Zeus
It was his first day at the farm. David had just given Zeus a bath. Zeus was maybe six weeks old, a Belgian Malinois-German Shepherd mix with adorably large floppy ears that promised the 100-pound dog he would become. But right now, he was so tiny, we seriously feared the red-shouldered hawks might grab him.
I lay down on the wooden deck and lifted him onto my chest as David and our friend Vivienne looked on. Exhausted from the bath, Zeus fell into deep sleep. David photographed that moment. Years later, I would have it printed large and turned into a painting that hangs above my bed. Looking at it now, I see the beginning of everything.
That was the initial sync.
We got Zeus as a surprise gift from our only neighbors who live near us here on the edge of the Everglades near Key Largo, half a mile down the dirt road. For the next almost 15 years, as Zeus and I moved through life like Siamese twins, I would often tell them that he was the “best gift ever.”
There was the day when David and I took Zeus swimming for the first time, on Key Biscayne. I held his body in the water, supporting him as he trembled. His claws left a minor S-shaped scratch on my right forearm. There’s a photo of that moment—me holding him in the water. Zeus would never be good with salt water, so swimming never became a staple. But that small scratch from that day, unexpectedly, would turn into a scar, Zeus’s first mark on me, a promise of the deeper impressions to come.
During his puppy years, Zeus was utterly fearless in the off-leash dog run at South Pointe Park. He would roll and tumble with much bigger, older dogs in whirling abandon that sometimes left me worried for his safety. But he never got hurt.
Soon I began a habit that would define our relationship: When Zeus would sigh, I would sigh—my conscious attempt at synchronizing with his being.
David and I developed our own vocabulary with Zeus, a mixture of German and English. “Du bist gut,” I would tell Zeus in German, my native language. “Ich bin stolz auf Dich.” I am proud of you. “Wir sind zusammen,” I would whisper to him almost every day. We are together. When feeding him by hand, we would say “Sei nett”—be nice—and he would know to be gentle with his teeth. “Platzen” meant for him to lie down.
“Monkey” was our term of endearment for Zeus. Almost every minute of my existence for the last quarter of my life had some ‘monkey aspect.’ Every morning, I would greet him whispering ‘It’s another day together’ into his ear. We were like companions living happily together on the isolated island that was the farm, content in our own world. There were many small intimacies: I used my teeth to cut his morning carrots into the right size pieces. I would stick my nose in his ears because I liked their smell. When I sat on the toilet, Zeus would saunter in for a butt rub. When I checked his toes, he would exult in passing inspection, yelping with joy at the words, “Everything is good!”
For most of his years, Zeus slept in my bed every night. When jumping up became difficult—maybe three years ago—I moved to a mattress on the floor. But soon thereafter, he began choosing to sleep on his “baby bed” instead. I would start each day by going to him there, spooning him as he pressed against me.
For many years, when he could still effortlessly jump, Zeus had a ritual: he’d slip out of my bed and make his way to David’s room to jump up there for morning snuggles.
When I took Zeus for walks in our South Beach neighborhood, passers-by would often say “nice dog.” Zeus was beautiful. His most striking feature was his face—nature had built it for maximum expressiveness. Dark lines around his eyes were like a silent film star’s makeup. A distinctive widow’s peak gave him an almost regal bearing. His oversized ears were perfectly upright and alert. Yet his eyes were the center of it all, shifting with every emotion in dramatic display.
The look from his big brown eyes was “doleful,” as Vivienne always said. But also intelligent, and completely present, until the end. I created a website to showcase my favorite photos of Zeus: seemydog.com. It seemed only right that a universal phrase like “see my dog” should be owned by Zeus.
David and I never had to worry about Zeus running away. He was just so eager to be near us and to be a good boy. He would always look back at us as we walked, always checking to make sure we were still there. This concern with being good extended to everything. Zeus never gnawed on furniture. Perhaps it was the endless supply of coconuts to chew on at both the farm and the house in South Beach. But more likely it was because he was just so concerned with being good, with doing the right thing. This was the essence of who Zeus was.
Over the years, Zeus had three dog companions, each leaving behind an iconic photograph that captured the essence of their relationship with Zeus.
First came Roger, a German shepherd who walked onto our property one day around 2012. Roger and Zeus became perfect playmates, rarely any conflict, always joy. Roger adored Zeus, often licking him tenderly all over while Zeus lay on his back in utter relaxation. The photo that captured their bond shows them standing side by side at our pond, lapping up water in perfect parallel, waves rippling away from them.
Then came Leo, another German shepherd but much larger than Roger. He was a gentle giant who had spent most of his life chained up as a guard dog. With us, he blossomed. There’s one photo that shows Leo’s quiet authority perfectly—Leo in the foreground, with his front legs leisurely crossed, projecting gentle dominance, Zeus in the background radiating consternation.
Lastly came Lucky, a skinny red‑coated stray who followed me home from the dirt road. Though smaller than Zeus, she surpassed his energy—there’s a photo of them sprinting side by side, both gripping the same stick, pure joy frozen in time. But twice she turned on Zeus without warning, her sudden ferocity leaving me shaken. After the second attack we found her a new home in Key West, where the outbursts vanished and she became the cherished center of her family’s world. They have renamed her Mia. Seven years later, we still keep in touch.
With Lucky happily settled, David and I made a decision: For the remainder of his life, Zeus deserved to be our “number one baby,” without any competition.
Often a week would go by without him and me ever leaving the farm since I do all my communication coaching by video call. When a client showed up early on the monitor, they saw a video of Zeus on the black leather sofa, playing with his favorite orange ball, and occasionally staring quizzically at the camera. A caption below him stated “Marc will be right here.” Zeus was the perfect ice breaker, introducing my professional world to the love that defined my personal one.
David was Zeus’s other great love. When David arrived at the farm, Zeus would dash towards him with exuberant joy, ready for his rambunctious playmate who would play the “Gelber Arm” game using a yellow dog training sleeve. There’s a video of Zeus dragging David across the concrete floor of the veranda by that yellow sleeve on David’s right arm, David is laughing joyously as Zeus pulls him along.
“I love you so much,” David would often say to Zeus, over and over.
But David would also make clear to me, “You are everything to Zeus.” Over the years, when I traveled, David would take care of Zeus, and David often told me that Zeus would stare at the gate for hours, waiting for my return.
David would tell me something else too: that he had never known a dog as good as Zeus. This carried special weight coming from David, because his observations about the world, people and animals have a clarity that usually surpasses my own. When David said something like that, it wasn’t sentiment—it was simply truth.
In 2024, when we thought Zeus might have a twisted stomach, the same condition from which Leo had suddenly died, David made a sound I will never forget—a howl of utter pain and despair, before we rushed Zeus to the vet. Thank goodness, Zeus turned out to be OK.
A German friend told me something that stayed with me. I had written a poem about Zeus for my Farm Stories collection, and when he read the line “When my dog sighs, I sigh,” he said it immediately made him think: “When my dog dies, I die.” I thought of it often during Zeus’s final days.
David chose to say goodbye with joy. During our final visit to South Beach, he played with Zeus rambunctiously, using a ball on the “baby bed.” No sadness, no ceremony. Just joy, which is what Zeus had always meant to both of us.
The final morning at the farm, Zeus gobbled up a special filet mignon breakfast mixed with sleeping pills. The vet had prescribed them three years earlier in the exact dose for when this day would come. I had asked for them so Zeus would not sense my anxiety.
As the medication took effect, I knelt down and murmured, “Du bist gut” in his ear. You are good. A rain shower came while we waited for the vet. Zeus lay breathing gently beside the recliner chair where I sat. There was distant thunder. When I wept, he raised his head one more time to look at me with his trademark concern, then settled back into sleep.
I will never forget that last loving look.
The vet was gentle. It was over quickly. Zeus dozed through all of it.
I had always planned to bury Zeus next to Roger and Leo under the beautiful tree. That day, however, a nerve pain radiated from my upper back into my right arm, traveling underneath the S-shaped scar into my hand, leaving my index finger numb. It was an intense ache unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was clear to me that digging was impossible. So I sent Zeus with the doctor. I was present for his cremation almost two weeks later before taking him home in a wooden box.
His ashes will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Above my bed, the painting remains, Zeus as a puppy sleeping on my chest, on that very first day together on January 12, 2011. The beginning of almost fifteen years, a quarter of my life, of being in sync.
On my arm, the scar endures, the mark he left on me that day in the water on Key Biscayne.
Entanglement forever.
***
Above: Roger, left, and Zeus, right, were perfect companions for one another.
There was the day when David and I took Zeus swimming for the first time, on Key Biscayne. I held his body in the water, supporting him as he trembled. His claws left a minor S-shaped scratch on my right forearm. There’s a photo of that moment—me holding him in the water. Zeus would never be good with salt water, so swimming never became a staple. But that small scratch from that day, unexpectedly, would turn into a scar, Zeus’s first mark on me, a promise of the deeper impressions to come.
First came Roger, a German shepherd who walked onto our property one day around 2012. Roger and Zeus became perfect playmates, rarely any conflict, always joy. Roger adored Zeus, often licking him tenderly all over while Zeus lay on his back in utter relaxation. The photo that captured their bond shows them standing side by side at our pond, lapping up water in perfect parallel, waves rippling away from them.
Then came Leo, another German shepherd but much larger than Roger. He was a gentle giant who had spent most of his life chained up as a guard dog. With us, he blossomed. There’s one photo that shows Leo’s quiet authority perfectly—Leo in the foreground, with his front legs leisurely crossed, projecting gentle dominance, Zeus in the background radiating consternation.