“Dylan”
My Brother and Most Loyal Friend
As a child, I went through a phase of begging my Dad for a little brother. Looking back now I realize that, as a single parent, he was a little hard pressed to deliver on my request. But in the Fall of 2008, he surprised me with the only thing I had ever truly wanted. A dog.
While on Thanksgiving break from university, we took a father/ son road trip to mid-Michigan where an 8-week-old Bull Mastiff unknowingly waited our arrival. When I first laid eyes on him, he embodied the inherent vulnerability that comes naturally with every puppy born into the world blind, deaf, and innately innocent.
Kev inquired about seeing his parentage, his mother was indisposed but his father burst through the swinging doors with an air of arrogance; he gave our brindle colored puppy one last sniff as if to say goodbye, and did a lap around the room before retreating back behind the doors—never to be seen again.
Once loaded into the car, our new pup stared at us with timid bluish brown eyes from his cozy seat on the floor matt between my legs. He was a—16 pound, dark tiger stripped, frightened but curious—bundle of joy. I couldn’t help but feel bad for having torn him away from his family, but Kev reassured me that he was having the most exciting day of his life. Plus, as he rationalized, the poor economic state of rural Michigan would have prevented those dog breeders from caring for him like we could.
That night he cried and whimpered to no avail from his little kennel near the back sliding glass door. Every time he cried, I would come and lay by him until he settled down. On one hand, this made him always willing to share the space in his kennel, but on the other, he always knew that all it took was a little whimpering to get me out of bed.
Our new puppy remained incredibly shy those first few days as we quarreled endlessly over the perfect name for him.
“Bear Dog,” Kev suggested based on an outlandish story of someone he met somewhere who had a dog-named ‘Bear Dog’.
“How about Tank,” I rebutted, thinking of a big strong character from ‘The Matrix’ that he would one day resemble.
“Just Bear?”
“No, we don’t know enough about sports to own a dog named Bear just outside of Chicago.”
“Cub?”
“NO!”
Needless to say, I went back to school, leaving our pup without a proper name. He always had a look of confusion when we called for him, which I blame on the identity crises he must have felt in those first couple of days as we bickered over a suitable name.
My best friend Kelsey told me that such a large dog needed either a name characteristic of the breed, like ‘Big Dozer’ or one that would be perceived as ironic like ‘Tiny Mouse.’ Or an all around clever name like ‘DeOoGe.’
In the end, Kev decided on the neutral name “Dylan.” When I heard the name, it just seemed to fit, but I couldn’t help but ask my dad why. He said that ‘Dylan’ would have been his second choice for my name. It was a bittersweet story but in that moment, Dylan truly became my little brother.
When I returned from school again for winter break, Dylan was no longer the shy little puppy that I had left. He adopted our home as his own and would often run the length of our living room back and forth with excitement. But when entering a new environment, like my Aunt and Uncle’s house, he would revert into adorable shy puppy mode. Having seen both sides of him, my Aunt Cathy remarked that, “He knew where home was.”
After a long Christmas party spent with my cousins, Kev was seen in a corner chair with a 30-pound, and extremely tired Dylan passed out in his arms like a cradled baby. It was fairly obvious that in a matter of mere weeks, Dylan had become the favorite child.
That Christmas morning, Dylan received a dog toy from Cathy and Fe that consisted of a rope tied in intricate knots. In a previous life Dylan must have been a sailor, or a rock climber, or otherwise employed in the rope business because he played with those knots tirelessly until they were all undone. When his new favorite toy was nothing but a straight piece of rope, he moved on to Kev’s shoes, which were notoriously known for having knotted shoelaces because he kicked them off without untying them first. From that day onward, my dad would always find his shoelaces untied and ready to go in the morning thanks to Dylan.
My girlfriend Melissa celebrated New Years with us that year. She joined me on Dylan’s first and last nail trimming experience at PetSmart. It was rather chilly as we made our way across the snow-covered parking lot. As if sensing his imminent demise, Dylan without warning stopped dead 10 yards from the entrance. He would not budge. I carried him inside and held him in my arms as a wiry checkout clerk cut half his toenail off. He just stared at me unwavering with those chubby cheeks of his, as blood spurted from his toe.
He took it rather well, but that was the inciting incident in an unending war of the toenails. Each battle would start with Kev asking me whether I thought Dylan’s nails were too long. I would respond with something like, “Meh.” And Kev would proceed with grabbing the clippers, which Dylan always kept one eye on, even in his sleep. Dylan would immediately look for escape routes, first seeing if I would open the back door for him, then if that failed he would proceed with evasive maneuvers, circling the coffee table with Kev in hot pursuit. These battles would rarely end well, each time feeding deeper into Dylan’s chronic fear of having his nails trimmed.
That same winter, Melissa and I accompanied Dylan on his first day in puppy school. Lesson 1 was more of a meet and greet, so the instructor could gauge her new pupils’ abilities. I spent most of that time bragging about Dylan’s intellect, citing his lack of indoor “accidents” and how he would never take food without permission as evidence. Somewhere right in the middle of that rant, Dylan found a spot in the middle of the classroom where he relieved himself of all his bodily waste. Thankfully, Kev accompanied him to puppy training classes from then on while I returned to college.
When Dylan finally graduated from puppy school, he was ready for a little higher education. He entered the doors of the IU Evans Scholar house and was immediately elevated to the status of Rock Star. College aged girls and guys alike, of all levels of drunkenness, would rush up to meet Dylan. He was practically a celebrity—a furry, cuddly, 90-pound celebrity.
Kev, Dylan, Melissa & I would all have sleepovers, crammed into my dorm room. During the day he would turn heads as we walked around campus, especially while stopping by the infamous IU tailgates. For Dylan’s amusement, we would toss disc golf Frisbees hundreds of feet across the empty fields behind the scholarship house. Sometimes he would chase after them and other times he just sat down with a look on his face as if to say, “Are you guys kidding me right now?”
It was always sad to see Kev and Dylan go, but longing does make a heart grow fonder, and it just made seeing them during Summer and Winter breaks from school that much greater.
When I returned home during the summers, Kev, Dylan, and I would fall into a set routine based entirely around Dylan’s food intake schedule. He acted as our own personal alarm clock. Waking Kev up for a midnight breakfast right before he left for work, then waking me up at 6am just in time for caddying. If I didn’t get out, then I would come home and make second breakfast; Dylan was always guaranteed a bite. Then Kev came home and Dylan would get lunch. Then if I did caddy, I’d come home and give Dylan an afternoon snack. Then we would all sit down for dinner and a movie at night. Halfway through the movie, Dylan would sit in front of the TV and stare back at us, which meant it was walk time. He was a gentle creature, motivated almost entirely by food and the fresh scent of piss, an urge that was fulfilled on his nightly walk. If only life could be so simple for us all.
After graduating college I moved back home for a year. That summer was all fun and games; but call it the consequences of a failing economy, or the lack of a stimulating creative outlet, whatever the cause, I hit a bit of a low spot in my life that fall. I started working two highly demanding but low paying marketing internships. During a time when my future was grim, general outlook sour, and friend count low; Dylan was there for me. That winter he became more than a brother, he truly became my best friend. His company prevented me from spiraling into a deep dark unrecoverable pit of alcoholism and depression.
Ill always be in Dylan’s debt, for the friendship he willingly gave me, during that time in my life when I needed it the most. We spent most of our time together on walks along the Prairie Path. When he took an especially long time smelling all the local “hot spots,” I would catch up with family on the phone, which kept us both happy. If he still had built up energy when we arrived back home, then I’d chase him around the backyard, a favorite pastime of ours. Sometimes he refused to come back inside and would sun himself for long periods of time, or play with Boomer—the neighbor’s dog—from his side of the fence. Kev always made sure Dylan had a fresh bone and often Dylan would share those treasures with Boomer by pushing them under a hole in the fence with his nose.
Kev, Dylan, and I would often pack up and spend our weekends at Cathy and Fe’s property in Wisconsin, which we affectionately call ‘The Farm.’ Dylan loved these trips. For him, a day at the Farm would start with an early morning 3-mile walk around the property with daddy Kev (I’d still be sleeping). During the day we’d probably take a hike in search of edible mushrooms, deer antlers, or lost Frisbees/shoes. Dylan would eagerly trail behind. At night we’d have a bonfire and stare at the stars as Dylan chased frogs around the pond. If my cousins’ dog Strider was also present, then Dylan would return completely exhausted. If Strider wasn’t there then he would still return exhausted but have less bruises and not have participated in so much humping.
After Dylan helped me recover from that rough patch, I set out into the world with Melissa in search of a little fun and adventure. We began a 4-month long backpacking trip along the Appalachian Trail. Before leaving, I insisted that Kev came out and visit us during his vacation week. About a month into our journey, right before we entered the White Mountains—notoriously the most rugged and physically demanding stretch of the entire 2,100+ miles of the AT—Kev made good on his promise and met up with us in Gorham, NH.
Melissa and I arrived in the small artsy Mountain town of Gorham a day early. We stayed in a hotel that night but still unsure of Kev’s estimated time of arrival, we decided to get one more day of hiking and have Kev pick us up 17 miles outside of town. The first couple of miles were easy, we passed a shelter with some high school kids that interviewed us for a paper. Two miles past the shelter, the real elevation began, we started hiking essentially straight up, another mile or two up the trail and the rain kicked in. We were miserable and decided, for our first time on the trail, that we should retreat back to town. We hung our heads low while passing the kids that just interviewed us, but the embarrassment was worth the luxury of checking back into the hotel. All was for the best because Kev arrived that evening and he entered our hotel room with a surprise guest. Dylan!
We all took a couple days off and spent some time enjoying the Maine Coastline. Kev, Melissa, and I had just spent a week in Maine the previous summer, so we had some idea of what to expect, but Dylan’s presence made it that much better. We camped on the Oceanside, discovered ‘blueberry milk,’ and toured the dog friendly city of Portland for the day. I even forced everyone to go see “The Dark Knight Rises.” It was great, but troubled times for Dylan lurked on the horizon.
With still a couple days of Kev’s vacation left, we all returned back to Gorham where the trail awaited us. We set out again, this time a fellowship of 4 instead of two, but instead of attempting the summit in one day, we stopped after the first couple of miles at that familiar shelter. Backpacking and camping with Kev and Dylan that first day was a lot of fun for everybody. But our second day on the AT, scarred Dylan forever, mentioning hiking to him from that day onward was as bad as grabbing the toenail clippers.
We started the ascent again, this time with Kev and Dylan in the caboose, where I thought the trail couldn’t possibly get any steeper, rockier, or technical, I was proved wrong. Dylan experienced 8 miles of pure hell that day, as we traversed a seemingly endless mountain. He would stop regularly for breaks, each time taking longer to recover. At one point he gave me a look, and I thought he would for sure be headed back down the mountain immediately. He even tried to turn around a couple of times, but fighting all odds, his resilience pulled through—spurred by a couple of well calculated shoves by Kev—he reached the summit campsite in one piece. That night, he literally slept like a rock. Raising his head for a couple brief seconds for dinner, and immediately falling back down.
After hiking the trail, I once again returned home for the winter 2012/13. It was like Deju vu the schedule Kev, Dylan and I fell back into. Except I was in a much better state of mind and their companionship after a long absence was extremely comforting. Dylan and I went on a lot of long walks through the winter-wonderland landscape of Glen Ellyn during that time, I listened to Game of Thrones audiobooks and pondered the meaning of life, as he smelled pee and chased rodents through hidden tunnels in the snow. Moving to Utah was a difficult decision and saying goodbye to them as I packed the car was even harder, the three of us would never again live under one roof together as a family.
I went the longest stretch of my life without seeing Dylan or Kev, as I spent my days guiding foreign tourists down the Colorado River. For months I looked forward to them visiting, and in mid-August, they finally did. My sister Melanie flew over from London, and Kev along with my two nephews & Dylan drove from Chicago—in what I’m sure was a very packed car. When separated from loved ones by thousands of miles for long periods of time, it’s easily forgotten; but when everyone comes together you instantly remember, that there is nothing like family.
We had an amazing week together spent hiking, camping, rock climbing, canyoneering, and national park touring. My family and myself will talk about this trip and the memories we shared together for the rest of our lives. But I’ll also remember and cherish this time, as my last days spent with Dylan.
When I first saw him in Moab, he seemed like his old self, excited, happy, and peaceful despite the stories I had been hearing about his failing health. A half mile into our first hike, Dylan was in high spirits but was as tired as during his 2nd day on the AT, and I knew we would have to turn around and take it easier on him. He had an open wound that was easily unnoticeable when he first arrived, but that continued to worsen throughout the trip despite medical treatment.
On our last night together before everyone left in the morning, I laid down with Dylan, like I did to comfort him the first night we brought him home as a puppy. He looked into my eyes and I saw more than a physical or mental exhaustion there. His soul was tired. Over the years, I always thought I was comforting him when we laid together, but I realize now that he was comforting me, especially in our final moment together. I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but somewhere deep inside, I knew I was saying goodbye to him forever.
He entered our family as a puppy, but after living a short but remarkable life in which he renewed my faith in the simple joys of living, exhibited companionship I thought impossible of either the human or canine species, and loved so openly and thoroughly without question or regret, he left this world as my brother and most loyal friend.
On August 27, 2013—22 days short of his 5th birthday—Dylan Rogue Lynch passed away after a short but intense battle with cancer.
