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Eulogizing Bear-Bear, a sports columnist's best friend: Telander

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Published  July 15, 2025 3:29pm CDT
Sports Commentary
FOX 32 Chicago

The Brief

    • Eulogies for pet dogs are often mushy, hard to take.
    • The Telander family is doing so after Bear-Bear crossed the rainbow bridge recently.
    • FOX 32's Rick Telander eulogizes his pup, Bear-Bear.

There are approximately 90 million dogs in the United States, and until a week ago, my little hairball Bear-Bear, a member of the breed called Coton de Tulears, was one of them. 

He was 14 ½, and we put him to sleep so his life could end with dignity. He had stopped eating and walking, his hind legs too weak to function, and when he couldn’t lift himself to pee or poop, his shame was manifest.

I wish they had wheelchairs for dogs, because I would have pushed his 20 pounds around for as long as possible in that tiny fantasy contraption. I would have. After all, what we see in dogs is what we see in us--living, working, sleeping, loving—but at hyper-speed. And with unwavering loyalty.

The place where my wife and I held Bear-Bear and his breathing stopped with the IV in his hind leg was called Deep Woods Veterinary Services, several miles outside the town of Bruce Crossing in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  It was a nice place far off and alone in the rolling hills, surrounded by pines and flowering fields, with very sweet attendants.  My family had gone even farther north, to the shores of Lake Superior near the town of Ontonagon, for a long July 4th weekend.

The weekend was difficult. Bear-Bear was suffering badly. I said earlier that dogs have owners. But ``owner’’ isn’t really the right word. Buddy or pal or boss or human co-conspirator might fit better. Because we love our dogs.  We love all that stuff they do with us, living in our houses, walking our sidewalks, sniffing like lunatics. How could we have known?

Thousands of years ago, when wolves came toward the fires, something started that eventually turned into the greatest friendship ever. For sure, it’s symbiotic. You bark at that stranger, you herd those sheep, you lie on this couch next to me— I’ll give you a bowl of chow and a warm bed to sleep in. And, of course, you’ll get petted and told you’re a good boy. (Or girl, depending.)

Out of that long-ago wolf-human commingling have come mastiffs and chihuahuas, collies and pugs, whippets and St. Bernards. It’s crazy to think what breeding and evolution can do.  For utility, successful early wolves mutated their digestive systems to handle the starch in humans’ diets better.  And whoever thought it was a good idea to breed away until they got a Lagotto Romagnolo, a water-loving, massively curled, expert truffle-smelling canine, well, crazy props.

Rick Telander's little hairball, Bear-Bear, seen in a photo. (Rick Telander / FOX 32)

Eulogies for pet dogs are often mushy, hard to take.

The deceased dogs meant so much to their families but hardly anyone else knew or cared about them. I would refer readers desiring a wonderful dog eulogy, devoid of sentiment or smarm, to Rick Morrissey’s Sun-Times column a year and a half ago about his part-corgi mutt/best friend, Brewster, who died at 15. 

Morrissey never once uses the words sad, tragic, painful, crying, or anything cheap and gut-punchy. But if you read his column, you’ll chuckle, maybe laugh out loud, and by some wordsmith magic have a tear in your eye at the end.  Morrissey took a buyout from the Sun-Times last spring, but his skill as a journalist should be studied by wannabe columnists and aspiring J-school students.

Back to Bear-Bear, whom I must tell you I more or less dognapped from my youngest daughter six years ago. She bought him as a puppy when she was in grad school, then got married, had three kids, and I knew this fluff ball was tormented sharing space with three small, grasping kids, cooped up in a house all day while both parents worked. Clearly, he was yearning for freedom and calm by living with somebody like, yes… me. So, I snatched him.

The grandkids still played with him when they visited.  But my wife and I walked him, fed him, got his coat trimmed regularly, got him his shots, enjoyed his company on the couch, and told him he was a good boy.

Now I see the carpeted ramps I built for him--  one to walk the back stairs, the other to amble up to his perch on the couch, where he would go to work at his chosen job--surveying the back yard through the sliding glass door--and I feel the loss. I see his leash in a drawer by the front door.  I see the pile of plastic newspaper bags, yellow, blue, and clear--two delivered daily by my newspaper guy--and I know they won’t be used for poop pickup ever again.

Bear-Bear and his ilk are described as comfort dogs. And that’s what he was. Comfort. He ran after a fox some months ago—no way he’d ever get close to the streaking animal, but off he went--and he didn’t like cats at all. Rairr! But simply stroking his fur or rubbing his neck was calming. It felt like stress drifting away. I think it was.

I won’t be getting another dog. I don’t have Morrissey’s talent for understatement and reserve. So goodbye, Bear-Bear. I miss you.

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The Source: This article was written by Rick Telander for FOX 32 Chicago.

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