Special Agent Dale Bartholomew Cooper

Some dogs are companions.

Some dogs are guardians.

But there are also those like Cooper: Born to be a Legend.

Born tenth in a line of eleven (nearly all sisters) Cooper stood out from the start. At just nine weeks old, he locked eyes with his future and seemed to already understand what his role would be. Curious, attentive, and unmistakably loyal, he picked his person that day at Kenlyn Kennels in Edgerton, WI, and never let go.

Known by many names—Cooper, Coopzilla, Coopdaville, and Coco—he was always more than a dog: he was a confidant through heartbreak, a grounding presence during life’s storms, and a joyful sentinel during its celebrations. He stood beside his person through divorce, the passing of a father, the building of a new home, a new marriage, and the birth of a child. For a time, Cooper was the only constant in a life spinning with change. And in that role, he was steadfast.

A fiercely intelligent boy, Cooper quickly figured out how to spell his favorite words. “W-A-L-K” wasn’t a secret for long—he could be across the house and would materialize at your side as soon as the first syllables were uttered. 

He loved the outdoors—especially the hockey rink across from Lewis and Clark Elementary. There, in the summer, he’d run full-speed after a dummy as if the world were made of nothing but fetch and focus. In winter, he’d bound up snowbanks like a soldier on a mission—until he cleverly realized he could just go around them.

One of Cooper’s most sacred moments came unexpectedly. Visiting the cemetery where his person’s father rests, Cooper was asked to lay down. Without hesitation, he did—and then he closed his eyes and hugged the earth. A gesture of reverence. A kind of prayer. A dog, saying I understand.

When Nicole, Mason, Marleigh, Mckenna, Myah, and Harper came into the picture, Cooper’s circle grew. He didn’t welcome everyone at once—but he never closed the door. One by one, the children earned his trust, and in return, he gave them his protection. There were love nips for Mason, Mckenna, and Myah—the kinds of warnings a dog like Cooper gave to say I see you, but mind your manners. But then there was Marleigh, the one he treated like kin from the start. He would sprawl across her like a 90-pound blanket, belly exposed, soft-eyed and content. With Harper, the youngest, he knew immediately to be gentle. In every picture of her as a baby, there he is—somewhere in the frame, watchful, loyal, always nearby. The family became whole, and Cooper, their noble guardian.

Cooper had the kind of quirks that make a house feel like home. He could hear an apple being sliced from three rooms away. He knew the sound of the fridge opening like it was his own personal dinner bell. His bark could stop a stranger in their tracks, and his mighty flatulence could clear a room faster than a smoke alarm. He had expressions that spoke louder than words—sometimes skeptical, sometimes soulful, sometimes downright comical.

But what stays with us the most is how deeply he loved us, in his own particular way. He was always watching. Always guarding. He didn’t need to be everyone’s best friend—he just needed to know his circle was safe. And once we were in, we were in for life.

Even now, we like to think of him somewhere wide open and endless, nose in the wind, chasing dummies over imaginary snowbanks, barking his powerful and booming bark. We will never replace him, nor could we if we even wanted to do so.  There are dogs that are "one of a kind..." and then there is Cooper.

Loyal. Protective. Sweet.

He was all of those things—but also so much more.

A silent witness to grief.

A co-conspirator in play.

A constant in chaos.

And now, a legend in rest.

Thank you for letting us in. Thank you for protecting us. Thank you for loving us in the way only you could.

Rest well, Cooper. You were, and always will be, one of a kind.

We love you, handsome boy.

Zack, Nicole, Mason, Marleigh, Mckenna, Myah, and Harper