A Tribute to My Friends and My Dog

Twice over the past few years, I’ve gotten a text or phone call and immediately rifled my phone off the wall.

It’s been the same horrible pattern. My phone is on Do Not Disturb. I turn it off and see missed calls and texts from numbers I don’t recognize, along with a few from friends. Then I read the message or hear the words, and it’s something I can’t believe.

I gasp to understand. My friend is gone.

I go outside. I throw furniture. I hyperventilate. I scream.

With my boy Hunter, it was different. I know dogs, especially big dogs, don’t have long lives. Ten to thirteen years is reasonable. Hunter was only seven. I kept reminding myself to savor our walks, to soak in the time with my best boy.

Then he started collapsing on walks and barking at things that weren’t there.

We took him to the vet. They ran fifty pointless tests, and finally, one that told us the truth. Pancreatic cancer. It had already spread.

Steroids worked for a little while until they didn’t.

One morning on our walk, he dropped to the ground at the bottom of our hill. I carried him up while he started spasming. By the time we reached our house, he was having a full seizure, slamming his head against the concrete like we were in a horror movie.

I held him down with everything I had. I told him I was there. I tried rubbing honey on his gums to help his sugar. I thought he was dying in my arms.

Then out of nowhere, he stopped. Got up. And sprinted. He took off down the street like a racehorse.

I ran after him, trying to tap into the speed I’ve had most of my life. But I was already exhausted from carrying him. I’m not the same Chris O’Day. For the first time, I felt ashamed for being out of shape because I couldn’t catch him as he tore through people’s yards.

For some reason, Billy Madison’s voice popped into my head. “That’s your dog. You go out and find your dog.”

I dragged myself into the car and started flying down side streets. I saw a woman walking dogs and asked if she had seen Hunter. Somehow, she had. And she knew what was happening.

“Yeah, he’s in the backyard. My dog is diabetic. I think he’s having a seizure. Be careful. He might not recognize you.”

Yeah right. Hunter’s my boy.

I found him in the backyard. He looked terrified. He looked blind. He was barking at things that weren’t there.

I tried to calm him. He bit me for the first time ever.

She was right. But I didn’t care. I had my boy.

I carried him to the car. Rubbed honey into his gums. He finally started to calm down.

I called the vet like I was calling 911. They acted like I was ordering a sandwich.

Are you kidding me? My boy is dying.

“Oh well. There’s not much we can do.”

Screw that vet. Forever.

The days blurred. I carried him outside. Held him up with a towel so he could go to the bathroom. The seizures kept coming. They hurt him. And I realized I was keeping him alive for me, not for him.

That night, we said goodbye. I told him, “Let’s keep running. Me and you boy, we’re too fast, nothing can catch us, we just need to keep going, we’re too fast,” I cried as I said it. He looked at me with trust. Still happy. Then he was gone.

Let’s Focus on the Good

That was the hard part. But grief isn’t just pain. It’s also memory. And I don’t want to only remember how things ended. I want to remember the good.

The funny stuff. The real stuff. The moments that mattered with my friends and my dog, Hunter.

And before anyone says anything, yes, I know no one is perfect. I’m not. Look in the mirror. You’re not either. But I’m choosing to remember the good.

After they passed, I stopped writing. Not completely. I still wrote for work. I write for a living. But I stopped writing anything that felt like me.

I paused the Nantucket Vampire book. I tried picking it back up a few times, but I kept walking away. I stopped the blogs. I stopped the weight loss “look at me” Instagram, which was actually kind of funny while it lasted.

Maybe I was avoiding it. Because real writing, the kind that means something, has to be honest. You must look at yourself, dig into the uncomfortable parts, and tell the truth. And I wasn’t doing that, or ready to. Or maybe I just gave myself a convenient excuse to stop trying and be lazy.

Either way, I’m done with that now. My core belief is “never give up.” I may have put writing down for too long, but not anymore.

I recently wrote a children’s book about losing Hunter from my son’s perspective. It’s way less dark than the version above, but it reminded me of something. My friends wouldn’t want me to stop writing. They’d want me to get back in shape. They’d want me to be me.

Writing is still the best thing I can do in this world. So I will tell a few stories about my friends and my dog, about why they were, as I always say, “The man.”

Pratt

Pratt was part of the Oak Street mafia. A crew of guys, all the same age, who grew up together in Braintree, on, you guessed it, Oak Street. Every day after school, they played sports, Tony Hawk, goofed off, and had fun. I went to a different elementary school, but when I met them in middle school, I remember thinking how great it must’ve been to grow up like that. Built-in close friends, never bored.

Pratt was quiet at first, but funny once you got to know him. Just a good dude. We got along, played sports together, had classes together, but weren’t real close. Then one day senior year, we’re in math class, and he looks over and goes, “Yo O’Day, I’m going to Assumption too.”

I was like, alright. I barely knew anything about this weird school in Worcester, but at least I’d know one guy.

I moved in a week early for cross country. I looked across the hall and saw a name tag that said Kevin P. I thought no way, this school is small, but not this small. Probably a different Kevin. Then move-in day comes, and there’s Mr. Pratt, his dad, longtime Braintree basketball ref, moving his stuff in. Sup Kev.

We lived across the hall that whole year. Every night, almost like clockwork, he’d wander into my room and ask if I wanted Blue Jeans Pizza. I don’t think he ever touched his meal plan. We joked around, did dorm room shenanigans, and his roommate got us all hooked on UFC.

We ended up in a community service rehabilitation course together. Assumption assigned us to a halfway house right outside a prison every Friday at 7:30 AM. They gave us vouchers for free cabs there, and I remember the cab driver not wanting us to get out.

We gave the vibe of- “Don’t worry, sir, we’re both from a Boston suburb, Braintree, which, even though it’s a lovely town, we for some reason think it’s tough, or we’re just overconfident and dumb.”

So there we were, hungover from Thursday night, sitting in prayer circles with tatted guys fresh out of jail, holding their hands doing the Serenity prayer and helping them write resumes. Watching Fergie music videos while they hooted and hollered. You couldn’t make it up.

At first, I worried about Pratt making friends. He was quiet and grew up with built-in friends, so he never had to.

Turns out I didn’t need to worry. He ended up with a better crew than I did. His roommate, Kevin Grayson, became his best friend. He got close with Whalen, Derek, Dabs, Tirrell (who I call the only person from Connecticut I trust), and a bunch of others. He met girls. His room turned into one of the better party spots in our senior year. He figured it out fast, without trying. 

But the Braintree edge never left. One night, my friends from home visited and got in trouble with campus police. I wasn’t there. Pratt was. And when they gave him one phone call, he tried to use it to order pizza. Absolute legend. He was the man.

He loved animals. Adopted a hamster. Rolled it around the dorm in one of those plastic balls. Even had a dog in the dorm for a bit. He once told me that as a kid, he used to set the lobsters his parents brought home free in the ocean. But he didn’t know you had to take the rubber bands off their claws first. I always picture those lobsters thinking, “Awesome, I’m back in the water, but now what?”

He never held back with me either. A lot of people do. Maybe they think I can’t take it. Maybe they think I’m too intense. Not Prizzy. After a breakup, we were playing pickup basketball, and I was clearly in a pity party. He just looked at me and said, “Yeah, O’Day, you blew that one. Not sure I’d date you either. You come with a lot of baggage, huh?”

It made me laugh. It snapped me out of it. That was Kev. Honest and sharp.

He had a quiet way of getting the best chirps in. One time, this huge guy, action movie muscles, was giving a girl a piggyback ride, up a large hill, near the outdoor Assumption basketball courts, and started to falter. The guy goes, “I’m tired, I gotta put you down,” and Kevin, skinny and quiet as ever, just deadpans, “Pussy.” No emotion. Just perfect delivery. Crushed the whole group, thankfully, the guy had a sense of humor too. 

In our senior year, we were in Pratt’s room for a party, and some steroid freak tried to start something with him for no reason. We threw him out together and told him, “Go bench press, bitch,” before slamming the door. Braintree, baby.

He always had my back. When my friends and I got into it with some bullies and the cops got called, Kev hid us in his room all night. On one of the worst nights of my life, when a cop was hitting me while I was handcuffed, Pratt tried to pull the guy off. No hesitation. And when I got kicked off campus (for defending myself from those bullies, did a good job, might I add), he never made me feel like I didn’t belong. Some friends disappeared, but he did not. Still invited me to play ball. Still gave me a place to hang out and feel normal again.

He visited me on Nantucket in the summers. One trip, it was all Braintree guys for the week. Absolute mayhem. Another night, someone said we should just stay in. Kev, Jane, and I locked eyes. No chance. We hit the bars, met a pimp, crashed an afterparty, and caught a ride home from a bartender who saw us wandering the streets. No clue how any of it happened. But it was perfect.

If I’m being honest, Kev probably would’ve had a smooth college experience without me and my dumb Braintree friends. But he never complained. He was loyal. Always down for a laugh. Always had my back.

At graduation, his dad walked up to me. Pratt had gotten in trouble twice. One time was totally my fault. The other, also kind of my fault (he was with my friends). I said to myself, if he hits me, I deserve it, just take it. Instead, he shook his head, half-smiled, and said, “How the hell did you graduate cum laude?”

Pratt had a good heart. He was loyal, quietly hilarious, and always there when it mattered. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. But if you needed him, he was there. I think about the funny little things. Running into him hitting golf balls in the quad on a Saturday night. Pickup basketball. He was a good dude. And a great friend.

Foley

Foley was the man. He didn’t need help being the man. He just was.

In high school, he was a grade above me and hung out with the skater side of my eclectic crew, like Marty and Robichau. We were friendly, but not especially tight. That came later.

He went to Westfield College, where he blossomed like a butterfly. Not in a dramatic way. He didn’t suddenly join a frat and turn into a full-on Pike bro. He stayed himself. Met a solid group of friends from Milton, and from what I can gather, had a hell of a time.

Then Spring Break happened, and everything changed. He got an infection that hit his heart. It nearly killed him. He spent a long time in the hospital.

He got a pacemaker, recovered, and got right back to being the man.

That’s when we started hanging out more and becoming better friends. We went to 311 shows, ski trips that turned into wild weekends, the V Club (remember that place?), and met weekly with a crew to watch Sons of Anarchy and cheered when they took down Agent Stahl. We had wild nights, saw a friend drive into a house. We would party on Marty’s boat. He had a killer wedding. Also, he might have been the first friend I had who owned a house. 

He was a cool dude, a solid friend, and also my insurance agent. He had a young family. Life had thrown him some punches, but he kept moving forward. Then it hit again, he had a stroke and landed back in the hospital.

By then, I considered him a real friend. But I hesitated to visit. I wasn’t one of his ride-or-dies, and I figured those guys were already there around the clock (I get weird about friend rankings, I know, grow up..). Didn’t want to be the guy overstepping.

I started texting with him and saw that he wasn’t getting too many visitors beyond his family. I asked if it was cool to come by. He said it was. I worked a couple of miles away, so I started showing up Tuesdays and Thursdays after work until they tossed me out.

Growing up with my brother in and out of hospitals, for a while, I always hated the idea of people being there alone. And forget those football movies where the team avoids the hospital because it makes them uncomfortable. Screw that. Go visit your friend.

I never read Tuesdays with Morrie, but I joked when walking in, “Sup Tuesdays wit Foley.” We’d talk, I’d bring him town gossip, share funny stories, and he’d just listen. He never made me feel like I was bothering him.

Everyone on his floor loved him. When we walked the halls, people greeted him. “What up, Eric?” The nurses would sneak him extra apple juice. He was the man on that floor.

Still, I’d ask sometimes if I was coming too often. He said no. Said he looked forward to it. I also got to know his family a little bit, and they are wonderful people.

Eventually, things started looking up. He got fitted with a device that let him go home. It wasn’t perfect, he needed a heart transplant and had a rare blood type, but it was progress. We’d take it.

Then came the medical debt, and that made me sick to my stomach. I lean conservative in a lot of areas, but when it comes to health care, I’m a lib. Foley didn’t deserve that kind of stress, while needing a heart transplant and having a young family.

But he made the best of it. He even had a custom suit made to fit around his medical device so he could come to my wedding. We started a podcast with the crew that turned into a weekly tradition. Total chaos, but it brought us closer and gave us something to laugh about. He gave me a great gift when my son was born. He told my wife that she was the first person he told that he and his wife were expecting again. Somewhere along the way, he became one of my best friends.

I could tell him anything. And he would keep it between us. He knew exactly what he was up against, but he always seemed more worried about his daughters than himself. I tried to be fully optimistic. Refused to let things get dark, I’d say, “Nah, man, you’ll get the heart transplant. Things are going to get better.”

A lot of the time, we’d just hang out and watch a movie. Kick it, talk a little, say nothing, whatever. He loved candy, and I always got a kick out of him busting out Skittles. 

Looking back, even before we were really close, he had my back. One night in high school, I left a party drunk and pissed off. He came and picked me up, got me home safely. Years later, we ran into one of those college bullies, some loser who had become a club promoter (had actually paid people to jump me like in a mob movie), and I confronted him. Foley gave it to me straight. Told me the guy was a clown and, honestly, terrified of me when I walked him down. Hearing that from a neutral party? Felt good.

Girls liked Foley. Guys liked Foley. Tough guys, sensitive guys, the weirdos, the wimps, everyone liked him. He was just that kind of person. A good dude.

And he was funny. Deadpan sniper with the one-liners. If someone was acting like a hardo, the second they left, he’d say, “That guy thinks he’s the man.” He always checked in. I never had to perform around him. I could just be myself.

We had done some fundraising to help with his medical debt. One of my partners at work, John Weeden, who sometimes gets a bad rap for his dark sense of humor (like mine), stopped by my desk and handed me Red Sox tickets to the ALCS, right behind home plate. He’d already donated but said, “I saw the stuff about your friend and wanted to do something.” I thanked him and said I’d raffle them off. He looked at me and said, “No. Take your friend to the game, you dimwit.”

Foley and I went, and the Red Sox absolutely crushed it. Home runs were flying, the crowd was electric, and we somehow ended up on TV, behind Papi and A-Rod during the postgame show. It was one of those nights you don’t forget.

Then life happened. I realized it had been a month or two since I’d seen him. You get busy. The podcast had ended, and you get comfortable with just texting. Then I watched Green Book, and a line stuck with me: “The world is full of lonely people afraid to make the first move.” That hit me. 

So I texted him. We met up that day. Took our kids to the park. Got them ice cream. Had a good, normal day. I thank God for that. It was the last time I saw him.

I try not to dwell too much on the heavy stuff, but the day of Foley’s funeral was one of the worst days of my life.

Not just because one of my best friends had passed. That would have been enough. But other bad stuff happened too.

That morning, I woke up feeling off. Really sick. Wouldn’t have gotten out of bed if it weren’t for what the day meant.

After we got home, I still felt wrong. I lay down on the couch to rest. Next thing I know, I’m waking up to Ranna screaming that Dean was gone. She had been giving our younger son, Owen, a bath, and Dean had disappeared.

We had recently caught him a couple of times trying to sneak out of the house and quietly close the door behind him. We both feared the worst.

I tore through the house. Then bolted outside in a panic. “Dean! Dean! Dean!” We live near water. There was no time to waste. I called 911.

The cops showed up and said he was probably hiding somewhere inside. I hoped they were right, but told them he’d snuck out before.

Then, like magic, Dean came barreling around the corner.

Maybe he was hiding. Or maybe he did sneak out, and Foley used some of his heaven magic to guide him back. I always picture a little butterfly nudging him home with Dean chasing after it.

I thanked the cops and hugged Dean. We have since chained every door in the house.

That night, my wife and dad took the boys to the Braintree Day fireworks. I stayed home and puked my guts out. I was sick for ten days.

When I think of that time, I think of what Marty’s uncle said at the funeral: “He got jipped. He got fucking jipped.”

And he really did. He had two beautiful daughters and was just getting going in life. He faced everything with guts, humor, and way more grace than I would’ve. I’d have been a whiny bitch the entire time.

But I’m glad we got close. I hope he knew how much I valued our friendship. He showed up for people. He made time. He made us laugh. And when it mattered, he was there.

He had two beautiful daughters, and they should know their dad was the kind of person everyone wanted in their corner. He was kind, funny, loyal, and strong as hell. He made the people around him feel like things were going to be okay. A sense of calm.

He got jipped. He deserved more time. But he made the most of the time he had, and he left a mark. 

#FoleyForever

Hunter

Hunter was a Mississippi mutt with beautiful coloring.

I like to picture him as a pup running wild down a dirt road, Creedence Clearwater Revival playing in the background, chasing his siblings with that scrappy southern energy.

Whatever Mississippi’s dog situation is, Nantucket had a rescue connection that brought litters from down South for adoption. My girlfriend Ranna, now my wife, and I were getting serious. And nowadays, when couples get serious, they don’t necessarily move in or get engaged right away. They get a dog.

We applied and were told a litter was arriving soon. No reservations. It would be a lottery system. We looked through the pictures. Ranna liked one pup, named something silly like Peter Cottontail (who would later become Hunter). I liked his brother. Sorry, Hunter.

We took the boat over. On the Steamship, we saw people already walking some of the puppies. We started talking to them. They were the transporters. When we said which dogs we were interested in, they let me walk Hunter and his brother.

Hunter had wild energy. He was rebellious, wanted to run, and cause mayhem. His brother was timid, wouldn’t climb stairs. Hmm rebellious, high energy, causing mayhem….dude did we just become best friends? 

At the rescue, Hunter and his littermates were already causing trouble, ganging up on a baby pit bull. Lucky for them, he was still small, because in a year or two, that dog could have wrecked them.

We got pick number two. The couple ahead of us started choosing. I’m not a line-cutter, but this was one time I was glad my mom stepped in. She walked over to the couple and said, “If your hearts aren’t set on that one, my son and his girlfriend are hoping for him.”

They said they weren’t. They picked the brother. Hunter was ours.

We brought him home from the island. He became our guy.

It wasn’t all smooth. He chased our cat, Jada, who just wanted peace and quiet. At first, it was chaos, but eventually they figured each other out. They became friends. On hangover days (how grand was life before kids, just kidding, love you guys), I’d yell, “Hangover team unite,” grab a blanket, and me, Hunter, and Jada would all snuggle up to watch Netflix. Those were good days.

He had his gross dog moments too. Puked on our bed. Pooped on our bed. Ate poop, then puked the poop on our bed. But he was lovable.

We started running together. Sometimes I’d throw on rollerblades and let him pull me. In the summer, we took him to Nantucket. He lived for the beach and chasing balls. That was his prime.

In the water, he looked like Godzilla. Just this huge snout sticking out as he stormed toward his ball like a sea monster. I’d be laughing my ass off.

He had a sweet spot for little dogs, especially my mom’s, and he played so gently with her tiny pup. Letting it jump and nip at him, as he played along just using his head. 

His early years were chaotic. A new apartment every year (3 in 3 years, like Eminem describing his childhood). But when Ranna and I got married, he finally got his forever home.

Hunter was clever and mischievous. One time, Ranna cooked ten big chicken breasts. He took them all. Ate a few, stashed the rest in hiding spots like behind cushions. He once stole a full cheese platter at Thanksgiving and an entire pizza off the counter. He wasn’t allowed on the couch or the guest bed, but one morning I caught him sneaking off it. He had two dog beds and was allowed on ours, but he still wanted his own spot…smart little con.

He also had moves. Hunter and I used to blast “Mo Bamba” and just dance around like idiots. Full-on hype session. He’d bounce, I’d jump around. Just pure, stupid fun.

With dogs his size, it was hit or miss. Either he wanted to fight, play, ignore them entirely, or if they were really big, give up his belly and go beta right away. His girlfriend was a pit bull mix named Paisley. They met under wild circumstances. A different dog attacked Hunter, and he fought back. The other owner tried to blame us, but Paisley’s owner backed us up and told the truth.

That same woman later became a problem. Tried to start a whole anti-Hunter campaign in the neighborhood. One day, she walked by yelling at me while Hunter was outside on a line. I tried to be nice and say sorry just to end it. She kept going. I finally said, “Actually, I’m not sorry. Also, how do you know where I live?”

She replied, “I don’t need to tell you that, Jason.”

I said, “Who the hell is Jason?”

Then I switched to my stern voice. “What’s your name, and where do you live?”

She got quiet, walked off, then tried to sneak around the long way into a house five doors down. She turned and saw me still on my front lawn, just standing there, staring like Michael Myers. Hunter and I knew where she lived too (that sounds creepier than it was as I write it.).

She moved out not long after. Probably not because of us. But maybe. Kind of funny either way.

My dad ran a DNA test on Hunter. The result: 70 percent mixed…Duhhh. No surprise. Probably the same testing crew as the Karen Read case. I could’ve told them that. When I ripped them, and they sent an update, they said he was mostly Lab and part Australian Shepherd. But the Aussie Shepherd part made sense. He had that herding instinct with kids, never aggressive, just circling, trying to keep them in line.

At that time, I was working security and driving Uber to save for Ranna’s engagement ring. She had no idea. I went to Nantucket during Figawi weekend to make money. She thought I was partying and made me bring Hunter. This was before Uber had hourly limits. I probably set a record for rides.

The ride home was brutal. Rainy, packed ferry. Hunter hated it. When he got nervous, he humped. So there I was, soaked, tired, and getting humped by my dog. I muttered loud enough for people to hear, “No humping while people are around.”

A guy behind me laughed and said, “Did he just say no humping when people are around?”

Before kids, it was just me and Hunter. Jeep top off, cornhole boards in the back, Hunter riding shotgun. We looked like a rolling party.

I even put his image on a shirt to help fundraise for a cancer boxing match I did.

Then COVID hit. I thought it would be good for him. I’d be home more, more time for fetch. But I overdid it. He tore his ACL. Needed a $5,000 surgery. We were young and broke, but we paid it. He was worth it.

I slept on the couch for a month during his recovery. Carried him outside to go to the bathroom. He was my dog.

When the kids came, I was nervous. But Hunter crushed it. Dean climbed all over him, pulled his ears, and tried to ride him. Crawled into his bed, grabbed his food. Hunter just licked his face or sniffed his diaper.

They became inseparable (I write more about that in the children’s book, Fly High, Hunter).

We used to think he needed a sibling. But when we did Rover and watched other dogs, he’d glue himself to me. Wanted to remind me he was still number one.

I loved that dog. He was my best friend.

And I didn’t wait until the end to show it. You see those social media posts, dogs getting burgers on their last day. I didn’t want that to be the first time.

I spoiled him while he was alive. I bought him a box of over 100 tennis balls, gave him birthday parties, poured gravy over his food, and let him enjoy good stuff. And when he got terminally sick, I gave him everything he loved: burgers, steaks, whatever he wanted, all day, every day.

And now, there’s a huge portrait of him hanging in my office, sitting proud in the back of our Jeep, forever looking over me, even as I write this.

Closing

Maybe this was a cathartic exercise. Maybe it was just the only way I know how to process loss: by writing, by remembering, by telling the stories that made them who they were to me.

Some people might say it was self-serving. That’s fine. It wasn’t for them.

It was for my friends. And if there’s one thing my friends knew, it’s that I’m loyal. I had their backs when they were here, and I’ll have them long after. When I’m sitting at my garage bar, raising a glass to their pictures, they’re still with me.

There’s a line from a random chef’s autobiography I love. He says, “I still have a drink with them and laugh, but I’m the only one who can see them.”

And there’s a line from 90210 I never forgot. David is being interviewed after his friend passed, and he says, “It doesn’t matter what you say about someone when they’re gone. What matters is how you treated them when they were here.”

They treated me like their friend. I hope they knew I cared. I hope they felt it.

Because they were my friends.

And that still means everything.