My wife found him on a farm in the foothills. The picture the farmer sent was blurry because the puppy was running and wouldn’t sit still for a photo. But one thing that was clear from the photo was that he had crazy eyes and a mischievous smile. So we drove 90 minutes north to get our crazy puppy and on the ride home Strider was as quiet as a mouse. In fact, he was like that for the first three days with us – despite being showered with attention both from the humans and the other dogs in our pack. We wondered whether he was broken. But then after a few days, his true personality burst onto the scene. Big time.
Strider was the worst puppy I’ve ever seen. I mean, he was sweet and fun, but extremely destructive. Which made zero sense because we have a big yard, plenty of toys, other playful dogs, and people who were constantly engaging him. But whenever there was a break in the action, Strider was getting into something. Ripping up drip lines in the yard. Ripping balls apart. Ripping our clothing during play. Eating shoes in the mud room out of boredom. He was such a bad puppy that when he turned a year old I built the website PuppiesAreAssholes.com showcasing the growing list of things he destroyed.
Strider was also the most playful dog I’ve ever known. None of our other dogs could keep up with him. I couldn’t even keep up with him. Enjoying the first coffee of the morning? Forget that – let’s play. Trying to get ready for bed? Forget that – let’s play. This dog had two gears. Sleep and play. Play was his incentive for everything. Not food. Not treats. Play.
At the park once, Strider was chasing a ball full speed down a grassy hill when his front paws landed in a slight undulation. He flipped at full speed and let out a shrill cry. This dog never cried. Not even when he dug under some chicken wire that nearly flayed the skin from his back – resulting in 15 staples. That’s why as soon as I heard his cry at the park I knew it was bad. The emergency vet told us he had splintered cartilage near his spine and there was a strong chance he would lose the use of his rear legs.
We kept him well medicated to temper his instinct, but after a few days he was demanding that I roll a ball to him on the floor. After two weeks carrying him outside to do his business, I decided to see if he’d be willing to play outside. He was. Within a week he was walking without a limp. He was fully healed soon after.
Play.
He was so playful that we decided to hire a trainer with the goal of having a dog that would obediently walk at our side and respond to basic commands. We hired one of the most respected trainers in our area. But the trainer gave up three weeks later citing, “His instinct to play is too strong.”
Over the years, Strider flowed into a good dog, even though we couldn’t take him anywhere because part of him wanted to herd every animal within eyesight. Herding with extreme prejudice, I might add. He was the alpha – and every other dog needed to know it. This made it nearly impossible to socialize with people who had dogs. Or people. Or dogs.
I was his person. He loved everyone in our family, of course, but to him – I was his. During his lifetime we had four other dogs, but the bond we shared was different. It was deep. Soulful. I’ve had a lot of dogs over the years, but the bond I shared with Strider was rooted deep in my heart in a way I didn’t really understand. It was like we were put on this earth to be together. And when I went through my cancer journey in the spring of 2022, he was constantly at my side as I healed.
Strider was born on the Fourth of July and was as crazy as a pack of Black Cat firecrackers. When he was 3, we adopted a runt puppy from an accidental litter. Strider took Bogart under his wing in a sorta big brother way, and Bogart loved him.
As he approached his 12th birthday in the summer of 2022, Strider was happy and healthy and still always willing to play. I really believed that this crazy dog was going to live to be 15. But then one morning he didn’t eat. And that night he refused food again. When he turned his nose up at his breakfast a second consecutive morning, my wife took him to the vet. After about an hour I checked to see where she was and noticed she was on her way home. So I called. When I asked how it went she was quiet for a second and then burst into tears. He had a tumor on his spleen and the spleen had ruptured and was bleeding. We had to put him down. We had two days. Maybe three.
There was no warning. No symptoms. Just like my cancer. One day he was happy and playful, the next – we had to say our goodbyes. He never did make it to 12. And unlike every dog I’ve had the past 30 years, I couldn’t even bring myself to write about him. Until now. Four years later.
Losing a dog is hard. I know. I’ve been through it a lot and during the development of our book Gone Dogs, I learned more about grieving the loss of these creatures than I ever expected to. But losing Strider the way we did – I don’t think I’ve ever really gotten over it. Even now as I cry while writing this.
In the days that followed our goodbye, my heart ached and the house was quiet. Bogart grew closer to me during this time. I think he understood what happened – the way dogs do. Strider’s ashes arrived in a wooden box which I placed on a shelf alongside other dogs who have been part of our pack. Each dog with its own sweet story. Each an important chapter in my life.
I couldn’t wait long to have another dog.
Our daughter found Australian Shepherd brothers on a farm an hour south of Charlotte. A red tricolored, and a black tri. I knew the moment we met that they were going to be part of my life. Friends called me crazy to take on not just one Aussie, but two. We named them Quill (the red one) and Rocket. Because tris are so similar in markings, I knew that Rocket might break my heart because I’d think of Strider – so I was careful to keep that in mind. He wasn’t Strider. He was Rocket. Different dogs. But after a few months I swear it was as though before he died, God somehow took part of Strider’s soul and placed it into Rocket’s body. Especially as it related to play. Rocket is somehow just as goofy and playful as Strider.
Bogart wasn’t enthusiastic about the puppies. But over time, as they grew larger than him, he accepted them and started developing a clear bond with one of them. Today they live together as a happy pack and the relationship between Bogart and Rocket has grown. In fact, when Bogart, who is now 13, had to go to the vet this week for a digestive issue, I decided to bring Rocket. When the nurse asked why, I said “Because Rocket is his emotional support dog.”
I miss Strider. But life is full. And honestly? I still feel him. The thing I’ll probably never get over is that I didn’t get to love him as an old dog. That’s why my memory of him will always be as a crazy boy who just wanted to play.
With love, Jim.
