Summit In loving memory of our first family pet, our first baby, Summit “Ashcroft’s Don Carlton” Keenan, who has crossed the rainbow bridge to Doggie Heaven. A 12-year old Weimaraner, he was affectionately known by family as Sums, Summie, SumSums, Puppy Baby, Summie Bear, Baby Boy, Puppy Bear, and “Sum Sum on the Kick Drum Summie.” What a wild ride we had. Many who have met Summit will remember his antics. But we’ll remember his love nibbles, intelligent games, literal conversations, cozy snuggles, long hikes, fireside naps, tiny tail wags. It was like hanging out with a friend, or caring for a third child, a half dog-half human, with the intellect and stubbornness of one. From driving with his seat belt on in the passenger seat, neighboring cars gawking or giggling at the human-dog facing forward, buckled up like a partner in crime, to him listening in on my long work calls, knowing I was wrapping up 5 minutes before the call ended, to him always being there – and I mean literally, right next to me, always in the same room, crying if we left, because he just wanted to be with us — he was as close to another human in the family as a dog could get. He would let us know when it was time to go to bed by whining from the family room steps, staring at us. Eventually he’d let out one bark if we ignored, letting us know he was serious, its bedtime. He could go up to bed on his own, but usually refused. He wanted to be with us. We’d eventually succumb, hauling ourselves upstairs to tuck him in, under his blankie on his bed, where he would give an exhaustive and satisfied moan or grumble, followed by love nibbles letting us know he was happy and ready to go night-night. When we asked the vet how we know it’s his time, the vet asked to name his top 5 favorite things to do in life, and if he can do them. This is how we made our list. How do dogs communicate? Do they talk? Anyone who’s had a smart dog will tell you, well, kind of. They use all of their senses to communicate with us and navigate our world together. Summit used every sense to the fullest – they were his favorite things – and I’m convinced that’s why he was able to live so long, and usually get what he wanted out of life. Sight. Summit was always making us laugh and that lasted to the very end. As one could imagine blindness is not easy for a dog, and the past year presented challenges when he lost his vision. Despite this, he had the house and yard mapped by memory. He was able to navigate everything independently, even the doggie door and a large backyard, to find his way in, out, and around. His independence didn’t waver and most people, even the ER vets, couldn’t tell he was completely blind, because he was able to navigate his way so impressively well. Of course some of the slow bumps into walls and furniture gave us giggles but without hesitation he’d correct himself to get where he needed to go. Sight was never his favorite sense, but he did love watching the birds from a far – “Summit, do you see the birdies?” as his head and ears perked up with the sense that he “should” chase them. He quickly discovered at a young age he’d never catch them, but would watch carefully from afar. Of course that didn’t hold true for all animals he encountered, as many know of our adventures with the infamous skunk (a story for another day) and other critters that weren’t smart enough to stay out the yard or his path. And of course he loved to watch the girls play, running around the yard. If the fun and giggles were enticing, he’d romp right next to them, wanting to be a part of the action. I’d often find him sitting stoically outside, taking in his surroundings, and in the end I wished he would be able to see the beautiful views of the Chesapeake with us this summer, though I came to find he could, because of how strong his other senses were. Sound. Summit’s ears were something to love in and of themselves. Even the vet during his last minutes commented how long and soft they were. We reminisced how as a puppy, his ears would hang into his water bowl, coming out a darker gray than before, dripping till he shook his head and flapped his ears, water landing everywhere. But because of his adorably long ears, he was prone to chronic ear infections, common in long eared dogs. We eventually found ways to stave them off, but over the last year his hearing waned, though he could hear up close and especially during cuddles. For the earlier part of his life however, no sound got past him. Opening a bag of chips in the kitchen? Ha. The garage door opening? He was there to greet us before we walked in. Conversations I was sure he was listening to, if I dropped “grandma” or “Pita” or: treat, walk, Daddy, food, hike, go, car, Aunt Kaylee, Louna, Cruella, out, Dugan, the babies, water, eat, breakfast, lunch, dinner, play, outside, back yard, and so many others – his ears would perk up, he would be right next to me, wagging his tail and looking to the door or kitchen in anticipation, because clearly in his mind, we were talking to him. The buzz of the house, the yells from the girls, the loud music during post-dinner dance parties, the clinking of dishes entering the dishwasher, our laugher and cries, he was following and responding to all of it, acutely aware of how the sounds of our lives were entangled together. Smell. Just being outside allowed Summit to smell all the things that satisfied his instinct for hunting all the things, especially animals or what they’ve left behind. His favorite thing was to have us toss our left over broccoli or brussel sprouts cuts from a bowl and scatter them across the yard so he could sniff his way through the grass in a frenzy to find them. He would smell his way to our vegetable garden and pull any green bean vines through the fencing to munch on. He would sit handsomely on the patio or grass with his nose in the air taking in whatever smells he could from throughout the yard and neighborhood, his nose scrunching, taking mini sniffs when he smelled something interesting in the air to perhaps investigate. His favorite game with the girls was “find it” – something we never had to teach him, his innate instinct and nose led the way – where after making him wait for what I’m sure seemed to him like an excruciatingly long time in the other room, we would yell “okay!” from the family room and he would dash around the corner full speed to find the treats we expertly hid throughout the room. Using his nose was fascinating to watch and it was helpful in practicing mindfulness, allowing us to observe in wonder his perspective of our surroundings. Touch. Although he wasn’t one to sit and be petted for hours, he wanted – needed – to feel our presence, always. Being with us (preferably while we were eating or there was food around, but no matter) – near us, next to us, on top or in the middle of us, in the chaos or in the quiet, was his ultimate wish. On car rides despite not preferring them due to a bit of car sickness; if it meant he could come, he would. During family board games on the floor, he was in the circle; on Christmas with the chaotic present unwrapping of 7 little kids, he was laying in the middle of it, no matter if wrapping paper landed on his head or a kiddo eventually stepped on him. He had to be there, with us. In addition our touch and presence, he loved so much to feel the rays beating down on him while sun bathing. On the patio or through the family room window, he’d always find the sunshine- sometimes to my concern that he was going to fry like bacon on a griddle – no mind to how hot it was. So it’s no surprise that my favorite times with Summit were in our backyard, usually with the first spring sunshine, sharing a picnic blanket in the grass with a book or my work, sunbathing together. We were able to do this a few times in Charlestown with the girls, and those are the feelings I know I’ll never forget. Taste. His favorite sense. To know Summit was to know he tasted the world. Anyone he came across, who met him, cared for, or groomed him, knew of his food “adventures.” While to many (most?) and often our family, this was his most annoying trait, his food obsession was, if nothing, incredible – and sometimes simply entertaining in its outrageousness. When others would describe how food motivated their dog was, I would chuckle to myself. To this point, it was stressful and deeply concerning, knowing he could (and would) at any moment, eat something he shouldn’t. For my family, this in comparison to our past Weim, Sammy, who at one point in my teens was hiding boxes of crackers in the couch to dig out after we left the house, and who was able to open the refrigerator to eat everything inside, the door breaking off and laying in the middle of the kitchen when we came home. Though Sammy would do anything for food, he would give up. Summit, we learned, was… “another level.” We often joked how unlikely it was that he actually tasted the things he ate, because he scarfed – inhaled – his food down so fast. The warning was given to visitors at our house — feel free to share your story of how you “learned that lesson quickly” — that we weren’t joking when we said “be sure to hang your bag or coat up high- he will find anything edible in your stuff.” Because he would. Without fail. There was no training this out of him. And if you’re reading this thinking we just didn’t know how to; I promise you, it wasn’t possible. We saw every vet speciality possible, eventually sticking with a Behavioral Veterinarian who, after testing for everything from Cushings to Hyperthyroidism, diagnosed him with anxiety and obsessive compulsions towards food. Over time, with medication and a lot of modifications to our lives – namely making sure every food temptation was absolutely inaccessible (or as we called it, “Summit-Proofing the house”) – this, along with aging, slowed him down a bit. A bit. Enough that we could eventually enjoy a meal without finding our entire steak dinner gone after turning our backs for half a second. If this sounds stressful, it was. I came to find empathy for him as we realized he wasn’t just an ass of a dog who wanted our food (though so much easier to call it that). His distress signaled his food drive and his food obsession revealed his distress. And to his credit, he was never, ever, food aggressive. You could pry the 2 slices of pizza out of his mouth, take his bowl away, or make him drop the loaf of bread, and he never growled or fought it. He knew it was wrong, and we would eventually succumb to the fact that he just could not help himself. But with the frustrations came story after story of his outrageous food adventures. Even our family members who’ve know him and all his obsessions for over a decade were still shocked – perplexed, mind-blown, and often entertained – by the sheer audacity of his behavior. You could not help but laugh. So many NOW-funny stories of food he’d taken could be shared as we joked that his stomach must be made of steel – just a straight metal pipe. Only once did something get stuck – on a Thanksgiving morning while hosting and simultaneously throwing my mom’s surprise 60th birthday- I’ll spare you that story and details. From bowls of raw potatoes or cereal, to turkey dinners or chocolate cake, packages of THC gummies or brownies, the scraps of broccoli ends or raw pasta, the leftovers you took out to heat up, or the tiny little crumb you left behind, he would find it and it would be his. We were able to discover, after inevitably tasting everything in our kitchen, the only thing he didn’t like were bananas and spinach. As you might guess, he was diagnosed with diabetes, requiring insulin twice a day for the past year. We had to wean him from peanut butter bones and daily treats, and I knew his lack of access to his favorite treats took away a bit of his happiness. He still had his meals and we would sneak him veggies knowing this wouldn’t spike his sugars, which seemed to satisfy him here and there. I knew his ultimate delight would be unlimited access to the kitchen. So when the vet came to our home to help us send our boy to a happier place, he got just that. We gave him all the beef, the chocolate, corn muffins, the bread and cookies he could imagine, as he repeatedly returned to the kitchen for one more taste. Kennedy shared in his last day, “Mom, other than being with us, the kitchen was Summits’s favorite place.” So in the end, he got both. I am heartbroken. And still so thankful we had 12 years with him. I am beyond thankful to all those who cared for him. From his pet sitters and long distance running college athletes that ran him, to the groomers who dealt with his distaste for water and baths, to our family, especially my mom and dad, who watched him sometimes for weeks or a month at a time while we traveled, to my in-laws who as vets themselves helped countless times with advice and emergencies. And no one deserves more appreciation than my husband Mike, who, despite allergy to dogs, agreed just one year into dating that if I fulfilled my dream of getting a Weimaraner, something I waited for over a decade through college and grad school to do, the puppy and I would be a package deal. And after me promising Summit would never sleep in our bedroom, our boy slowly moved from downstairs to upstairs, to the guest room and eventually to his own bed next to ours, Mike went along with it, sneezes, allergy shots, and all. Mike eventually fell in love with Summit too, the only boys of the house, becoming pals while dad worked on the yard or mommy was traveling, and likewise Summie getting most excited when daddy walked in the door. And so over 12 years, Summit was, as it happens, a deep part of our family. He was there for me, for us, through so much loss and change, through three different homes, pregnancies and births of both girls and all our nephews and niece, our marriage and starting a home and a family, the loss of Pop-Pop Kevin, grandparents, and so many other loved ones – he was a constant, a bear of a dog who came to me when I cried and let me sob into him. As one could only hope and dream for a companion like that, we were so incredibly lucky. We will miss you Summie Bear. Give everyone hugs and and kisses and wags. Enjoy the endless buffets – we know you’ll be first in line. ❤️🐾💔🫶🏻 RIP Summit🐾