Baloo Van Bergen: A Very Good Dog, Writing His Own Obituary January 31, 2013 – August 28, 2026

Well. This is awkward.

Apparently, when you die, someone is supposed to write your obituary.

And since my Girl has a well-documented tendency toward excessive wordiness—and is currently in absolutely NO condition to be trusted with this assignment—I have decided to handle it myself.

You’re welcome.

I am Baloo Van Bergen, a devastatingly handsome Portuguese Water Dog who entered this world on January 31, 2013, and left it on August 28, 2026, after 13½ years of supervising Amy Van Bergen and the assorted humans who came with her.

It was exhausting work.

Longtime readers may remember me from my illustrious 2017 blogging career, when I explained the difficulties of living with my recently retired Girl. I was only four then. Young. Handsome. Athletic.

For the record, I remained handsome.

The athletic part became somewhat negotiable.

I spent much of my life in Orlando, Florida, although there were Wisconsin years and plenty of adventures along the way. My responsibilities included protecting the household from squirrels, delivery people, suspicious noises, completely non-suspicious noises, and occasionally absolutely nothing.

I was VERY good at my job.

My most important assignment, however, was taking care of my people.

There was my Girl, Amy.

Technically, people would probably say I was her dog. This is ridiculous. Anyone who observed our relationship for more than five minutes knew exactly who belonged to whom.

She fed me.

She drove me places.

She bought the toys.

She arranged the veterinary care.

She provided full-body massages.

Clearly, she was staff.

And then there was Wils.

Wils was my boy.

We grew up together in a way, and somewhere along the line I understood that looking after him was part of my job, too. We went places. We hung out. We shared adventures. We understood each other.

And unlike the Girl, Wils didn’t spend nearly as much time telling me what I was supposed to be doing.

Excellent human.

But a dog as important as I was requires a much larger pack.

Judson helped name me, which was obviously one of the more consequential decisions of his life. I mean, look how well that turned out.

Judson was also responsible for some of my Wisconsin years, when my Girl and I helped take care of his three oldest kids. During that chapter I lived with Kess, another member of my canine extended family.

There was also my Weimaraner cousin Tri, who has gone on ahead of me.

Between Tri and Harley, I expect someone has already organized things on the other side. Hopefully they have squirrels.

Aubrey lived with me on and off over the years and brought several bonus members into my extended family: Kai the cat, and my German Shepherd cousins Harley and Royce. Harley went ahead of me, so he and Tri can show me around. Royce remains behind to continue canine operations with my good friend Katie.

Claire also lived with me on and off throughout the years and occasionally brought Buffy the cat to live with us.

You may be noticing an alarming number of cats in my obituary. Let’s get back to dogs, shall we?

Then there is Clancy, Claire and Jake’s distinguished elderly pup, a cousin I never actually met in person but knew virtually—proof that, like so many modern family relationships, a perfectly legitimate dog-cousin connection can exist entirely through screens, photos, stories and the people who love them both.

Finally there is John, who clearly recognized greatness when he saw it. He named his first black vehicle Baloo after me.

This is the appropriate level of respect a dog of my stature deserves.

More importantly, John became one of my people. And when it was finally time for me to leave, he was there with my Girl and Wils.

Nobody should have to make that trip alone.

I also had an entire generation of small humans who were technically my Girl’s grandchildren but whom I considered my nieces and nephews: Leland, Loxley, Deklan, Faolan, Ferrah, and Paili.

Some of them I knew practically from the beginning. During those Wisconsin years, I helped my Girl take care of Judson’s three oldest kids, which provided me with extensive field research into the habits of small humans.

These children taught me something extremely important:

Babies and toddlers are AMAZING.

Not necessarily because of their personalities, although they seemed perfectly nice.

Because of their inability to reliably transport food from a bowl to their mouths.

Cheerios.

Goldfish crackers.

Random unidentified snacks.

All delivered directly to floor level.

For years, I had believed squirrels were God’s greatest gift to dogs.

Then I met toddlers.

I stand corrected.

Paili deserves special mention because she actually lived with me for the first few years of her life.

In fact, she was BORN IN MY HOUSE.

I remember this because on that particular day, something was clearly happening with Aubrey and suddenly PARAMEDICS arrived.

Naturally, as the resident security officer and senior household administrator, I prepared to supervise.

Instead, I was PUT OUTSIDE.

Apparently my Girl and the paramedics felt they could handle the situation without me.

This remains one of the most questionable decisions made during my 13½-year tenure.

Eventually they let me back in and there was a BABY.

In my house.

No one had consulted me.

Fortunately, Paili quickly proved her worth through the aforementioned Cheerios-and-Goldfish distribution program, and I decided she could stay.

All of those little people taught me to love babies and toddlers.

They climbed around me. They dropped food on me and near me. They grew up.

And I watched over them.

That’s what I did.

And just when I thought I had experienced pretty much everything the canine world had to offer, my Girl took me to Effingham during my final summer.

There I met the newest members of the extended dog family: eight-week-old Viszla brothers Finn and Tigger.

I would like to explain Finn and Tigger’s personalities, but at eight weeks old they essentially had two settings:

Sound asleep.

and

BITEY.

There was very little in between.

By then I was 13 and had achieved the dignified status of Elder Statesdog. I had nothing left to prove.

So I observed these two tiny lunatics with the patience of a dog who knew that someday they, too, would discover the pleasures of naps.

Mostly I waited for the bitey setting to switch back to asleep.

It was nice, though, meeting the newest generation.

I was near the end of my story.

They were just beginning theirs.

Over 13 years, I had a very big life for a dog.

There were car rides and dog parks. Wisconsin and Florida. Trips to Effingham. Walks and vacations. Holidays and birthdays. Family coming and going. Dogs coming and going. Cats coming and going despite my lack of input.

There were treats that were deserved and treats that were technically obtained under false pretenses.

There were squirrels.

So. Many. Squirrels.

I spent thousands of ordinary days doing what dogs understand better than humans do: being exactly where I was supposed to be.

Near my people.

As I got older, things changed.

My legs weren’t quite as cooperative. Walks got shorter. The younger dogs seemed unnecessarily energetic. After meeting Finn and Tigger, I can confirm that the younger dogs were completely ridiculous.

I began to suspect that stairs had been specifically designed as an insult to senior citizens.

And eventually, even the first dog park I visited as a puppy looked different when I walked through it with old legs.

But here’s something humans don’t seem to understand:

A slower dog is still the same dog.

I was still Baloo.

Still watching.

Still loving.

Still hoping somebody might drop something edible.

And still keeping an eye on my Girl.

Which brings us to my last Friday.

My people made one of the hardest decision humans ever have to make for a dog they love.

They let me go.

I know my Girl is going to question this approximately 47,000 times, because I have lived with this woman for 13 years and I KNOW HER.

So, Girl, listen carefully.

You did good.

You gave me a wonderful life.

And when my body couldn’t give me a wonderful life anymore, you didn’t make me stay just because you weren’t ready for me to leave.

That’s love.

Even a dog knows that.

I expect there will be some crying around the house for a while. Probably an unreasonable amount.

Wils, take care of her.

Girl, take care of Wils.

John, you keep an eye on both of them.

And the rest of my pack? Keep telling my stories. Especially the ridiculous ones.

I worked hard on those.

Both of you should continue going to Starbucks. It would be disrespectful to my memory to discontinue the pup-cup tradition merely because you currently lack a pup.

And when you go to the dog park, or find one of my hairs somewhere that makes absolutely no logistical sense, or hear a noise outside and automatically wait for me to bark at it, don’t be too sad.

Okay, you can be a little sad.

I was kind of a big deal.

But mostly, remember this:

For 13½ years, I got to be your Baloo.

I got my Girl and Wils.

I got Judson, Aubrey, Claire and John.

I got Leland, Loxley, Deklan, Faolan, Ferrah and Paili.

I got Kess, Tri, Harley, Royce, Clancy, Finn and Tigger.

I even got Kai and Buffy, although I would appreciate history recording that those were cats and therefore not entirely my decision.

I got Wisconsin and Florida and one last summer in Effingham.

I got babies dropping Cheerios.

I got Goldfish crackers.

I got squirrels.

Honestly, I did pretty well.

Of all the yards I could have guarded, all the squirrels I could have terrorized, all the toddlers I could have positioned myself underneath at snack time, and all the families I could have landed in—

I got you.

And you got me.

That’s a pretty wonderful deal.

So this is Baloo Van Bergen, signing off.

January 31, 2013 – August 28, 2026.

Handsome to the end.

Loved beyond measure.

And finally, after 13½ years of loyal service, officially off the leash.

—Baloo Van Bergen