Caspi

She was such a gift.

She was such a gift.

She was such a gift to feel and experience and know. A being so wonderful and honest and tender. You grieve because you miss the form her love was in. The immediate and warm and furry and sniffing and attentive and must-lick-the-salt-of-the-sweat-on-your-skin-after-a-run corporeal form of her love. With her perfectly triangular and spiked antenna-like ears; her wet black nose and her clear brown eyes; her midnight border-collie-black and new-sneaker-white feet and crescent-moon-tipped scorpion tail. It was never in one form, though. It is a gift to recognize how this kind of love changes. It changes but it does not disappear. It transforms into something else. But it is still love. And in grief it grows. And if you handle the grief constructively, it does not metastasize into more sadness; it blossoms into more love.

That grief did not start today, though. Two years after the death of your brother George, while you were immersed in grief, knowing full well it is the price of love, a cost you pay some unknown time later, you stood before the register at the Brooklyn animal rescue at which you found her so randomly, so fortunately, and placed your credit card on the table.

You said, “I am not leaving without her. I do not need to sleep on it. I am not leaving without this dog. You can close up shop and come back tomorrow, and I will still be here. Because I am not leaving without her.”

And they smiled a knowing smile, understanding she was right for you and you for her and all the love you would have and what would come from it. How generous they were to sell you love at a sort of discount, for you to pay the full price through grief on a later day, for a journey that was itself always the reward irrespective of the destination. What depth of feeling this heretofore four-legged stranger-to-you would bring in time, knowing full well you would love her, your first dog, regardless.

Yes, that grief, that anticipatory grief, started the day you adopted her. It had to. A seven-year-old dog on a Saturday in April 2016. A senior dog with a sparse health record, the result of having been homeless on the streets of a capital city of a foreign nation you hardly knew. Baku. Azerbaijan. Where she learned to love humans who would feed her and avoid those who would harm her. Where she birthed a beautiful litter of puppies in captivity just prior to boarding a plane to New York. To Brooklyn. To America. To the Bakuli family.

In her physical form, so regal, so stately, so tender. Whatever illnesses or sicknesses she had would lie in wait. But she would not present many. She would live well beyond her 16th birthday, her age a surprise to almost everyone who met her; a deep well of energy and loving attention filling every interaction right to the brim and no further.

Almost ten years by your side through a pandemic, through work from home, through numerous spring park visits and summer road trips and winter beach days. The smells and sounds and tastes of the city and the country and the seaside. Baku. Brooklyn. Manhattan. Amherst. An Azerbaijani street dog in America with family from Kenya, Cambodia, and Norway.

Last night, on Saturday, December 13, 2025, Caspi died in my arms at home in New York. She drew her final breath following a two-week battle with a liver cancer diagnosed after 11 hours in the emergency room on Thanksgiving Day. To her last moments she was so wonderful, so affectionate, and so tender. I could write 50,000 words about her, my friend and canine companion and colleague and family member for almost a decade, basically my whole thirties; about the life we had and lessons we learned. About the love she catalyzed wherever she went and even in places she never visited. But for now, I will write just five: She was such a gift.

The Ice Palace

“Is it fine out of doors?” asked her mother.
“Fine? It’s windy and raining.”
“It can be fine all the same, can’t it?”
— The Ice Palace (1963) by Tarjei Vesaas, p. 116

“For, well, you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool / By making his world a little colder”
— “Hey Jude” by The Beatles (1968)

With hindsight, it’s not surprising the title of this book appealed to me from a shelf in the Oslo airport bookstore. I had just left New York in July 2025 during a historic heatwave, only to land in Norway and find it dealing with its own historic heatwave. An ice palace sounded like what I needed.

First published in 1963, The Ice Palace is set in a small Norwegian village and follows one winter in the lives of its schoolchildren and townsfolk. Our main characters are two girls: Unn, new in town, lonely, and grieving a family loss, and the lively Siss, a popular leader among the children. I would venture that a third character is the Norwegian winter itself, described so beautifully in these pages. Of special interest to the village is what the schoolchildren call the Ice Palace, a frozen waterfall in a nearby fjord that exerts an almost-mystical pull on the community.

In the book’s first act, Unn and Siss strike up what the back-cover copy calls “an intense friendship.” At face value that seems straightforward, yet it gains fresh resonance when you recall that homosexuality was still criminalized in Norway in 1963. After a tender scene in which one girl confesses, “I’m not sure that I’ll go to heaven,” the latent LGBT theme becomes unmistakable. A lesser writer might have made it mawkish, weird, or predatory, but Tarjei Vesaas (1897–1970), who was 66 years old when the novel was published and who, by the time he passed, had been nominated for the Nobel Prize more than thirty times, handles it with delicacy and moral seriousness while keeping the novel’s broader, universal questions in view.

After an awkward end to a play date between Unn and Siss, Unn wanders into the titular Ice Palace and disappears. The remainder of the novel chronicles how Siss confronts that loss and how the community’s shared grief slowly crystallizes the book’s central insight.

Do not despair. Life will place you in situations you do not choose. But do not despair. Do not visit the ice palace. Do not be lulled by its somber song; nothing can be made good of it. It seeks only to destroy. Do not despair.

Thinking Helps

In the spring of 2008, a colleague told me about a friend they had at Lehman Brothers. This friend was happy that the share price of the firm was falling because it meant they could buy more shares "at a discount." They hoped it would fall more. Within a few months, they would obviously regret their earlier glee and purchases. The lesson I learned: You can only make money off fear of a sinking ship if the ship stays afloat.

This story reminds me of how some market participants today hold a blind faith in quick rebounds for America’s long-term equity market growth. But the plunge in the U.S. stock market this week did not happen out of thin air. It happened because the approach to tariffs introduced by the administration is bad for U.S. and global economic growth. Markets appropriately adjusted to reflect this. The key question is: How long will these new tariffs stick around? 

For those buying broad market indices, falling prices are only an attractive buying opportunity if the government eventually does the right thing. That’s what happened in the financial crisis of 2008 and the Covid sell-off in 2020. Equity markets continued their upward march because relative to each period's challenges, POTUS (including Treasury), Congress, and the Federal Reserve eventually did the right thing. If Trump, who has wanted tariffs for decades, has his way, though, and (a) the new tariffs stick around, (b) Congressional Republicans continue to defer to him, and (c) he replaces Jerome Powell in 2026 with someone who does his bidding, then this probably isn’t a great buying opportunity.

To be clear, I’m not making a prediction here; I'm putting out into the universe how to be thoughtful about moments like this instead of reflexive. I want to plainly state that the clearheaded thing is to think falling equity prices are attractive only if you also fundamentally believe what sparked those was an error that will be corrected. But you can’t both view equity prices as more attractive now and believe that Trump is correct about tariffs. For that to happen you’d also have to believe S&P 500 constituents like Apple and Nike will manufacture phones and shoes in America while maintaining their long-term earning power and that we will figure out how to grow bananas and coffee at scale in the U.S., none of which is likely.

Either you expect tariffs to be rescinded and markets to rally eventually, or you believe in the tariffs but accept the negative implications for earnings around the world. If you’re "buying the dip,” you ought to be supporting policymakers trying to correct this policy error.

March 15, 2025

When Mike was on his deathbed in 2010 in Wisconsin, I wrote him a letter from my office in New York. Perhaps it was naive of me to think I could use words to bargain with biology. I have a copy of that letter. This is what it says:

Dear Coleridge,

As you very well know, Fitzgerald once wrote:

If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.

I have always associated those words with you, Mike.  Through gestures grand and subtle you have consistently shown yourself to be the toughest, most thoughtful, most loyal and hardest-working friend I have.  And one of the most fun and considerate people I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  You are going to fight through this, rest up, and be better than before.  And when you are ready, we’re going on more adventures.

Even though I am not in Madison with you, I am there with you every step of the way as you heal and get better. An hour doesn’t pass without me thinking of you and the fun we’ve had and the fun we will have.  You are loved and supported by friends and family literally all around the world.  And every day I hope you are aware of it, because we are all aware of it.

So take your time, big guy, and rest up--because we’re going on more adventures.

Your friend,

Wordsworth

I’m grateful I still have that letter, even though it's a hard read. But there’s another letter I wish I had. I wish I could show it to you. 

When I was a senior in high school, thinking of what colleges to apply to, I asked one of my favorite teachers to write a recommendation for me. Her name was Cheryl Johnston. After a lackluster sophomore year, during which my grades had slipped, I’d deliberately taken her class, AP European History, with the intention of receiving top marks. In her mid-50s at that time, gray-haired, bespectacled, and often clad in a turtleneck, she had the hardest class in the entire school. And it was terrific. Intellectually challenging but also deeply rewarding. I received an A+ grade. And I had the joy of doing it beside Mike, sitting next to each other, partnering on projects, and studying for exams together. Though we went to the same elementary school, we grew much closer that junior year in high school. We were both literary-minded and shared similar tastes in cinema, sports, and music. I nicknamed him “Coleridge,” and he called me “Wordsworth,” after the 18th and 19th century British Romantic-era poets we both admired.

I only ended up applying to one school senior year, Williams College. I didn’t know what Ms. Johnston wrote in my recommendation because she submitted it sealed without my reading it. Four years later, when I was about to graduate from Williams in 2007, I swung by the Dean’s Office, which I heard let students review their full admissions applications, including letters of recommendation. I opened the letter to learn that Ms. Johnston had written her recommendation for me about my relationship with Mike junior year in high school. It was incredibly sweet and kind and unexpected. She wrote about how I’d helped him come out of his shell and his shyness, something Mike himself wrote to me in an essay. He talked about how, because of his weight, he had internalized negative, superficial views other people had of him and shut himself off from them. I’ve always thought that identity is not behavior, and didn't judge him positively or negatively because of what he looked like or how he or other people identified him, but because of how he behaved. I encouraged him to not pity himself but develop his personality and behave in a way where they couldn’t help but look past their biases. He took to this, and blossomed that senior year and beyond.

With hindsight, I really appreciated Ms. Johnston’s letter of recommendation. After Mike passed away in 2010, I appreciated it more. And after Ms. Johnston passed away in 2021, even more so. Mike would have turned 40 years old today, so I wanted to read the letter and share it, a testament to a time in my life when someone observed our friendship and documented it unbeknownst to either of us. I was sure I’d made a copy of the letter that day in 2007 in the Williams Dean’s Office. But after all these years, I couldn't find it. I’ve searched for it on and off since then. This week alone, I spent maybe 12 hours combing through every paper in my files at home and in my storage to no avail. I called up the college, to see if they could share it with me, only to learn that seven years after a student graduates, they destroy all files related to that student’s time on campus outside of their transcript. Oof. Undaunted, I bought an external floppy disk reader off the Internet to see if perhaps I’d digitally kept it. (Yes, I was still using floppy disks in 2007.) This week, I even bought a Windows laptop PC to read those 20-something-year-old floppy disks. Still no luck.

I wish I could show it to you. But I also know that I’m grateful this week for the adventure I went on with Mike. In trying to find that one piece of paper, I had to sift through boxes and boxes and boxes filled with decades of files, cards, and notes I don’t often visit. It didn’t leave me longing for the past or filled with regret, as much as it made me excited for the present and the agency and life I have today. I wish Mike were still here to live it with us. But I also know that he is with us in the way that matters. And this week, we had another adventure. Happy birthday, big guy. We love you.