Beau joined our pack at dawn on a morning drive home from Pechanga a near by casino in temecula. About one hundred yards ahead of my truck, I spotted what appeared to be an emaciated young husky running across the road. Right behind him were three coyotes.
The moment my two huskies, Blue and Opal, saw him, they erupted in barking from the back seat. I took it as their way of telling me to stop and help. I pulled over, opened the door, and they immediately ran toward the field where the coyotes had disappeared.
When I caught up, Blue had reached the young husky and was standing between him and the brush where the coyotes had retreated. The puppy, who would later become Beau, began howling in a way that sounded more like a coyote than a dog. His tail wagged furiously as he ran circles around me. It felt like he was saying thank you.
His coat was matted and blowing out in patches. He was painfully thin and wore no tags. I brought him to a veterinarian where we searched for a microchip, but none was found. I placed advertisements and posted signs near where we found him, hoping an owner would come forward. Nobody ever did.
The veterinarian estimated he was less than a year old and, despite being malnourished, otherwise healthy. I was not prepared to add a third dog to the family, but after what he had been through, I could not imagine sending him to a shelter.
As Beau grew into adulthood, one thing became abundantly clear: he was a world-class shedder. Like most huskies, he blew his coat twice a year, but Beau seemed to treat it as a competitive sport. Fur would come out in handfuls, drift across the floor like tumbleweeds, and somehow find its way into every room of the house no matter how often we vacuumed.
We often joked that if we collected all the fur Beau shed during a single coat blow, we could build a life-sized version of him. Some days it honestly did not seem like much of an exaggeration. There was enough hair to fill bags, cover furniture, and somehow still remain attached to the dog. Friends who visited during shedding season quickly learned why husky owners always seem to be wearing part of their dog. Even now, occasionally finding one of Beau’s stray tufts of fur feels less like discovering dog hair and more like finding a small reminder that part of him is still here.
At the time, Blue and Opal were already service dogs. They were highly trained, but Beau brought something different into our home. He brought fun. He somehow convinced two disciplined working dogs to act like puppies again.
Around that same period, I was struggling with uncontrolled diabetes and had been advised to obtain a diabetic alert dog. Blue was evaluated but was not suited for diabetic alert work. Beau, however, constantly surprised us. He could identify visitors long before they reached the door. Often he could detect people arriving in the parking lot hundreds of yards away. Sometimes he would alert before they had even exited their vehicle.
We began testing his abilities and found them remarkably accurate. His nose seemed extraordinary. Because of that, I enrolled him in service dog training. What normally takes nearly two years, Beau completed in just over one year.
Despite his training, he never lost his mischievous side.
His favorite place in the world was the Irvine Dog Park. The moment he realized we were headed there, he would go absolutely wild in the truck, bouncing between the seats, sticking his head out the window, and howling like a coyote the entire drive. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether the coyotes had actually been chasing him that morning or whether Beau had somehow been leading them.
He had a distinctive wobble when he walked. His hips would sway side to side as though one leg was slightly longer than the other. Everyone who met him laughed at that walk because it was uniquely Beau.
At the dog park, he had a gift for getting every dog howling at once. One howl from Beau could turn into an entire chorus. He seemed to know every dog there and greeted newcomers as though he had been waiting for them all day.
His loyalty to me was unquestionable—unless someone had food.
His nose was legendary. I could be quietly opening a can of tuna in the kitchen while he was asleep in another room. Within seconds I would see the curl of his tail rounding the corner as he followed the scent directly to its source.
He was also brilliant when it came to food theft.
Opal liked to guard her meals and eat them later. She made it very clear that her bowl belonged to her, and Beau learned that lesson quickly. But Beau was patient. He would sit across the room pretending not to care. Whenever Opal looked at him, he would turn away as though he had no interest whatsoever.
Then he would wait.
The moment Opal fell asleep, Beau would quietly sneak over, drag her bowl behind the couch, and eat almost every bite. Yet he always left exactly one bite behind for her. To this day, it remains one of the strangest and kindest things I have ever seen a dog do.
His best friend was our cat, Smokey.
The two of them developed what we jokingly called “inter-species karate.” They would sit face to face and engage in playful slap fights that sometimes lasted for hours. Smokey would throw a paw, Beau would gently counter, and the two would spar back and forth with an understanding that seemed impossible to teach. Despite outweighing Smokey many times over, Beau never used his size or strength to his advantage. He always matched Smokey’s intensity and played by the cat’s rules.
Watching them was like watching two old martial arts masters practicing together. It was one of the funniest and most unique friendships I have ever witnessed between a dog and a cat. He had every opportunity to overpower Smokey, yet he never did. Instead, he chose friendship, patience, and playfulness. That was who Beau was.
The two would engage in these friendly matches for hours at a time. Beau understood that Smokey was family, and he treated him with a level of respect and restraint that amazed everyone who saw them together.
Beau was always happy.
No matter the day, no matter the circumstances, he found joy in everything. He touched the lives of countless people and dogs at the Irvine Dog Park. After his passing, I received 128 sympathy cards from fellow dog owners on behalf of their dogs. Many of those people I barely knew. Yet Beau had left such an impression on them that they felt compelled to share their grief, stories, and memories.
What surprised me even more was the outpouring of support that followed. Donations totaling hundreds of dollars were contributed by members of the dog park community who wanted to help preserve Beau’s legacy. Many of them had never heard of pet cloning before learning about Beau’s story. As I responded to messages and thanked people for their support, I found myself explaining the cloning process and sharing information about Viagen with those who were curious.
The response was overwhelmingly positive. Nearly everyone who learned about the possibility of preserving Beau’s genetics became excited about the opportunity. Many now regularly ask for updates and are eagerly awaiting Beau’s return. Beau’s story has introduced numerous people to Viagen and the possibilities of pet cloning, and I have gladly shared Viagen’s contact information with anyone interested in learning more.
If I am fortunate enough to welcome Beau’s clone home in the future, I have little doubt that his story will continue inspiring others. The same community that embraced Beau during his life is already looking forward to meeting him again, and I believe his journey will introduce many more people to the incredible work Viagen performs in preserving beloved companions.
His absence has affected our entire family.
His brother Blue cried in his sleep for more than a week after losing him and still does from time to time. Blue now often chooses to sleep beside Smokey in Beau’s old spot. Opal still wakes up, checks her food bowl, and looks around the room as if she expects Beau to appear and steal it.
The bond they shared did not end with his passing.
Beau was never supposed to be part of our family. He appeared unexpectedly on the side of a road at dawn and changed our lives forever. He was a survivor, a service dog, a troublemaker, a best friend, and one of the happiest souls I have ever known.
People often describe Beau as a great dog, but what made him truly special was his ability to make every person and every animal around him feel like they belonged in his pack.
I am grateful for every day we had together, and I look forward to the day I can welcome him home again.
