This past Friday, my buddy Jake crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. I wasn’t there to be part of his last days, and that’s a regret I’ll carry. Life has a way of changing paths, and with the end of my marriage a couple of years ago, I lost more than a family—I lost the company of two great dogs. Among them was the finest, most noble of all dachshunds: Jake.
Jake wore many titles—Jake the Snake, Buddy, and even Jacob Ryan when he was being particularly dignified. Each name fit him perfectly. He was a black-and-tan dachshund with colors so perfectly arranged on his tiny frame that his expressive, often comical side-eye could instantly light up the room. That face! It was pure charisma, wrapped in a wiry, stubborn little body.
When we first met, Jake was an immediate obstacle—and not just because of his barking. I had been warned about him, and that warning was well-earned. This low-to-the-ground, fiercely protective guardian was bonded to his human like a knight to a queen. His deep bark from way down low wasn’t just noise; it was a proclamation: “Stay back! This is my person!” But Jake and I were destined to become friends—though not without some battles of wit and will.
He was cautious, fierce, and unflinchingly loyal, but there was a layer of vulnerability beneath the bravado. Despite his Arthurian-like courage, Jake was also part nervous Nellie, part Don Knotts—a walking contradiction who somehow made it work. Over time, I earned his trust, though he never stopped keeping me on my toes. He had a way of reminding you that he was in charge of the terms of your friendship.
Jake’s quirks were the stuff of legend. Around the pool at Rotherwood Estates, he became a one-dog crusader against our Polaris pool cleaner. He’d stalk that machine, waiting for the perfect moment to grab its tail, and I can’t tell you how many replacements I had to buy after his victorious attacks. It wasn’t about the machine, though—it was the water he loved. Spray him with a hose or water gun, and he’d go full-on postal, biting at the stream like it had personally insulted him. Afterward, he’d strut around the pool, soaked and gleaming, looking proud as ever.
There were so many stories like that. Jake lunging at joggers on the Greenbelt. Jake starting a fight with a golden retriever twice his size on a hike at Roan Mountain. Jake proudly defending his spot under the covers at night, even if it meant cowering while staying on high alert. For all his bark and bluster, though, Jake was also a world-class snuggler. When he decided you were his person, he gave you his whole heart.
His bond with Bella, our other dog, was just as special. While Bella was the gentle, nurturing one, Jake was the troublemaker. Yet they were inseparable, sleeping side by side and moving through life as a team. Bella rarely let his antics annoy her, and in return, Jake loved her with the loyalty only a dachshund can give.
Jake’s life was marked by resilience. He’d been hit by a car early on, leaving him without certain parts of his anatomy and perhaps adding to his sometimes-eccentric personality. He was a rescue, plucked from a bag of unwanted puppies, and I always marveled at how such a scrappy, determined little dog could still carry so much love in his heart.
His expressive face, framed by those coal-black eyes and perfect tan markings, was unforgettable. That side-eye of his could disarm you in a second. And though he was always ready to defend his food—or steal someone else’s—he had a tenderness that made him impossible not to love. Even his quirks, like his popcorn-like smell or his relentless barking at my good friend and his uncle, Marty, became endearing in hindsight.
When I got the text from Anna saying they were putting Jake down, I knew how hard that decision must have been. Jake’s later years had been marked by illness—dementia, bleeding, and general discomfort. For those who lived with him, who both loved and loved to hate him for his antics (like peeing on their things), the loss was surely profound.
Jake was, in so many ways, the prince of our little family. He was the limousine of wiener dogs—long, proud, and utterly unique. His antics, his loyalty, and his humor brought light to some of the best years of my life. During the early days of the pandemic, when I worked from home as a newly self-employed consultant, Jake and Bella were my constant companions. They were there for the morning "doggy parade" at breakfast and for every return trip from the boarding house.
Jake wasn’t just a dog; he was a character, a friend, and a reminder of a time when we had something wonderful. Life changes, families shift, and we lose people—and pets—we love. But the memories remain. Jake will always be part of my story, and I’m proud to have known him. He was a hoot, a treat, and a true prince among dogs. Rest well, my friend. There will never be another like you.
