Clyde Shannon

Best friend. Trail buddy.
Professional sunbather.
The heartbeat at our feet.

In 2014, Clyde walked into his forever home. I had just bought my first house and learned how loud a quiet house can be. I scoured the Kentucky Humane Society website until I saw him—“needs a high-energy companion,” already returned twice. What I brought home wasn’t a problem; it was a partner built for the long haul. He ran when I ran; when I finally learned to rest, he rested too. He filled the space between big moments with the steady kind of company that makes a house feel like home. He loved my daughter Emma’s visits, folded easily into life with Olivia, and stayed close as our family grew. Clyde spoke a simple language: stay near, pay attention, go together.

Lessons From Clyde

Borrowed Courage Counts

On a hard stretch, courage can be borrowed. Some days the bravest thing you can say is, “Will you carry me through this part?” Hold the rail. Take the hand. Let someone steady your steps across the scary spans of life. Courage isn’t always loud; sometimes it’s letting someone lift the heavy part.

Keep Showing Up

Clyde was there for first dates, for the move west, for newborn nights, for the “we’re doing this again?” mornings. The secret of love is not grand gestures; it’s consistent presence. Keep showing up—especially when you’re tired, especially when it’s inconvenient. Relationships are built on ordinary Tuesdays—one check-in, one small kindness, one promise kept. The miracle isn’t fireworks; it’s faithful footsteps.

Pre-Rinse Joy

He got the first pass at the plates, and the dishwasher got the rest. Harmless joy matters. Don’t over-sanitize every moment—save room for little traditions that make your people grin. Joy, then wash.

Go Together

Some friends are a yes waiting to happen—say the word and they’re already at the door. The best adventures aren’t measured in miles but in willingness: ready shoes, a shared look, the quiet promise to stay beside each other. Seasons change; the pace does too. The yes doesn’t. When the stride shortens, keep the invitation. When the climb steepens, trade distance for breath. Let the nudge forward mean “I can still do it,” and answer with “we’ll do it together.” Trails don’t ask for proof; they offer a place to be side by side. Keep saying yes. You’ll see more beauty not because you went far, but because you went together.

Just Love

Some days there’s nothing to figure out. We loved a good dog, and he loved us. He turned a quiet house into a home, a couple into a family, and a family into a pack. If there’s anything to learn, it’s to keep showing up for each other and to take the picture. The love stays.

Small Joys Save Heavy Days

Clyde loved a square of sun on the patio like it was a first‑class vacation. On stormy weeks and loud months, he reminded us that a small joy can tip the whole day back toward okay. Warm mug, short nap, a slow block with no podcasts. Swapping a scroll for a sunset. We can’t control every forecast, but we can choose a sunbeam. Find yours. Guard it. Let it do its quiet work.

Make Room for More

When the house filled with new names and little feet, Clyde widened his circle without drama. He learned new schedules, new noises, new bedtime routes—and kept choosing closeness. Love handles change by keeping the center steady and letting the edges flex. Make room without keeping score; everyone should feel there’s space for them.

Dear Clyde,

In 2014 I bought my first house and learned how loud a quiet house can be. Less than a week later, I brought you home—and you turned it into home. They said you were “too much.” You were exactly enough. You matched my ultramarathon pace and then slowed down just as I did—trail by trail, porch by porch. You took the outside lane so Pre felt safe, rode shotgun because presence was the point, ran the dishes pre-rinse like it was your job, and turned crumbs into cleanup and laughter.

You loved Emma’s visits and folded yourself into life with Olivia. You stayed near as our family grew—Liam and Elizabeth—and you kept saying yes even when your stride shortened. One word—“Go?”—and your eyes said, still ready. You didn’t ask for answers. You gave us company, which was better.

Thank you for every mile, every nudge, every quiet guard shift outside a bedroom door. We’ll keep your rituals: look up when someone comes home, take the walk even when it’s short, choose washable over precious, be useful where the mess is, and stay close to our people. We’ll tell the kids about you—the porch sentinel, the knee-leaner, the best friend.

Love doesn’t end; it learns a new way to stay.
—Your person