We never heard Sula bark.
A short story about a long dog life. Not much hurts like losing a best friend.
We never heard Sula bark, and we weren’t there to see her as a puppy, but she blessed us with her love every day we did know her.
A thing to know about Sula is Sula only moved when she wanted to move, and she never wanted to move much.
My wife Priscila and I would try to walk her. She’d stop, sit on the sidewalk, and gaze into the sky or green leaves in the trees, unbothered by any busyness around her or efforts to get her to budge. She’d sit, and she’d smile, just happy to have the wind kiss her face.
When Sula did move, we’d meander to a nearby park where she’d stroll along its edges sniffing and grazing the grass as if no moment could ever be as fine as this one spent smelling and snacking in the fresh air. In the fall, she’d roll atop patches of leaves and let their crunch sing her a new song. She pranced in the snow, an 85-pound pittie who loved to dance in the cold, and whose paw prints cut the best snow angels I’ll ever remember.
It can be easy to miss the magic of the changing seasons. Too often we’re too busy to appreciate nature’s natural cycle of change.
Sula loved each season, though, and by spring she’d wiggle into the soft, wet earth and smile, so happy and so proud to make a mess in the mud. Then, in those lazy, late summer months when life slowed to her pace, Sula would hang her tongue out and point four paws towards the sun, calling it down to shine on her belly.
We never heard Sula bark, and we weren’t there to see her as a puppy, but we knew those early years weren’t good ones from the scars Sula carried.
She got marked as the gentle, soft-hearted one of her litter and chained up so the other dogs, the ones who’d be fighting later, could work into a frenzy on her while she endured, helpless to stop the attacks. Sula never fought back but she never gave up on living, either. Small scars, the crude tattoos from a world cruelest to its most gentle souls, zig-zagged her arms and legs while a few others marked her face. Her eyes, even when happiest, always carried a hint of sadness.
Later, she was bred a bunch and starved to fur and bones. Then, abandoned and left to suffer in who knows where, before—whether by fate or by chance—she landed first in a shelter and then at a dog adoption day in Cleveland, Ohio.
Scarred, skinny, and ragged, Sula watched as new owners adopted dog after dog that day. By the time Priscila first looked into her pensive, caring eyes, Sula stood all by herself, the last dog left on the lot.
The shelter called her the sweetest dog they’d ever met. Said she had nothing but kindness in her heart. Stubborn, sure, but a lover, too, and at nine years old, they hoped someone could finally give her a few good years. Priscila said yes, of course, because as we’d learn nobody ever said no when Sula’s big eyes locked onto their soul.
Sometimes in life what’s real is different than what is true.
Priscila adopted Sula on August 24, 2012, and left with paperwork marking Sula’s birthday as August 2, 2003.
I don’t know if that birthday is true or not, and I really don’t care.
Because last August Sula dipped her face into a tub of ice cream and ate every last cookie crumble of her birthday snacks. We wore hats and played music. We played in soft, shaded grass together. It was the best 22nd birthday I’ve been to and sure felt real to me.
We never heard Sula bark, and we weren’t there to see her as a puppy, but damn if I didn’t love her.
A dear friend once said, “You know, Sula’s life motto is ‘Do less.’ Just, always, do less. I think that’s why she’s lived so long.”
Sula ate a shoe once, and bit into a remote control, but that was in the early days of her long senior years, and other than a rare zoomie or two at the park or when she lifted her head off the couch hearing us open a thing of string cheese, do less fit her far better than any of the sweaters she hated being decorated in during the holidays.
Once, we forgot to book Sula for boarding before leaving town for a weekend.
“We’re booked,” the doggy day care said at first, before pausing and recognizing our phone number. “Wait, is your dog Sula? We always have room for her. All she does is chill all day on the couch in the employee room and wait for treats and cuddles. We love her.”
Sula might have done less, but only so she could love more.
Several years after adopting Sula, we rescued a second pit bull, Rya. While Sula was all calm and cool, Rya is wired hot and energized. Our doorbell would ring at home, or steps would hit the front porch, and Rya would bark and bark and beeline down the hall before smacking into the closed door.
Sula would slowly lift her head from her perch in the corner of the couch, smirk at her sister, then return to her resting, happy and content to just be.
Sula and Rya got along well, as old souls and young firecrackers are apt to find something in the other that attracts them. So, it didn’t surprise me to see the two of them curled together on our couch one morning. Rya, her head buried in Sula’s chest snored lightly. Sula, her paw atop Rya’s brown fur, watched over her sister with worried, thoughtful eyes.
Doctors would remove a tumor from Rya later that morning, and we spent long, agonizing hours waiting before we learned her cancer had not spread.
Rya and I arrived home later that day from her procedure and again, I wasn’t surprised to see Sula standing and waiting for us at the door. She nuzzled softly into Rya, and the two of them walked into the living room. Sula waited for Rya to get on the couch, then crawled up next to her. Neither left the others side for the next few days.
I like to think Sula knew Rya needed her, then, just like I think she knew I needed her a few years later.
Life had hit me with some fastballs, and I’d reached a particular point where I saw myself as such a failure that I wondered whether anyone would miss me at all if I were gone. I wasn’t there yet, but I wasn’t healthy, either.
One spring morning, I sat with Sula on our couch. She rested her head on my leg. I scratched behind her ears and rubbed her neck. She stared up at me and held me in her stillness, comforting me until my heart calmed and her compassion was all that remained. I felt in that moment, as fully and truly as I’ve felt anything, that although I held her head in my lap, Sula was the one holding me up, and it was her heart healing mine.
Sula had a rare gift of love and peace. That morning, she gave me hope to continue and courage to make changes I needed to heal.
Sula and I sat together most mornings after that until her last one two Thursdays ago. Sometimes, we sat for an hour, while others for just a few minutes. But always, it was Sula with a gentle reminder of love and compassion, unconditionally, from a best friend.
We never heard Sula bark, and we weren’t there to see her as a puppy, but we were there at the end, in those final moments when we’d have done anything to give her another good day, one when her legs would work and her breaths wouldn’t be so hard to come by.
One more roll in the grass.
Another smile into the sun.
But anything wasn’t ours to give and no matter how much we hoped they wouldn’t, time and old age came for Sula just as surely as they’ll one day come for all of us.
So, Priscila and I wrapped our hands around Sula’s paws while tears ran down our cheeks and into the cracks in our hearts. Whitney Houston sang I Will Always Love You on Priscila’s sad playlist, and we pressed our foreheads together whispering, “Our sweet girl, oh, our sweet girl,” as Sula’s big heart, the one that never stopped giving its love and kindness, beat one last time.
If you’ve ever loved a dog—and I mean truly and deeply loved one—then you know how much it hurts to close your eyes when they’re gone because all you see when you do is their eyes, full of joy and wonder and happiness, staring back at you, and showing, once again, there can be few things ever as precious as a dog’s love.
We called Sula The Queen, and she blessed us with stillness and compassion. She loved treats and wasn’t above sharing some side-eye. She lived to ‘do less,’ which let her love so much more.
We never heard Sula bark, and we weren’t there to see her as a puppy, but we had many moments together over many years, and all of them came kissed by her sweet, gentle soul.
Goodbye best friend, we love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.
PS. A special thank you to the team at Sarah the Sitter. Not only are we so, so grateful for the love and care everyone gave Sula over so many years, many of the photos here come from you all. Thank you for being amazing.
While I have truly enjoyed nearly all of your stories, this one has to be my fav to date! So many metaphors for life …
Sending heartfelt hugs as you grieve and hope that memories (the beautiful photos) bring you comfort 🙏🏾🫶🏾