Over the last year, as Nolie began slowing down, I often thought about what it would be like when the time came to let her go. As a pet owner, you know the inevitable will eventually arrive, but you’re never quite prepared. Of course, to say that Nolie was just a pet—or just a dog—is like saying the Empire State Building is just another skyscraper.
From the moment she ran up to me nearly 15 years ago, when she was six weeks old, until earlier this week, when she died in my arms, Nolie was by my side for essentially the entirety of that time. She was my adventure bud. My sidekick. My minnie me in a dog suit, as one friend described her. Together we hiked 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado, rafted down rivers in Montana, skied in New Mexico, hunted birds in North Dakota, and fished on the ocean in Florida. In NYC, I guarantee she was the only dog that went fly-fishing in the Rockaways before dawn, then strutted into a midtown office for the workday.
We traveled to 47 states together, flew on Delta dozens of times, and she appeared next to my byline in three national magazines. She also cuddled up to me every morning. She let her nieces and nephews crawl on her like a horse. And she let the cats smother her with their affections.
To me, Nolie was perfection, as all good dogs are. And like all good dogs, she left me a better human. She left me in a better place. She came into my life when I was a sad single dude and saw me through into a house full of love—and five other animals.
Over the years, so many people and dogs participated in her life that it’s nearly impossible to count, but I’m thankful to every one of you.
For me, I’ll miss the little rituals the most, like how she always wanted to finish the yogurt container or lick my face after a run. I’ll miss how every morning I’d rest my hand on the edge of the bed and she’d come over for a pet. Even towards the end, when she struggled to get up, she’d still stumble over and nudge my hand. I’d rub her eyes and lean over to kiss her head. She’d lick my face, and I’d get up to start the day. There was nothing better.
RIP, my sweet Magnolia. I’ll never be the same without you, and I can’t thank you enough for that.
As many of you know, my wife, @coachkeren , is an amazingly talented executive coach. She works harder than anyone I’ve met, and I’m perpetually impressed by the positive impact she has on her clients’ lives. The people she coaches include some of the most impressive, hardheaded executives and business leaders in the world, and she has no fear of calling them out on their BS, so they can cut through their excuses and hangups to find true, sustained success.
Well, she wrote a book about her experiences and learnings as a coach, and it officially launches today! I couldn’t be prouder.
While her client base is mostly C-suite types, the book, called Gilded, is basically geared towards any overachiever who finds themselves in a cage of their own making. It’s far more common than you think. I’ve even seen the gilded-cage phenomenon in my own profession, where writers and editors tend to chase a sense of significance through stories/bylines. Of course, when a story doesn’t land the way you expect, or when the accolades don’t feel as good as they should, the high from publishing a great story disappears almost overnight. Significance, as I’ve learned through my wife’s book, is a poor substitute for fulfillment.
Having read the book and seen firsthand the work she does with her clients, I can honestly say that Gilded has the power to change lives. Of course, I’m completely and inveterately biased, so don’t take my word for it. Pick up a copy for yourself. I’d be grateful, as would Keren. And who knows, it just might help set you free.
breakfreewithgilded.com
Well, here’s to Morocco. And Paris. Somehow we managed to pull off the best honeymoon ever. Truly unforgettable. Thank you to everyone who helped make it happen. We’re so, so grateful. I love you to death, @eldashian , even if you thought that’s what was going to happen on the motorcycle/sidecar contraption. Can’t wait for Morocco Part Deux, in 2023. #morocco #paris #exhausted
What can I say. We’re elated and exhausted. And we’re truly grateful for all of the amazing friends who showed up for us and those who sent in wishes from afar. We’re eternally blessed. @eldashian I couldn’t love you more. This was the best weekend of my very, very lucky life.
#outsidemagazine just reviewed a souped-up sled, which used to be my old beat when I was a fledgling, and it reminded me of one of the funnest things I’ve ever written—and perhaps the greatest gear review of all time.
Sledding Grows Up—Almost
When selecting a craft, sledding purists such as myself are guided by a time-honored principle: less control equals more fun. Thus our predilection for saucers, toboggans, and other wood and plastic artifacts from mountain sports’ pre-helmet era.
Today’s contraptions have too many moving parts, high-tech materials, and cumbersome safety features. I recently encountered a sled that was designed to be ridden on one’s knees in order to facilitate halfpipe-style tricks. No, thanks.
But I am willing to make one sop to modernity, in the form of Hammerhead’s Pro XLD—an elegant, high-performance machine capable of frighteningly fast descents. Polycarbonate skis make pinpoint turns easy, and a four-foot-long aluminum frame with tensioned webbing allow proper position for a steerable sled: belly down, headfirst, with a POV like Mario Kart. Included in the instructions is the cautionary “Not a toy.”
Maybe, but the XLD is built for fun. I like to hike up my local ski hill at dawn, before the chairlifts open, then bomb down the freshly groomed runs at 40 miles per hour, carving wide arcs and, if I must, braking by dragging the toes of my boots in the snow. Skidding to a stop in front of the lift line, I usually get blank stares and the occasional “Sickbird!”
Recently, a helicopter mom who’d been busy triple-checking her eight-year-old’s mitten leashes raised her head long enough to shoot me a disapproving glare. The kid stared at me like I was Batman. “Don’t worry,” I said as I stood up. “You’ll be old enough soon.” ($349)
This is Lyla. She was picked up by animal control earlier this year outside San Antonio, where she was surviving on her own by begging for handouts and raiding chicken coops. Animal control brought her to a shelter in the city and she was scheduled to be put down, because no one thought she’d acclimate to living in a house. Luckily, a volunteer at an animal rescue took her in. Admittedly, Lyla wasn’t the best dog. Two families had to give her back because she’d get so scared that she’d hide in a corner and pee herself. I came across her at Tomlinson’s Feed Store in Austin, where she had crammed herself against the back of the cage. She was there for weeks, and I finally got her full story. She needed a home with no kids, plenty of other animals (because she responds to creatures better than people), and a male who did all of walking and feeding. Because that description fit—and I’m engaged to a slightly crazy, animal-obsessed bleeding heart like me—Keren and I took her in. It was the 2020 thing to do. Sure, she’s peed a few times in the house and it took me weeks to get Lyla to eat with me in the same room. But this morning, only two months since we got her, she crawled up on the bed and tucked her head under my pillow, whining in my ear because she wanted to go outside and play. In the park, when I whistle, she comes screaming back to me like some deranged banshee. It cracks me up every time. In a year that everyone is glad to be rid of—a year that I lost my job, had my wedding postponed, said goodbye to my Grandma via video, and moved to a city I’d never been to before—I’m astounded to think of all the amazing things that have happened, too. I started my own business. Moved to a new city we love. Helped vote a grifter out of the White House. And yeah, we got a terrible mutt who’s shaping up to be a pretty good dog. #perspective #crazyanimalpeople
Happy birthday to the goofiest, smartest, most incomparable woman I’ve ever met, @eldashian . (And only person who can get me to make a vegan birthday cake and put cowboy hats on a cat.) #missingnewyork #lovingournewhome #austintexas
Few cities are beacons for bald ambition quite like New York. Moving here is an act of indulging in suppressed dreams and smoldering desires. It can offer a life far richer than you can imagine, as long as you’re willing to withstand the realities of living it.
Or at least this is what I assumed when I moved here six years ago. In that time, I have yet to call myself a New Yorker. That distinction was reserved for those who had been here longer, could rattle off neighborhoods better, had lived through 9/11. Being a New Yorker was, in other words, for those who had made peace with living in the city.
Before the lockdown, I still fled to upstate on the weekends. Now, while most New Yorkers with the means have long since abandoned the city, I find myself hunkered down for the long haul with the fam. And while life has shifted to the virtual world, I’m increasingly drawn to the empty city streets. The other evening while out for a stroll, I chatted about the resident striper population under the Manhattan Bridge with a fellow fisherman. Last night I drove to Hunter’s Point to walk Nolie, then swung by Bellevue Hospital afterwards. I didn’t even get out of the car. I just watched the ambulances, lined up outside, occasionally howl off while a TV crew set up a live shot nearby. On a side street, police vehicles guarded a makeshift morgue.
As the weeks stretch on, I increasingly miss the things I never thought I would — people watching at Bethesda Fountain, the ritual wait for a seat at Café Gitane, the cocktail at Henry Public that always takes slightly too long. I’ve lived here long enough to know that New York will bounce back — it always does. In the meantime, I miss the city. Not the crowds, exactly, but the buzz of collective ambition. I crave the energy that comes from being surrounded by people daring enough to chase their dreams, but also willing to share in all the uncertainty, heartache, and infectious resolve that comes from doing so. When so many of its residents are literally struggling to breathe, I long for the city that has always been filled with aspirations.
This is all to say, I miss being a New Yorker. #iloveny
As if you needed to tell a trout fisherman to be antisocial. Looking forward to the days when this is just normal behavior again. #nytroutopener #trouttownusa #emptyspaces
