Our beloved dog Parker joined the ancestors on May 31, 2025.
Music in the video courtesy of Cloud Cult.
We read the letter below to him as a tribute before he passed.
Dear Parker,
We are writing this letter to you as an offering of appreciation. I know you will not understand all the words, but I am sure that you will feel what lies beneath them—the immense gratitude we have for you loving us for nearly nine years.
From the moment you chose us with a tilt of your head in a barn in Greenville, Michigan, you became interwoven into our daily life. We watched your fuzzy black bear-body wiggle through the grass as a pup and endured your heartbreaking wails of separation.
You always wanted to be near us. I’m sorry we didn’t understand how much you loved to cuddle until you were a young adult. When we took a paddleboat ride in Grand Haven on the pond, we turned to see you sitting solo in a rowboat tied to the pier, as if you were planning to row your way out to us. We began to grasp that you would do anything to be with us. Like the time you jumped over the railing onto the second-story roof in Montezuma, Puntarenas, contemplating the jump to the ground.
One of my last memories of you being exuberant was chasing the truck down the south ridge of Pura Jungla.
You loved the chase. There was the time you jumped out the window on Park Street while we were driving to chase a buck. It took us an hour to find you because you were nowhere near familiar territory. But you always knew you would find us.
You chased a coatimundi up a tree. You chased too many deer to count. Though you rarely got close, you wanted to do it again and again and again.
You were a water dog. We were shocked to see videos of you learning to swim at Farmer Bob’s. Then we couldn’t keep you away from the water. You would run straight for Lake Michigan when you saw it, biting the cresting waves. When we walked up to the Tower in the rainy season, you would jump in and out of the moat every two minutes. You shook and got people wet, but they were delighted by your delight. You even loved the half-day canoe trip down the Au Sable River, though you frequently scared us that you were going to tip the canoe.
You were a model traveler. Having been to 11 states and 2 countries, you could go hours at a time in the car, sometimes with stuff piled up over and around you. You smiled in the back seat and stayed perfectly still and quiet, happy to be with us and look out the window.
You had a knack for getting in trouble. Famously, you stole a Halloween wig off the sidewalk and ran away with it before you were even two months old. You stuck your nose in a hornet’s nest at Wade and started getting stung and chased. Thankfully you were smart enough to run and plunge into Silver Lake.
In Avellanas you were sprayed by the same skunk twice in five days. We had no idea that the spray of Central American spotted skunks carries the combined odor of a gas leak, burning rubber, rotten eggs, and sewage. Then a few months later, he got you (and thereby us) again.
You were kicked out of doggie day camp for harassing the alpha dogs. You were banned from Waypost Brewery for chasing the chickens. I wish you hadn’t killed so many animals—by my count two chipmunks, three iguanas, three groundhogs, one opossum, and hundreds of wasps and flies. I know it was your nature, and it helped us accept all the complexities of Nature.
When we turned our backs, or were tango dancing, or went out for errands, we knew there was a risk. When out of sight, you consumed a bag of cinnamon rolls, a tray of granola, two bags of dried coconut, a fruitcake, a bottle of fish oil pills, a cup of vegetable oil, a bag of Oreos, and Leo’s chicken leg—except that time you were not sneaky. You took it right off his plate.
The first time we took you camping, we thought you would love being outdoors, right outside the tent. You tried to open the tent door with your mouth. Then finally you stepped onto the tent, plopped your butt down like you do, and collapsed the whole thing on top of us. You were a people dog.
You were socially awkward with other canines. At the dog park, you sometimes seemed to fake that you were playing, trotting over to playing dogs and seeing where and how to insert yourself in their games, but with no confidence.
Or your tortured courtship of the neighbor Ridgeback, Gina. You stared. You tried to impress her with dramatic and graceful mini leaps. You stood at the fence frozen and tried desperate yelps to get her attention. She seemed to enjoy toying with you, and yet you persisted.
Remember Findley? She was a better match, and she, too, died too early. You and she had a three-day mudbath party when we were digging our drainage field on Maple Street, chasing each other, splashing, and turning your black fur brown.
In Costa Rica, you had the makings of a doggie gang with Luna, Daisy, and Spanky. But Daisy moved away and we moved up the hill. The gang never congealed because the whole gang was awkward. Spanky liked Luna and, though you didn’t like Luna, you didn’t approve of pairings.
And this now makes sense. Because a pair was never enough. We needed unity in diversity, ideally in the same room. You always wove people in, just like you would run from one person to the next when someone new arrived, as if to say, “We have more who need to be included.”
Once you were over your initial apprehension, you loved having guests. You took care of Maureen when she lost her mom, Pia when she lost her dad, Fritz while he was getting sober, and so many more. The Wyoming family who cared for you for two weeks in 2022 cried when they had to leave you. You loved more beings to weave, to herd.
I will never forget witnessing the thrill in your body when you learned you could herd cows. That was not awkward. It’s like you discovered a part of yourself you didn’t know was there. You once herded cows away from the collecting pen on slaughter day, and we wondered if you knew what you were doing.
Even though you were often fearful, you were our protector. In LaPorte, Indiana, after your first haircut, with a swishy tail and fancy kerchief, you chased off the Scottish-accented home invaders with the pitbull who got so scared she peed on you. One of the many, many times you didn’t smell so great. Your default odor was actually pleasant, but the shit-rolling, goop-finding, stink-loving side had its annoyances.
We still don’t understand your relationship with those rubber piglets. With other toys you would proudly strut around, shake them, and try to entice us to play the game of keep-away. But with the piglets, you got obsessed. You didn’t want us near them. They were not to be played with. And when we got out two or even three, you would go bonkers and try to protect all of them in your mouth or in your lair.
We couldn’t always protect you. I’m sorry that Ziba bit off a part of your ear. I’m sorry you were attacked by those two menacing pit bulls. I’m sorry there were iguanas living in the ceiling at Lot 17 and we couldn’t get rid of them. I’m sorry that you were left in your crate on the tarmac in Miami overnight. I’m sorry you got so cold and sick in Spring Green and needed to sit all 72 pounds of yourself on Pia’s lap the whole ride home. I’m sorry you got cancer and we didn’t know.
If you were to write an autobiography, what would it be? A travelogue? (You did visit 11 states and live in 2 countries.) Mastering the Subtleties of Begging? (Yes, it’s the eyes, silence, patience, and posture.) Or a love story?
I have never cared for the word “devotion.” It felt too pure—too absolute—without sufficient nuance. But you were my teacher in devotion. I will call you a dog of devotion.
Were you devoted to us? Yes, and I wonder if it was more than us. You were devoted to togetherness, to loving, and we were lucky enough to be two nodes in that web of connection. I will miss that twirl you gave each of us upon returning home, only to then run to the other and repeat. The welcome dance.
You were always willing to receive—something that humans often struggle with. You learned to wave your paw in the air if you wanted a belly rub. You learned when the humans’ streaming show ended and that you needed to immediately jump between us for cuddling. You received so well, Parker, that it is an honor that you gave us these last ten days after your diagnosis.
Up until the end, you have been receiving still, though it has been so hard to see you in pain and still track our feelings, and want to keep your eye on us. It was agonizing to see your open jaw shriek. It was heartbreaking to watch you slowly go down steps with wobbly determination because we wanted you to pee and poop.
A week ago you dragged yourself up the stairs and leapt onto the bed with us one last time. You were such a good sneaker.
And you were a great communicator. You could tell us if you were thirsty, hungry, restless, excited, sad, afraid, or about to vomit. I will miss the game you’ve liked to play in different forms for years, challenging me to insert myself between you and Pia. With a certain glance, I knew you wanted to “play the game.” As I moved toward the intersection of you two, you growled, sometimes swiped your paws at me, and I always let you win. You loved relational play. And now your exquisite communication has reached us for the final time. We have heard you that your time here is complete.
It feels somewhat trite to call a dog like you a companion, as if you exist to be by my side. That you are defined by your relationship to me.
You were a partner. An adventure-partner, a loving-partner, a Nature-partner. You lived in two of the most amazing bioregions: the dunescapes of Southwest Michigan and the tropical dry forest of Guanacaste.
We will always remember your exuberance in the wild. Your delight in exploration. It has inspired a book, and inspired our lives.
I remember you descending steep sand dunes and hills, ascending on the other side with ease. Once in pursuit of a giant buck at Hidden Mountain. I will miss your eagerness to walk out the door and see what sights, sounds, smells, and beings we might find.
For five years we hiked every morning, rain, snow, sun, or wind—at Wade, Saugatuck State Park, Wau-Ke-Na, Farview, the Harbor Area, or here in the jungle at Pura Jungla. You loved snow so much. Sometimes using your face as a snowplow, other times doing your own rolling snow angels, and occasionally getting the zoomies complete with scoops of snow on the run into your mouth.
I will miss your big, Hobbity paws and rabbity back feet. Your jigglin’ ears, and the way you could hold my gaze for minutes. You’ve done that today, even on your last day as your body quivers and you struggle to move.
I am a dog lover. And I didn’t know it was possible to love a non-human in this way until you came into our life. Many people claim they have the best dog, just like many people think their baby is the cutest ever. But I can say there will never be another dog like you. I’ve learned presence from you. Patience, acceptance, being in the moment, and joy. So much joy it hurts to imagine life without you.
The eight years and eight months that you spent with us were the most beautiful and meaningful of my life. And you deserve some credit for that. Pia and I have been together for over 15 years and our relationship has never been stronger. You deserve some credit for that too.
On my jog this morning, I made a turn on the public road, my face covered with sweat and tears, and a tiger heron was in the exact center of the road. I slowed to a walk and the heron continued to face me, as if she wanted to tell me something.
Herons symbolize connection to Nature, and connection to the divine. Perhaps this heron was there to comfort me, to let me know that I am not alone in my grief. Or perhaps this heron was reminding me that you were more than a physical being, a descendant of wolves. You were a divine emissary, and I imagine you still are and will be. Thank you. Your spirit will remain with us.
