Remembering Koda Bear, the Bestest Boy™
Content Notes: This post discusses pet loss, euthanasia, grief, chronic illness, disability, and family death. It includes references to illness and end-of-life decisions, but no graphic descriptions.
Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid.
Disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and survival without the performance.
Today is different.
If you’re new here, hi. I’m Sky.
Professional cryptid.
Unwilling amateur cyborg.
Occasional disability and chronic illness advocate.
Keeper of too many medical acronyms and one very important ghost.
April 14th is an anniversary in this house.
In 2014, on this day, we adopted a dog named Bear.
We were told he was somewhere between six months and a year old. What we learned instead was that he was already ancient in the ways that mattered. Old soul. Heavy sighs. Couch ownership instincts fully developed.
Bear was a German Shepherd–Basset Hound mix with the disposition of a grumpy old man and the heart of a guardian spirit who took his job very seriously. He loved cheese. He loved naps. He loved watching TV with us like it was a sacred ritual. He firmly believed that where his humans were, was where he belonged. He believed red and orange were his colors, and frankly, he was right.
He was here for eleven years.
But even if he were here for one hundred, it wouldn’t have been enough.
From borrowed spoons to Bed Jail™, from bad days to quieter ones. From before my body became a haunted meat suit with a questionable warranty, through everything that followed.
Bear was put to sleep on October 28th, 2025.
But this post is not about the end.
It’s about the choosing.
The staying.
The way love can settle into a house and refuse to leave.
If you’ve been here before, welcome back.
If you’re new, you’re safe to linger.
Welcome to the Lunatic Café.
Today’s menu: remembering a very good dog.
The Goodest Boy™
Normally, when I come here, it’s because I cannot wait to tell you about Luna. My shining star, the Best Girl™, everyone’s favorite Service Dingo. We have our weekly rhythms: Monday for writing updates, Tuesdays for life updates, Wednesdays for folklore, our Thursday Check-ins, Fridays for Luna’s Takeovers, Saturday for health updates, or Sunday for a Bed Jail™ Broadcast.
But there is someone who never got his own day here. Even though you heard about him quite a bit before we found our rhythm.
That someone is Bear.
Today, that changes.
I just wish it had changed while he was still here to snore through it.
So, from now on, April 14th is Bear Day here on The Crippled Cryptid. The day we come together to remember the Best Boy™. There will be stories. There will be tears. There will be laughter. But most of all, there will be love. Because that is what he brought into our lives more than anything else.
Before Luna existed in this house, before service dog gear and training logs and alerts, there was Bear.
And to understand him, you have to understand something that still feels strange to admit.
I didn’t want him.
Not because he was a bad dog, but because part of me was still grieving.
Still sad.
When we got Bear, it was the April after my best friend died.
Long before that, in 2001, my grandfather decided that every little girl should grow up with a dog. I think he knew he wouldn’t always be around. I think he wanted someone to watch over me when he couldn’t.
My grandparents legally adopted me when I was little. My mother was too young to raise a baby. My biological father wasn’t in the picture, and I didn’t have siblings around. A dog felt like the next best constant.
That dog was Rex.
He will have his own day here, so I won’t say too much now.
Only this: he was loved beyond words. He died at fourteen from cancer.
When it came time to look for another family dog, I knew one thing for certain. I wasn’t looking to replace him. No one goes to a shelter hoping to swap out a best friend.
So, I said I wanted a husky or a German Shepherd. Dogs I’d fallen in love with playing Nintendogs on my Nintendo DS. My mom agreed. She’d had a husky before I was born.
His name was Rocky. She showed me pictures. Told me she’d had him briefly when I was a baby, but that babies and puppies don’t mix, so she chose to keep me instead. Whether that’s exactly how it happened or not, we both ended up with my grandparents. We both lived there most of our lives.
We went to shelters. Met good dogs. Cute dogs. Dogs who wanted toys and space and freedom, but not us. They were happy to run. Happy to play. They didn’t care that we were there.
After Rex, that hurt more than I expected.
Eventually, we tried Orphans of the Storm. It was farther than we wanted to go, but the reviews were good. The website was full of promise. Huskies. Shepherds. A few oddballs.
Most weren’t available anymore. The rest still didn’t care.
My grandmother decided to wait in the car. She was tired of the routine. Take the dog to the fenced yard. Take off the lead. Be ignored. Wrestle the lead back on. Try again.
On the way out, I saw him.
His name then was Bert.
His clipboard said German Shepherd–Basset Hound mix. Six months to a year old. No visitors. No notes. Found tied to a pole in Chicago. A stray. His people either didn’t come for him, or he didn’t have any to start with.
I asked my mom to take him out. She was tired. It was raining. She didn’t want to.
But I said he had a cute face. That no one had taken him out. That he deserved at least ten minutes of our time. I didn’t like how sad he looked there by himself.
We did it anyway.
By the time we reached the outdoor run, the rain had stopped.
My mom bent down to remove his leash, and Bear knocked her straight into a mud puddle.
For context: my mother was chronically ill and disabled my entire life. If something knocked her down, laughter was not her usual response. Cussing and anger was.
I thought she’d be furious.
Instead, Bear climbed into her lap.
Licked her face.
Held on like he’d known her forever.
And she laughed.
A real laugh.
The kind I don’t think I’d ever heard before.
I was almost twenty. I’d known her my whole life.
That laugh changed everything.
She said, right then, that he was the one.
I took pictures. Lots of them. Him in her lap. Him on the bench. This mattered because my mom hated pictures. Barely tolerated them. Covered her face. Complained.
After her cancer diagnosis in 2017, someone told her photos would be all we had left someday. She still complained. Even if she tolerated them a little more.
I called my grandmother. Bear had to meet her.
Everyone agreed. More or less. What my mom wanted was what was happening.
It was one of those things, even she’d never seen mom that happy. She wasn’t going to say no.
When staff took Bear back while paperwork was filled out, we heard the loudest howling imaginable.
“At least that isn’t my dog,” my mom said.
It was.
He howled like his body couldn’t contain the heartbreak of us leaving without him.
Because Orphans of the Storm required all male dogs to be neutered before adoption, we were told where to pick him up the next day. Not that there’s a problem with that- the shelters are already full as it is, it made sense on paper why they wouldn’t want him leaving intact.
We went shopping like expectant parents. Bowls. Toys. Everything new.
In this house, dogs don’t inherit collars. Some things should be theirs alone.
Yes, I still have Rex’s collar.
Yes, we still have Bear’s.
BJ, the Yard Yeti, keeps it now.
I didn’t want you to think either have been discarded now that they’ve crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
The next day, Bear didn’t need the cone of shame, which surprised everyone. Didn’t need pain meds. He was just happy to be home. Happy to be with us.
We named him Koda, after a stuffed husky I’d had since 1997. That became Koda Bear. Eventually, just Bear.
Unless he was in trouble.
Then we still called him Bert.
His full government name, we called it.
Becoming Bear
Over the years, we learned each other.
Bear didn’t bark. Not really. His voice was deep and baritone, a sound somewhere between a woof and a sigh. We called it a “boof.” If you were loud enough, or hit the right pitch, he’d howl for you. And if you told him, “Tell me you love me,” he’d boof three times. Once for each word.
He didn’t like balls, but he chased them anyway. Luna’s included. His real love was his plush dino-babies, which he treated with great seriousness.
Each of us got one when he passed away. I’m sure you know the purple one is mine, and lives on top of my desk. BJ, the Yard Yeti, got the two little red ones, and M&M chose to keep the Christmas Tree dino for herself.
There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for cheese or pizza crusts.
Baths and nail trims were injustices.
Walks were sacred, especially when they included barking at ducks at the park like it was his sworn duty. Even so, he never would have touched or harmed one if it came close enough.
He just had some really big opinions about water.
He loved car rides, even when getting in and out got harder. When his mobility declined, we got him stairs for the couch and bed.
Of course we did.
He belonged there.
The Life We Built Together
He loved sweaters.
At first, BJ thought I was torturing him. I bought the first one in winter 2024 because Bear was getting old and didn’t like being cold.
It turned into him demanding them.
Winter sweaters. Summer sweaters.
He hated having his collar off. Hated his bandana being taken away.
Just like Luna now, Bear had a wardrobe.
I think he taught her that.
One of his bandanas was white, covered in Scooby-Doo characters. Somewhere along the way, Bear became my little Scooby-Doo dog.
I once said I wanted a Great Dane- because I grew up watching Scooby-Doo with my grandfather Rich. And instead I got him, looking at me like he’d heard the assignment and decided to do his own version.
I loved that bandana so much that I bought Scooby-Doo sweatpants to match it. I wore them with a purple tie-dye t-shirt from the Supernatural Scooby-Doo crossover episode.
I haven’t worn them since the day he died.
Because we matched that day, too.
But on April 14th, that might change.
The Dog Who Stayed Through Everything
Bear had tricks. Sit. Paw. Stay. Penguin, mostly theatrical.
But his real talent was presence.
He knew bad days before I named them.
He stayed close without crowding.
He guarded without noise.
He stayed through my mother’s death.
Through my grandmother’s.
Through the kind of grief that reshapes a person.
Instead of being hollowed out by it, he anchored us.
Teaching Luna
In May of 2024, Luna joined the pack.
She was unexpected, but perfect.
Bear taught her how to be loved.
How to patrol the fence.
How to bark at the mailman and golf carts with appropriate outrage.
How to guard without fear.
How to settle.
How to stay.
She still won’t lay on his bed.
Like she’s waiting for him to come back.
We are too, baby Bean.
This Isn’t Just One Day
April 14th might be Bear Day.
But grief doesn’t work in neat little boxes, and neither did he.
He shows up in pieces.
In habits.
In the quiet moments where I still expect to feel his weight at my feet.
In the way I still look for him when I drop food.
In the way the couch still feels like it’s missing something.
Someone. Him.
So, this isn’t just a day.
It’s a month.
Maybe longer.
A stretch of time where everything feels just a little more Bear-shaped.
Where I remember the way he begged for pizza crusts like it was a full-time job.
The way he stole blankets like he paid rent.
The way he could fill a room just by existing in it.
He was someone my new father never got to meet.
Which feels impossible, because Bear wasn’t background.
He was presence.
The kind you don’t miss quietly.
There’s more to say about him.
There will probably always be more.
And I think that’s the point.
The Promise We Don’t Talk About
When you adopt a dog, it isn’t just for a day.
It’s not even just for the years you get with them.
It’s for their whole life.
And somehow, it’s for yours even after they’re gone.
It’s for the routines that don’t leave with them.
The habits that stay stitched into your days.
The way love settles into the walls and refuses to move out.
It’s for the grief that shows up later, quietly, and sits beside you like it belongs there.
Because it does.
Grief does not replace love.
It layers.
The Bear Archives
One post isn’t enough.
It was never going to be.
So, this isn’t where his story ends.
It’s where it starts being told on purpose.
From now on, Bear has a place here.
Not just in passing mentions. Not just in memory.
But in full.
The Bear Archives will live here on The Crippled Cryptid.
A place for his stories, his habits, his quirks, his favorite things.
The small moments. The loud ones. The ones that don’t fit anywhere else.
The way he “boofed” instead of barked.
The way he watched TV like it was his job.
The way he taught Luna how to be part of this family before he ever left it.
There will be more posts.
Because there are more stories.
Because he was here.
Because he stayed.
Bear Day
So, this is Bear Day.
The day we stop and say it properly.
The day we remember the Bestest Boy™ not just for how he left, but for how he lived.
There will be stories.
There will be laughter.
There will be tears.
There will always be love.
And if you have a Bear of your own, still here or long gone, today is a good day to tell their story too.
They deserve that kind of staying.
If you’re open to it, tell me about them in the comments.
Show me their pictures.
I want to see all the Bestest Boys™ and the Goodest Girls™.
Sometimes, it sounds like a boof.
Sometimes, it just stays.
-Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
(And a little dog hair.)
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