An ode to the best guy I knew
A little over a week ago we lost Stosh, our beloved 15-year-old dog whose loyal and gentle presence was at the center of so many fond family memories over the past decade and a half.
He was my parents’ dog, but more than that, he was a family dog in every sense of the term. He simply wanted to be with all of his people all the time and he showed a fondness for all those whom he considered part of his pack. That fondness, needless to say, was returned many times over by many people who knew him.
Stosh came in to my parents’ lives suddenly and unexpectedly when he was a puppy. They weren’t looking for a new pet but it quickly became apparent that he had been destined to arrive at a very specific time for a very specific purpose.
I’d written about or made reference to Stosh in this space on multiple occasions during his lifetime. He and I were always sort of kindred spirits. If I had been born a dog, I might have been exactly like Stosh; if he had been born a human, he might have been just like me.
He wanted to be around his people all the time, but he didn’t like too much commotion. He was a fundamentally gentle, dignified, and tolerant creature but had little patience for loud, sharp noises or extreme departures from the routine with which he was accustomed. Excessive external stimulation was not his thing; he preferred quiet. His conscience — yes, he had one—sometimes got the best of him. He knew he had done wrong when as a puppy he once ate some of the Christmas lights my father had put up outside, and he even confessed once, in unmistakable fashion, to eating a gingerbread cookie my father had brought home as a souvenir from a trip to Poland.
He had a keen sense for the feelings of others. At one point during the latter half of his life, I discovered that if you used a curse word in front of him, he’d get up, come over to you, and try to console you or calm you down. You wouldn’t even need to use an elevated volume or tone of voice; somehow, inexplicably, he simply knew when you were frustrated by something. (Side note: I think dogs understand much more of human language than we give them credit for.)
But he almost never barked; it was an extraordinary occasion when he did. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I heard him bark. It might be years. He contended with certain anxieties throughout his life, but for the most part he was a remarkably calm and easy-going creature.
He was an athlete right up until the end. In the early years of his life, he required at least two walks per day; even in the very last one, he’d regularly want a daily walk of at least an hour. I looked after him on multiple occasions over the past 12 months when my parents were out of town; we’d go on walks together and I’d ask him whether he’d had enough and was ready to turn around. He’d invariably tell me no, let’s keep going.
In the prime of his life, when my parents would take a canoe or kayak out on Lake Michigan at their summer home, he would insist on swimming beside them in the water. A loyal companion by his very nature, he’d be by your side—literally—on land or water. If you went down to the beach at night to look at the countless stars in the ink black sky of the north, far away from the light pollution of the city, he would join you.
He was a dog of the north and his favorite thing on earth was snow. On the coldest days of winter in northern Illinois, he’d ask to be let out so he could go roll around in it and maybe eat some of it. It was too warm in the house for him, and I’m sure with his thick layer of fur and well-insulated body, the snow probably felt really good.
Like so many beautiful things this side of eternity—perhaps including the Earth itself—his decline was at first gradual but noticeable, and then near the very end, it was precipitous.
At first he couldn’t jump up on the bed anymore to sleep with my parents. Then he developed a phobia of hard floors, because his footing wasn’t what it used to be and he would slide easily. It became conspicuously harder for him to stand up and sit down; he’d deliberate over both extensively because of his worsening arthritis. It also got progressively more difficult for him to climb the stairs to my parents’ second-floor bedroom. He pursued it diligently for a long, long time, because he would always do anything to be with his people, even when they were sleeping.
But one night, he made clear he just couldn’t do it anymore. From that point on, he slept on the first floor—by himself for a while, and then my mother joined him for the last several months of his life.
In the final 10–12 weeks, he had a couple of seizure-like episodes that turned out to be harbingers of the fact that his time was near. Just two weeks before we lost him, he had a blood draw that showed a clean bill of health. But a 15-year-old dog can have spotless vitals even as his body is deteriorating by the day.
Like every good dog that has ever lived, his life was way too short. But it was full, and it was good.
I’ve always wondered why dogs, among the loveliest of creatures that God has seen fit to create, were designed only to live such short lives. Perhaps it’s reflective of the broader existential reality to which we are bound in this ephemeral world: Beauty is incredibly fleeting, and all good things eventually pass—often long before we even realize the blessings we had.
I made a point in a 2013 post that I wrote about Stosh that I want to reiterate here: As humans, I think we’re drawn to animals because they show us what life might be like if we hadn’t lost our way so badly.
If, for example, instead of fixating on the accumulation of power, wealth, or upward mobility, we were more focused on living in the beauty of the moment, like the wonder of a fresh snowfall. Or instead of living in perpetual anxiety about what comes next, we trusted that things would work out and instead channeled our energies into simply being with our loved ones.
Or simply being, period.
Stosh embodied this posture to the fullest. He was gentle and loving soul who embraced the simple joys of his life without reservation.
Stosh, I have a vision that we’ll be reunited some day. Until we do, run free in a place where your youth and vigor is restored, where the snow is as cold and as pure as any you ever rolled in here, where the water is yours to swim in and the beach sand yours to prance through—and know that your people will always remember you.
You are missed.
