaining. Clover notices everything, so the first time the ground suddenly moves beneath her feet, I suspect she'll freeze, look down, look at me, then look back down.

Did you SEE what that thing just did?

Then she'll investigate.

Because that's Clover.

And eventually we'll reach the tunnel.

Twenty-four inches high.

Friend or foe?

This is an important family question.

Copper was firmly Team Tunnel. Keeping him out was harder than getting him in.

Shamrock disagreed. Strongly.

I tried everything. Shamrock remained convinced that folding his enormous body down and entering a twenty-four-inch-high tube was not something a sensible dog should do. His agility adventures are a whole story of their own.

Now I'm curious which side Clover will choose.

She's considerably smaller than Shamrock was at this age, so maybe she'll smoosh herself down and fly through. Or maybe she'll plant four feet at the entrance and look at me like I've finally lost my mind.

Either answer is fine.

I just can't wait to find out.

And if agility isn't her thing, we'll try something else. Or we won't.

She's smart, curious and such a fast learner that there are endless things she could do. But she doesn't have to do any of them.

She doesn't need ribbons or titles. She doesn't have to become anything. She just has to be Clover—her wild, incredibly smart, incredibly observant, lovable self.

I just want her happy.

And healthy.

Especially healthy.

That's where my brain occasionally becomes annoying.

Fear is a little like a giant, real-life game of Whack-a-Mole. Most of the time, I've got it under control.

Then—

Clover takes a few strange steps.

POP.

Why is she walking like that?

WHACK.

She coughs.

POP.

What was—

WHACK.

She shakes her head a few times and suddenly I'm inspecting ears.

POP.

Clover looks at me.

Seriously?

WHACK.

Yes, seriously.

I've run my hands over that dog from nose to tail more times than I could possibly count because something looked slightly different. Most of the time, the mole goes right back into its hole.

But every once in a while, it doesn't go down quite so easily.

I remember what it felt like to believe I had a healthy dog and then have my world ripped apart in only five weeks. That changes you.

I can't unknow it. And I can't promise myself it will never happen again.

What I can do is refuse to let that fear steal the time I have with Clover now.

So when it sticks its ugly little head up again?

WHACK.

She's here. She's eighteen months old. She's healthy. And she has a life to live.

So do I.

Knowing how quickly things can change doesn't mean we should do less. It means that when Clover's body is ready, I want us to go.

I want to find out what she loves.

Maybe I'll be right about some of it. Maybe I'll be completely wrong. Knowing Clover, that seems entirely possible.

And someday, a very long time from now if I get my way, all these things we're about to do will be memories.

That's okay. That's what memories are supposed to be.

Evidence that we were there. That we went. That we tried. That we lived it.

But we're not at the remembering part yet.

We're at the beginning.

The rules aren't completely gone. Mom's helicopter is still hovering a little.

But I can see the day coming when I finally get to land the damn thing.

And when I do?

I have no idea exactly what Clover and I are going to find out there.

That's the best part.

Oh, the possibilities.