Samuel Tobias Brown, 2005–2021
Much has long been said and written about dogs as our best friends. Better known as Sammy, Fatty, and any number of other random endearments including but not limited to “bunsen burner,” “chunky bear” and “snoogly boogly,” this one was mine.
It’s hard to write about Sam without using cliches like that one because he quite simply embodied all the things that make a good dog good: he was loyal, playful, happy and friendly, beloved by so many people and dogs and most of all, his family.
Although he got his middle name from my childhood dog Toby, Sam was the first living creature that I took full responsibility for, by myself. It seemed like a great idea in the abstract until I was set to pick him up from a farm in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin in the fall of my first year of graduate school at Mizzou. I was 29 and I had just moved to a new city for the fifth time since leaving home for college, and I was a little lonely and wanted a forever friend I could count on more than boyfriends past. But I remember a feeling of absolute terror when I suddenly realized that I wasn’t really sure what I was doing; did I have what it took to actually take care of a dog?
I certainly had a lot to learn, but Sam taught me well. We took care of each other for 15 plus years, and we did a pretty good job of it, even if we did drop out of puppy school after the instructor pointed out that perhaps the dog’s extreme anxiety was a reflection of….cough…his owner’s.
His dad Grant joined the family when Sam was two, and in Memphis his sister Pippi, who preceded him in death, made us four. Although they competed occasionally for attention, speed eating records or walking at the front of the pack, Sam loved having a fellow conspirator, especially when her counter-surfing brought him some of the spoils.
The sweetest and most affable of dogs, Sam never met any human or beast that he did not greet with affection.
He had two superpowers. One was an almost preternatural empathy; if someone was sad, even if they weren’t crying or making any obvious display of distress, he would go lie down near them — not too close, not asking for attention, but just nearby, even if it was kind of an odd or awkward spot for him to be. Most recently, our friends Lisa and Bill Falls lost their own old dog and Sam parked himself by Lisa’s side in our yard, positioned kind of uncomfortably on a concrete surface in a spot I’ve never seen him take before in our six years of living there.
The other was the utmost patience and care with young children, from whom he calmly and carefully endured anything and everything without complaint. I will never forget watching one-year-old triplets climbing on him and using him as a slide; he laid there looking only mildly mournful without moving a muscle. He also consented to serving as a stepping stool for toddlers trying to scale the couch, balanced tupperware and toys on his head, and let himself be buried in leaves by his beloved cousins Grace and Layla. It has always been one of the greatest mysteries how he just knew that little people were more delicate than other humans and didn’t know any better than to pull on his ears, and therefore must be treated with stoic kindness.
To be fair, in 15 and a half years, I never saw Sam growl or behave even mildly aggressively to *anyone* — not even once. Dogs less than half his size could steal his cherished kibble and receive only a sad look in return. He belatedly learned what barking was from his German Shepard friend Ms. Julia when he was already a few months old, but it served more as an alert than a warning; in his old age it transformed into a hoarse bork that usually meant he wanted to play.
In a long, full life of travel and adventure, Sam lived in three states and visited many more. He spent lots of time swimming in the lake in Wisconsin and roaming the hills of West Virginia, but he also visited many beaches and mountains and campsites and trails and cheap motels. He was the gentle greeter at many, many parties and small gatherings of family and friends over the years at a home known informally as “the tavern,” and he even loved to dance, learning to jump up and join in when the boogie began. He loved many other dogs and even did his best to ingratiate himself with cats, even when the latter in particular didn’t like him back.
He had an steadfast love of food in any form that earned him his not-so-nice nickname “fatty,” which he abided with grace, though as he got older he trimmed down while never losing his excitement at the sound of his dad opening the peanut jar. He readily consented to being messed with in countless ways, standing patiently until his sister liberated him from a blanket tossed over this head; getting vacuumed instead of bathed; being dressed in all kinds of human clothing; poking his head out of boxes and peering through socks thrown on his head. He also did his share of mischief back, including squeaking incessantly when excited or stressed, selective hearing and/or pretending to forget known commands, finding a way to be in the way at all times, and epically memorable bad breath.
His last months happened to coincide with a global pandemic, and even as we were thankful to be home to give him the extra care he needed as he began to struggle with incontinence and getting up, as ever it was really just as much him who took care of us with his companionship over the lonely weeks of quarantine.
Sam will be remembered and loved forever by his mom and dad, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and so many, many friends in Missouri and Memphis and New Jersey and Wisconsin and beyond. I am especially grateful for his uncle and my brother Aaron, who led the way when he got Sam’s half-sister Brady from the same farm. As kind words have poured in for him from all corners over social media, I found myself replying over and over with some version of “Sam loved you guys” to people that live both near and far, and it wasn’t a matter of doling out cursory hyperbole; he did.
It’s funny because I am not the kind of person who believes this where people are concerned, but somehow, I am pretty sure he is chasing tennis balls and curling up on the couch with Pippi, and bounding in some endless dog park with Ty Dog and Brady and Ms. Julia and Sasha and Boo Boo and Badger and Maggie and all the other good frens he once knew.
When an old dog dies, another cliche you hear a lot is that they “had a good run.” So I’ll close as I began, because I can’t think of a better way to put it. Sam had the best run a dog could possibly have.
Thank you for being my best friend, buddy. I loved you so very, very much.
*Click on any of the links for albums that show Sam’s wonderful life, and many of the people and places he loved
