Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn is a place where history sleeps beneath marble angels and towering obelisks. Artists, musicians, Civil War generals, and politicians all rest there, their names etched into stone. But among the thousands of monuments, there is one that draws more visitors than many of the famous names combined.
Tucked beneath a tree, at the corner of Sycamore and Greenbough Avenues, lies Rex. Not a man, not a general, not a statesman. Rex is a dog.
For more than a century, Rex has kept watch in the form of a life-sized bronze statue, stretched out on a stone platform engraved with his name. Time has dulled his shine, and yet he remains, his paws patiently crossed, his eyes forever alert—as if still guarding his master’s grave.
Rex is believed to have belonged to John E. Stow, one of New York City’s longest-practicing fruit merchants, who died in 1884. In the late 19th century, when mourning customs often included elaborate monuments, someone who loved Rex—or perhaps Stow himself, before his passing—commissioned a bronze likeness of the faithful dog to stand sentinel over the plot.
And there Rex has remained, generation after generation, as New York City grew up around him.
But what makes Rex’s resting place extraordinary is not only the statue—it’s the devotion of strangers.
Visitors to Green-Wood began a quiet tradition: leaving sticks at Rex’s paws. Perhaps it began with one passerby, touched by the sight of a bronze dog lying faithfully on stone, deciding to place a fallen branch as an offering. Over time, others followed.
Now, more than a hundred years later, Rex’s paws are rarely bare. Piled atop them are sticks, twigs, and branches—gifts from strangers who see not just a sculpture, but a good boy waiting patiently.
Stacy Locke, Green-Wood’s communications manager, has seen it firsthand. “People see him from the road—it’s sort of a prominent spot,” she explained. “It’s right under a tree and there are lots of sticks around. People will drop a stick across his little paws. Someone also left a picture of a dog there once, maybe their little pet who passed away, as to say, ‘Rex, look after my little one.’”
The thought is both haunting and beautiful: people trusting a century-old statue of a dog to watch over the spirits of their beloved pets.
Green-Wood has long been a sanctuary for both the living and the dead. During the pandemic, when New Yorkers sought open spaces, the cemetery became a place of solace, a vast 478-acre expanse where history, art, and nature meet. And as the number of visitors grew, so did the sticks piled at Rex’s feet.
He isn’t alone in being remembered. Before 1879, when the cemetery’s trustees prohibited animal burials, many pets were interred alongside their owners. A few monuments to animals remain, including another dog statue hidden deeper in the grounds, where visitors sometimes leave toys.
But Rex stands out—not only because of his location, but because of the mystery.
Green-Wood’s files contain a brief 19th-century note about the placement of a “bronze likeness of a dog,” but there is no record confirming whether Rex himself rests beneath the soil. Is the statue merely symbolic, or is the faithful pet truly buried at his master’s side?
No one knows for certain. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
As Locke put it: “I think people like to believe that there is a dog interred there and there very well might be. But it’s hard to say.”
