Editor’s Note:
When I wrote my ChatGP-Me article about the inputs required to train an LLM to write in my style, I forgot one crucial input. An alert reader in Dallas, TX wrote in to let me know that I was overlooking Cleveland sports-writing legend Terry Pluto (real name). Pluto was, and is, a phenomenal writer. Part poet, part philosopher, and most importantly, an encyclopedia of sports, I had the pleasure of reading his newspaper article every weekend growing up, and reading him even more often once his articles began publishing free online. He’s one of my formative influences, for sure.
One of Pluto’s trademarks is his tendency to stray from his area of technical expertise (sports), and crank out the more-than-occasional sappy, “human interest” piece. Something tangentially sporty at best, such as reminiscing about watching baseball as a child with his now-deceased dad, or maybe an article about a local high school wrestling coach who has a child battling leukemia and yet still carries on, coaching the team to the Northeast Ohio Regional Championship, despite it all.
Terry Pluto has been known to write those sort of deep, cliched, heavy-handed, “Bart’s People”, articles, and mix them in with his elite-level reporting of sports.
He gets away with sticking this drivel onto the sports page because he is so good at writing and is also such a national talent with regards to his knowledge and insights to sports. He commands respect, and when a guy is as talented and successful as Terry Pluto, he gets to call the shots with his editor.
All of this is to say, I am my own editor, and so I too am straying from my area of technical expertise and taking you down a sappy lane of deep thoughts. That’s because we had to say goodbye to our beloved family dog, Stinky (real name) this week.
My mind’s giving me no choice but to write about Stinky. There’s a lot to unload. Maybe nobody will read past this point. That’s understandable; I took a “Creative NonFiction” course at a community college, and if you wanted an “A,” the one and only rule to adhere to was that you could not write about your dead dogs. Grammar and spelling were not graded, and you could write about any other topic, no matter how explicit and offensive. You didn’t have to be interesting or funny. The instructor was the walking stereotype of an anything-goes, everyone gets a trophy, one-with-the-universe, California hippie. Even THAT guy was sick and tired of reading stories about you people and your dumb, smelly, dead, dogs.
In other words, what I’m saying is that I guess this article would be a “Fail” in a community college writing course.
Please read on.
Sheepish About This Dog Article
Not gonna lie, I’m a little sheepish about this article. He was a dog. The sort of animal liable to poop on the carpet. And a smallish dog too. What has California done to me? And yet.
This is the second time I’ve had to be in the room to put a dog to sleep; those two occasions are the run-away leaders of the most dramatically sad moments in my life. Of course I experience human loss as deeper, but the time’s I’ve lost somebody close to me, my brain has a manual over-ride grief kill-switch - a breaker-box of sorts - so that I can continue to function, without spiraling and trying to comprehend the depth of the loss. I grieve more for people, but it’s spread out over time.
My brain has no such safety mechanism for dog grief. I just have to grapple with it all at once, and so it feels sharper. I’m a heavy sleeper, but it got bad enough to where I was up at 3AM, searching on my phone for articles on how to cope with losing a dog.
Yes, first-world problems, and yes, I may appear to be participating in the current culture’s unhealthy tendency to elevate and anthropomorphize pets. I recognize this all is an indicator that my life is very blessed, inasmuch that my foremost present trouble (my dog is gone) pales in comparison to those of most people who have ever walked this earth. I’m grateful for that, but the fact remains, it still hurts a ton to lose my little friend.
I’ve been guilty, in recent years, of a lot of unflattering modern tropes, with regard to Stinky. We had outfits for the poor guy. And the terms “dog-dad” and “dog-mom” may have been uttered within the confines of our home. We even gave him a quinceañera (quinceañero?). A true story; read about it on my old blog here.
But, your honor, I also have an actual, human kid. I think that goes a long way toward my exoneration from the charge of being a crazy, out-of-control, dog person.
Maybe it’s not so shameful to be a softie for dogs though. Come to think of it, my parents had lived through some certifiably, historically tough times, but they had soft spots for animals too. Both were born into households shaken by the Great Depression, and both lived through WWII. Fair to say they understood the big picture, what is important, and what is real. Yet one of very few memories I have of my dad losing composure was the moment he came outside to say bye to our golden/lab retriever mutt, before I drove her to the vet for euthanization. And there’s my mom, who would read me stories when I was little, and absolutely fell to pieces trying to get through the endings of “Where the Red Fern Grows” and the “The Yearling”.
Speaking of parents, Stinky actually was an entirely respectable, appropriate acquisition, originally. He was a gift from a dad to his daughter. My now-wife was in high school at the time, and her little sister was in elementary school, and that’s when their dad bought Stinky. Perfect ages for kids to share a pet. Stinky was a sweet gesture from a father to his children, there to give the kids extra love.
Stinky accomplished this original assigned mission with flying colors. And then he just kept going. And going. Until now, 17 years later, with all his favorite humans safe and thriving, he’s gone away.
He’s earned this dog eulogy.
A Eugoogalizer: One Who Speaks at Funerals
So what does a guy say in a dog eulogy? I have a few notes; I’ll try to be respectful of everyone’s time.
Stinky brought happiness to countless members of the general public of San Diego with his big smile.
They say a smile goes a long way. One of the best features of Poms is that they all have a great, triangular, Muppet-esque, goofy grin. Stinky’s grin earned him countless friends. Don’t let some debbie-downer, wet-blanket, animal expert tell you he was just anxious, out of breath, or over-heated. I’ve run my own experiments. Stinky smiled when he was genuinely experiencing the emotion of happiness, and it was a different look from when he was exhausted or warm. I’m convinced of that.
Even in San Diego, where well-behaved dogs are ubiquitous in public, Stinky drew attention. Early in my time dating my wife, I was baffled when we’d take him along with us into town; it was like traveling with a celebrity. People would stop us on the sidewalk with questions. Strangers would interrupt our dinner at a restaurant sidewalk table, and request permission to take a picture with Stinky.
He was a super cute dog. Fact.
Stinky was the embodiment of prioritizing what matters.
He knew who his family was, and had a strong herding instinct. He wanted everyone together, and he wanted to be in the middle. Any sort of home project, he would find, even while he was blind, and sit in the absolute, mathematical center of it. If I was working on my computer, he’d find the Ethernet cable and sit on that, to feel involved.
Like any dog, he had nothing. Toward the last few years, he didn’t even have stuff dogs ought to have. He didn’t have good teeth, he couldn’t see well, he was arthritic and losing mobility - a poor dog by all measures. He was happy as can be, all the same, because he was with me and my wife, and later, our baby. He loved being outside and around the people that were important to him.
And he also enjoyed a good meal. That too.
Stinky was a well-timed warm-up to kids.
I’m a late-bloomer; starting a family around 40 shows you how decades of total independence can make you a lot more selfish than one would like to believe. A transformation was needed. Stinky, as a prelude to kids, is an example of God meeting somebody where they’re at. I was given responsibility for this little dog, and got attached; and then I didn’t notice the increasing care he needed over time. His gradual health decline - and needs - ramped up and he became God’s little helper to escort me from being the proverbial forever-bachelor, to a real, responsible, loving adult. The whole experience with this dog was a crash course to prep me to be vigilant for a dependent being, and to get a glimpse of the satisfaction that comes when you start to think outside of yourself.
To borrow and paraphrase “Seabiscuit,” everybody thinks I got this broken down dog and fixed him up, but I didn’t. He fixed me up. He was a high-maintenance dog in his last years, but adding all those care routines to my life eased me gently into real parenthood.
Stinky helped me appreciate what I have.
Speaking of parenthood, in the last year of preparing for and welcoming our first-born daughter, I’ve heard a lot of parenting advice (plenty of it unsolicited). One annoying advice cliche that raises my eyebrow is the whole lane of thought that goes, “cherish every moment, it’ll be over before you know it, and you’ll miss all of it, including the diapers, the screaming, the messes, and you’d do anything to have it all back.”
People who say that are full of it. At least on some level. They are certainly romanticizing the past; if they miss diapers and a screaming child so much, then I’ve got a standing, open invitation for them to partake. Like, it sure would be nice to be able to write this article in one sitting, for example, but none of these wise, kindly dispensers of advice seem to be around when I actually need them.
At least, that had been my attitude… until last week. Stinky’s chaos was even more ridiculous than that of a child, and yet I have found that I miss it all, sorely. I actually do miss stepping on random pieces of dog food, or having to scoot his various piles of blankets around. We’re minimalists here, aesthetically. We try to maintain a smooth, modern vibe in the decor. Stinky’s nonsense stuck out like a sore thumb, especially as this place evolved into some sort of dog-hospice the last month.
One would think getting rid of his clutter would be cathartic and a relief, but it was nothing short of heartbreaking to toss his things. I’m still hoarding his silly holiday outfits, for now.
The point is that, having gone through this with a dog, I’m going to take serious heed to the cliche grandparent advice about enjoying the parent life we have at the moment. I’m a believer now. I have an incredible, beautiful, baby girl here today, and I won’t lose one moment of the experience to pouting and complaining.
Stinky helped me learn to live in the present.
Remember my photography article a few weeks ago? All those pictures were taken on my morning walks with Stinky. A morning walk is an incredible way to start your day; fresh air, early morning light, and morning bird songs all ground you in the present moment in a powerful way. Being present is critically important for a guy like me; if I’m not careful, my brain will leave the room and go to work crafting 10,000 word essays about laptops.
Those walks were just what the doctor ordered. I’ve been doing those walks ever since I moved into a tiny studio apartment with the little guy in March of 2020. That was 9 months in advance of my wedding, and a couple weeks in advance of the world collectively losing its mind. If there was ever a season of life when I needed a little bit of fresh air and quiet reflection, that was it. Wedding planning can be stressful, and a lot to think about it, but try it during 2020, if you want to play the game in Legendary difficulty mode.
So Stinky was a gift from God into my life at the perfect time. The walks were priceless - not to mention how much it helped to have a companion during those lonely quarantine months. On nights when I could be kept up by helicopters circling above rioting mobs down the street, Stinky’s peaceful snores helped sooth me to sleep, when I’d otherwise lie awake and ponder our unraveling wedding plans.
And last week, in 2023, God took him at the perfect moment, when all is right in my life. Stonk hung around just long enough for our baby to take joy in him. She’d flap her arms and yell at him. The first time she ever took us by surprise with mobility was when she somehow managed to roll six feet in a matter of seconds, to achieve her literally life-long goal of grabbing Stinky’s eyes and ears, and chewing on his face (not recommended by pediatricians, but she’s ok and it won’t happen again). Stinky took the abuse patiently, and she later made it up to him by dropping him food from her high chair. It all balanced out.
I find it no coincidence that my daughter had just become the exact perfect age to begin appreciating sunrise walks in the stroller, when Stinky graciously exited stage left. Old Stinkers handed off the morning-walk baton with Olympic precision, giving this special and healthy routine I learned from him, to share exclusively with my daughter. Now I get to enjoy those serene mornings, as a special time with my child.
Where’s Stinky Now?
These last three months I could tell Stinky was shutting down, and it was sad to watch. Finally, last week, he fell and got hurt pretty bad, and I knew it was time. We got him to the vet, and gave him a last meal of Doritos, M&Ms, puppy chow, grapes, and whatever else was around the vending machine. He polished that meal off enthusiastically. Then I said a little prayer of gratitude to God for gracing us with this good animal for so many years. After that prayer, Stinky gave us his big goofy grin - something we hadn’t seen much in the last couple weeks.
I held the little guy as he got the injection, and he fell asleep, snoring as he often did. Then his heart stopped, and he was gone.
Is he gone? As a Catholic, I’ve long understood that yes, he will be gone. Catholics tell their children grieving pets, “If you need Sparky in heaven in order to be happy, then God can make sure Sparky will be there.”
Insert Ron Howard narrator voice: “They didn’t need Sparky in order to be happy in heaven.”
That’s the deceit - you definitely won’t need dogs in heaven, therefore dogs definitely won’t be there. Easier than telling a kid the full truth.
I believed that for most of my life. HOWEVER… recently, I’ve been surprised to find out this whole “dogs will definitely not be in heaven” thing can be challenged. In fact, it is rather unfounded, from a Catholic perspective. Nothing in Catholic teaching says dogs don’t go to our heaven - it’s just a popular opinion. There is, in fact, noteworthy evidence to the contrary. That’s explored in this podcast from Jimmy Akin, if anyone doubts me.
I suspect Stinkerton is indeed running around up there. I sympathize with Rod Dreher, who only months ago posted his own doggie eulogy here on Substack, writing of his dog Roscoe, “If Roscoe is not waiting for me in heaven, I will have to have words with the Landlord.”
The thought of Stonk being in heaven is a strong positive motivator for me to get there too. I’m a simple guy. Loftier philosophical and theological concepts can go in one ear and out the other, but the idea of getting to heaven and seeing my dog again, is speaking my language.
Wow, this article got very Catholic at the end! I’ll double down with a closing thought: What I love most about animals is how they can be such a pure, interference free, conduit of God’s love. So the good news is that while my dog’s not here anymore, God’s love still is. In fact, last week, Catholics celebrated the Ascension, when Jesus left the apostles with the words, “behold, I am with you always, to the close of the age.” Very appropriate!
Excellent liturgical timing, Stinky. Good boy!