I wanted a Brindle. Something like a Plott hound, maybe a Staffie, even a Great Dane, but it had to be brindle. Iconic, not small, sturdy, rugged and loyal. I went to my county’s Animal Shelter, and eventually the local Humane Society and while walking the kennels there just off of Pottsburg Creek, in Jacksonville, FL, all the dogs began to go off — barking wildly at my presence, super excited and eager for something. Most kennels had a couple of dogs, and there were more than a couple of Brindle pups on site, but in one pen, was a big puppy, all black, all alone, about 5 months old with paws nearly as big as his head. Someone had scrawled a card on the kennel door with the name “ZEAK.”

He was the only dog not barking. I was intrigued. Impressed maybe. The thought of a quiet dog, one who never barked suddenly became a very interesting idea, but he didn’t look like the dog I wanted. I passed on him. Kept walking, kept checking out the other dogs looking for the proverbial one. I think I met a few dogs that day, but on a lark I asked if I could hang out with the quiet one, so a volunteer eventually brought the quiet dog out and from the moment he arrived — he ignored me, and followed her around the pen as she struggled in vain to get him to lose interest and pay attention to the prospective adopter. She kept apologizing, again and again, saying it’s because she’s the one who feeds him and that I shouldn’t take it personally. I didn’t — and in fact I thought it was the greatest mark of character that he wasn’t so fickle to just fawn over the new guy. Dance with the one who brought you, I thought.

I came back the next day after sleeping on it, and said I wanted him. But it turned out he was a flagged dog (puppy, technically), serious resource-guarding issues and minimal socialization with people. He was already 55lbs. and he was accustomed to using his teeth to get what he wanted. I had to meet with the behaviorist on site. She warned me against adopting him — probably based on my lack of experience with similar issues. She explained that the shelter was a no-kill facility (implying that he was the type that would be immediately put down as aggressive elsewhere) and that typically a dog like him would require a ton of work. She explained the work, I was stubborn, and ultimately she agreed to let me adopt him.

If the truth be told, that decision was technically a mistake. Zeke (as it is correctly spelled) eventually changed my views on the virtue and vice of ‘no-kill’ shelters but that is a whole other post. For the next few weeks he chewed through leashes while we were out walking, sometimes escaping and running wild doing zoomies and snapping at anyone who tried to catch him and hold him down. Once, he chewed through the leash at the Five Points intersection of my neighborhood during rush hour and ran out into the road going full on buck wild. Cars swerved to miss him, others swerved to block traffic, with a few drivers shifting to park and jumping out of their running cars to try and help the guy with two frayed halves of a bright red leash get this maniac big black dog back to safety. I have no memory of how I was able to actually get him the four blocks back to my place.

At other points, once I had switched to leashes that couldn’t be chewed through, he switched to using his teeth on me directly, once severely mauling my right arm (he was 65lbs at this point), mad at being restrained on a walk to Mr. Lee’s convenience store three blocks away. After bloodying up my arm, with cars flying by on Riverside Avenue, staring at the ongoing spectacle, he clamped on to my right hand to the point that I suddenly realized something I had never considered before: a dog can crush your bones. He had already punctured skin, and I was fairly certain he was about to break a few metacarpals if not all of them. I spent the next 24 hours tore up emotionally, certain that I’d failed, and certain that I’d have to give him up, that he couldn’t really be properly socialized.

Thankfully, the shelter refused to take him back.

Over the next four months or so, we got really serious. Everything became regimented. I read everything from Patricia McConnell and The Monks of New Skete and Karen Pryor to Alexandra Horowitz and Jon Katz and numerous other authors. I watched every episode of The Dog Whisper and DogTown, every documentary I could get a hold of on dog behavior and eventually purchased and read all three volumes of the Handbook of Applied Dog Behavior and Training. Within that time we were able to establish SO MANY cues (he was always great with language) but most importantly we switched from having him ask with his teeth, to asking with a sit. Once he learned that was more effective, everything became easier. But it was rough getting there.

He was not the perfect dog. As a puppy, he was great with other dogs, and kind of indifferent to people. But as he got older, that inverted. He became incredibly status oriented toward other dogs. If any dog stared at him in any way but subserviently, he would want to correct that on the spot. We often had to navigate across streets and around cars, using any obstacle available as folks walked their dogs either off leash, or on those ridiculously long retractable leashes, completely oblivious to what was heading their way. After my girlfriend at the time (wife now) and I adopted another dog, Zoe, I was scared to leave the two of them home alone for weeks, but they never got into it during those early days and eventually formed the pack that continued until about 11:30 this morning.

Zeke was not an overly-affectionate dog. But every morning he would wake up, and once on his feet, if you’d let him, he’d walk over to you and give you a lick. Just one. To let you know, you’re still cool. As he’s gotten older and as this day has slowly approached, I was more and more fond of that trait. I would always squat down and let him plant one on me and then he’d turn to go check out the water bowl or what the office was looking like, or if the dog bed in the living room might need his presence. If he heard his leash rattle, he’d amble over to the door and patiently wait to be clicked in and taken outside to handle his business. If he had to go outside, he’d come over, rest his chin on your leg and then look up at you to communicate the fact. He was a brilliant communicator. He knew nouns, he knew verbs, and he could put them together to understand the syntax. I’ve never encountered a dog better with language.

His favorite place in the world was probably our bed. As he got older and more frail, he was less able to get up there (or off there) but he would often place his chin on the top of the bed and just look at it. His favorite thing he ever ate was probably a lake-caught Trout in the Trinity Alps of Northern California. He once hiked 18 miles in a single day from Grizzly Meadows to the Hobo Gulch Trailhead in the Trinity-Shasta National Forest. He once got up on the dining room table while Sarah and I were away and then got stuck there because he felt the bench was too unstable to down-climb on. Sarah and I walked in to the apartment and there’s a 125lb dog on the dining room table whining because he doesn’t want to be there any more. At the risk of an arcane (Ghostbusters) reference, he had a face not unlike Zuul of Gozer but the weird motions of helium balloons frightened him to the point he would lock up and freeze and no force on earth could move him any closer. He loved dogs bigger than him. He loved donkeys. He was weird. He was as big as a recliner, but if there were just a few inches of space available on the couch he would insist that he could fit into it. He was a sentient, living being, but no more. He was my friend, I loved him, and I miss him.