Stanley: The Best Dog

Stanley was my aunt and uncle’s dog before they divorced. Afterward, he primarily lived at my aunt’s place. He was the best dog. And he didn’t even live with us growing up. We had dogs before and after him and none of them come close to how good of a dog he was. I loved them; obviously. They were affectionate, loyal, and taught me how to treat animals with care and attention during my childhood and adolescence. But they couldn’t do shit compared to Stanley. He was a genius.

Stanley was a pure golden retriever. I don’t know where they got him from but, I believe, he was bred by God himself. He was always in a good mood. He needed to be surrounded by people and attention or he would die. Besides being the smartest dog, he was also the most forthcoming in his expressions. I felt like you could hear his thoughts by the way he moved and ran and acted. 

He had the thickest, blondest fur and he always smelled like a freshly opened bag of Sun Chips. He had big brown eyes and his nose was always just a little wet. He rarely barked, but when he did it was out of excitement because he knew someone was visiting him and he couldn’t contain himself. He’d be quiet long enough to accost the person at the front door at the bottom of a large, carpeted staircase that he would haul himself down so he could get to them first. His toys were throttled around and covered in his spit. He loved showing them off to people but not sharing them. That wasn’t his bag at all.

Once, when my brother and his friends were playing ice hockey on the lake next to the dock by my aunt and uncle’s cottage, Stanley was hovering over them and observing the game. When someone accidentally shot the puck under the frozen dock surrounded by ice and snow, my brother and his friends all gathered around where they thought it might have been and started digging. Stanley watched them on their stomachs reaching and removing snow for a few minutes and when they came up with nothing as they began making plans to quit the game because they only had the one puck. Stanley managed to shuffle under the dock in ten seconds and return it to them. They freaked. Stanley was so proud of himself after all the guys surrounded him and told him how good of a boy he was. I remember being shocked at him figuring out what they needed and getting it so quickly when they all couldn’t manage it themselves. His face was full of joy that day.

My favourite habit of Stanley’s was that he used to insist on you petting him in a ascending order of annoyance. He was smart enough to know when to push and what would be the most disturbing approach for you. First, he’d stand next to you, imploring you with his big dog eyes to pet him on his head or back, giving you the benefit of the doubt. If you ignored this initial reaction, he’d nudge you softly with his head and place himself firmly under your hands. If you didn’t move back and forth, he’d nudge more. If you left him or didn’t respond at all, he’d whine quietly to you like “seriously?” If you managed to resist him up until this point, he’d throw all sense of decorum out of the window and start licking your hands and arms. It was disgusting. And he knew people hated it. I think he didn’t want it to get to that point but it was a nonnegotiable for him. If you were in his presence and not giving him your full attention, he would make sure that you were so uncomfortable that you inevitably had to. 

He was curious and playful. You couldn’t walk him without everyone fawning over how beautiful and nice he was. It used to take hours to get to the park and back because he would play all day with the other dogs if he could. Other dogs loved Stanley and they never barked or freaked out at him. He was so chill and welcoming, the universal dog whisperer. 

At the news that he had died, my family was devastated. While I’m aware of the impermanence of our lives, particularly for animals like dogs, I hadn’t emotionally prepared myself for his departure. I don’t remember the last time we saw each other. It is my sincere hope that we brought him joy the way he did for us. Since his death, I haven’t met another dog as good as Stanley. I’ve tried but they all seem like grey outlines of what he once was.