I’d like to tell you about Aspen—he was the best dog you could ever ask for. He was smart, playful, loving, ornery, and we miss him. We got him in late 2009, when he was still a pup, and had to put him down in 2023—it was one of the hardest things we’ve had to do as a family and was especially hard on my wife.
We named him Aspen because he was white, like the bark on Aspen trees, and because we enjoy Colorado, which has a town named Aspen. He was a Goldendoodle, which was a fairly newish breed in the mid-2000s, but now you see them everywhere. I wanted a German Shepherd, but I was overruled by other family members. I’m glad they won out.
As the dog of a military family, Aspen saw so much transition and change that anytime we packed our bags, even for a weekend trip, he’d get nervous and lay next to the piled up bags. He’d lay completely still and flat—except for his eyes, which would dart left and right to track the movements of the family as they walked back and forth. When we’d open the door to walk out of the house with our bags, he’d be the first out the door, as if to say, “I’m going too!”
Six months after we got him, we took a road trip from Florida to Alaska, driving across the southern U.S., then up the West Coast into Canada. He traveled with us in our minivan, his area taking up as much space as our two sons combined.
Along the way, we stopped at the Grand Canyon to stretch our legs, see the view, and take Aspen for a walk. I kid you not, a bunch of Japanese tourists with cameras saw this giant white puffball on a leash and immediately started snapping photos. Aspen responded with a toothy, open-mouthed, tongue-sticking-out smile and soaked in all the attention. He could be a bit of a showboat at times. In fact, once, he was even on the front page of the newspaper for a Fourth of July parade. Aspen made the newspaper picture; my son, however, was cropped out.
After the Grand Canyon, he got to see Yosemite. Then, in Canada, we got on a ferry where he had to stay below deck in the car in his crate. For the next couple of days, whenever we hit a port—whether noon or midnight or anytime in between—we’d let him out to go potty, then usher him back to his crate. Then we all got back into the car to drive through the Yukon and into Alaska.
In Alaska, he loved the snow in the winter and the grass fields in the summer. His best friend was our neighbor’s dog, Nalia, a large Alaskan Malamute. The two of them loved to wrestle, and it wasn’t uncommon for it to end with blood stains after one or both of them had played a little too rough and bitten the other around the nape of the neck a little too hard. They were never angry at one another; it was always playful.
He was an incredibly smart dog. Early on, he learned to tap a bell hanging from the handle on our back door to signify that he needed to go outside to go to the bathroom. Because his urine would kill the grass, I installed pebbles in an area on the side of the house—his “doggy litter” area, if you will. At first, it worked great.
Then he became too smart for his own good. He trained us to open the back door anytime we heard the bell ring, even if it was just because he wanted to wander around the backyard to smell things. And since he didn’t like the feeling of the gravel on his paws, he’d walk toward that area of the yard when we let him out; then, as soon as we closed the door, he’d sprint away to the grassy area to go to the bathroom.
To say he was the best dog is not to say he was a perfect dog.
Once, in Alaska, we had to take him in for emergency surgery after realizing that a wool sock he had eaten had gotten stuck in his intestines. I’m not sure I could’ve choked down (pun intended) the $1,000+ vet bill had I not loved that dog. And that’s nothing to say of how I later had to manually pull the other sock out of the exiting hole of his digestive system (I’ll spare you the details on that one). The things you do for the ones you love.
He was a bit of a Houdini at times. Though he never ran away, sometimes he would escape from our backyard, only for us to find out he’d gone when he pawed at our front door from outside. We’d open the door, and he’d be like, “Hi folks, I’m back.” and would trot back inside. To which we’d respond, “We didn’t even know you were gone!” I’m reminded of Billy in The Family Circus comic strip:
I imagined that, like Billy, Aspen had wandered the neighborhood, checked out some things, then decided he was ready to come home, so he did.
From the beginning, we had a rule that he was not allowed on our couch.
But something changed along the way, and it just started happening. He was not a lap dog. With a dog his size, it was like an elephant coming to sit on the couch—the process of getting on was cumbersome, followed by circling before sitting and then constant stretching and maneuvering to claim more couch real estate. If my wife or I ever got up from the couch to grab something from the kitchen, we’d return to find our place filled with whatever part of his body was not taking up the other 90% of the couch.
Couches, beanbags, beds… he had an elevated sense of self. The floor simply wasn’t good enough for this dog.
Sometimes he had a rough night partying and didn’t quite make it fully into bed. We can all relate.
And sometimes he had a rough day at the office:
I thought this picture of him waiting for Santa was nice too; he heard there were openings on the sleigh team and wanted to interview.
He loved going on walks, but he was terrible at going on runs. He wanted to smell every single blade of grass, which doesn’t really make running feasible.
Walks also meant us humans carrying poop bags and picking up his poop. And poop he did. Nope, he couldn’t go in our backyard; instead, he had to wait until we were 100 yards from home and make us humans carry his filled poop bags back for him like royal servants. I’m still not sure who trained whom. We carried innumerable bags of poop home from walks around the neighborhood over the years. It was embarrassing for us humans, and I think he was proud of that.
He had a particular gait that made him look like he was just kind of loping or bebopping along. Thus became one of his nicknames—Bebop.
Eventually, his list of nicknames grew so long that we only called him Aspen when he was in trouble or we needed him for something. His nicknames included:
Bebop – which, of course, led to other nicknames, like:
Beeeeeeeebops Las Vegas - said like “Vivaaaaaa Las Vegas!”.
Bipity Bops – Inspired by the song from the Cinderella cartoon with the lyrics “Bipity Bopity Boo”.
Bibity – A shortening of the above.
Polywoggers – Along with his gait, his tail had its own personality, wagging in numerous directions… thus poly, meaning “many.” We’d usually call him this after his tail knocked something over, as in, “Polywoggers, watch your tail!”
Poop eater – Self-explanatory.
Dogger breath – Also self-explanatory and usually preceded by “poop eater.”
Monkey dog - When he did something goofy. As in, “You monkey dog, stop rolling in the dirt! We just gave you bath.”
Squirrel chaser – Squirrels are, well, squirrely. And though he liked to chase them, they were simply too fast to catch. But the most annoying part to him was when they’d cackle at him once they got up in the tree. “Squirrel chaser,” I’d say, “you’ll never win, they can climb trees.”
Deer harasser – We have a lot of deer in our neighborhood. And while we were busy picking up his poop on walks, this giant white fluffy 70 pound dog would attempt to slowly sneak up on the deer. I have no idea what he thought he’d do when he got them, but then again, I don’t think he ever really intended to catch them. He would only half-heartedly jump at them when he got close. Then, as they’d bound away from the “great white killer,” he’d turn back to us and smirk, then continue bebopping along on his walk.
For everyone in our family, though, his most enduring trait was that of stress sponge. He was so docile that you could just lay next to him on the floor, petting his soft fur, letting him soak up the stress of the day. There were many days that I felt God put him into our lives to do just that. He would lay there as long as we would. I miss the feel of his fur.
He was also the neighborhood’s friendliest dog. Though he’d bark at other dogs in passing, it was not aggressive. It was as if he was saying, “Hey, what’s up, dude!” If they didn’t respond back with a bark or friendly wag of the tail, he’d pause and look at me as if asking, “What’s wrong with that guy?”
When we were in Alaska, we had a giant field behind our home. We’d go out to the field and throw a ball for him to fetch. He’d run to get it a couple of times, but after that, we’d end up having to go get the ball we threw.
When he was younger, he was very fast. In that same Alaskan field, the boys and I would play a game with him where we’d have him sit in place, then we’d start walking away, and, after we’d gotten a certain distance from him, we’d start running. As soon as we started running, he’d come chasing after us.
He’d always catch me—and catching usually meant swiping at my legs, causing me to trip and land face-first on the ground. I’d laugh and he’d come over and lick my face. He loved the thrill of the chase and the taste of victory.
As he grew older, he became slower, weaker, and increasingly in pain. There was less walking and more lying around. What he really loved was just sitting outside, watching passersby like an old man.
Alas, his compounding health issues just became too much, and we had to put him down. It was one of the toughest days for our family. There are harder things to bear in life, no doubt, but the loss of a pet is difficult—especially when that pet was Aspen.
To make matters worse, one of my sons and I were out of town and had to watch virtually as he passed. But it was harder on my wife, who held him as he took his last breath and felt his heart beat for the last time.
Undoubtedly, he was the best dog a family could’ve asked for.
So, Aspen, you big fluff ball, in your honor, we raise a bag of poop to you. We miss you, Bebop, you poop-eating dogger-breath polywogger monkey dog. Know that the squirrels still cackle, the deer continue to invade, and you’ll forever have a place in our hearts.
Aspen, the best dog a family could ask for.