Hulky Love

Hulky Bear

The Best Dog I Ever Knew

Hulky Bear came into my life when he was six weeks old.

He was flown in from Hungary to Tampa—tiny in body, already immense in presence. From the moment I met him, it was clear he was not an ordinary dog. Hulky did not rush the world. He did not demand attention. He did not perform. He simply existed, fully and patiently, and the world came to him.

He had gold eyes—true gold—and a deep red coat that was thick, rich, and softer than anything you could imagine. People noticed him instantly, but what held them wasn’t just his beauty. It was the calm. Hulky had a stillness about him, a kind of quiet gravity that made people slow down without knowing why.

Hulky Bear was patient in a way that can’t be trained. He waited. He watched. He understood. He had the kindest soul of any being I have ever known—human or animal. He was naturally sweet. He never growled at a human being in his entire life. Not once.

And yet, he was never weak.

If I asked him to growl or bark—if I made a small whistle—he would do it instantly. Not out of anger. Not out of fear. Out of loyalty. Hulky was always listening. Always ready. Always with me.

Because he was quiet and large, some people found him intimidating at first. So I taught him something gentle. When people came close, I would say, “Roll over for them, Hulky Bear.” And he would roll onto his back every time, exposing his belly, offering trust before it was ever asked for.

There are hundreds—maybe thousands—of photographs of Hulky on his back, letting strangers pet his belly. He trusted the world completely. That was who he was.

A life shared, not separated

Hulky Bear was never left behind.

When my life fell apart—during my divorce, and later when my heart was broken by the only woman I’ve ever truly loved—Hulky was there every second. We didn’t hide. We didn’t stay on the boat we lived on. He went to work with me every day.

Every service call.
Every install.
Every job.

Most of my customers knew Hulky. Many of my friends—people who knew me for seven or eight years—never saw me without him. We were inseparable, not by habit, but by choice.

After work, we didn’t go home and disappear. We would return to the boat, change, and immediately leave again. Daytona. Orlando. The night scene. Every night of his life, Hulky lived fully. We stayed out until two or three in the morning, then went home, slept, and did it all again the next day.

I never hid him from the world.

I took Hulky to the finest restaurants. People hand-fed him filet mignon. He was a regular at Hyde Park in Daytona Beach. His favorite meal was the tomahawk steak—and he had it often. I spent four to five thousand dollars a month on his dinners, not because I had to, but because I wanted him to experience life the way I did: openly, richly, without apology.

For 280 days in a row, Hulky and I went to Molly Brown’s together.

Two hundred and eighty days.
Not one missed.

I was trying to win the heart of the only woman I’ve ever loved. It didn’t work. And when it didn’t, Hulky was there. He never left. Not once.

Illness, love, and the cost of time

In mid-2023, Hulky Bear developed a bone tumor on his head.

I tried everything. I couldn’t come up with the money to save him until January of 2024—and by then, it was too late. I spent $20,000 on radiation treatments. What it bought me was 32 days.

They were the best 32 days of my life.

I cherished every second. I woke up in the middle of the night and crawled over to him, crying, holding him, because I knew he was going to leave and I didn’t want him to go. I knew the clock was running. I felt it every moment.

On February 26, 2024, Hulky Bear told me it was time.

I took him to BluePearl in Maitland. I said my goodbyes. I held him in my arms as he took his last breath. I was there when he left this world, the same way he had been there for me through everything else.

Where Hulky Bear is now

Hulky Bear is cremated now.

He sits in his urn on my yacht, with his chain, his footprint pressed into clay, and his service card. I look at it every day. It’s the only thing I look at. I miss him with all my heart.

I cry all the time.

And if I’m completely honest—more honest than I’ve ever been—I don’t want money. I don’t want love. I don’t want success.

I just want one more day with my little Hulky Bear.

One more day would make me happy.
Unfortunately, that’s the one thing I can’t have.

Why this page exists

This page exists because Hulky Bear mattered.

He was real. He lived fully. He loved without conditions. He carried someone through the worst years of their life and never once turned away. This page exists so Hulky Bear can be visited—not as a memory that fades, but as a presence that remains.

If you never met him, know this:
You would have loved him.