Does You Dog Love the Water? Tips For Safer Summer Swims (My latest article in Bay Woof)

The dog days of summer are fast approaching. During this warmest time of the year, most people and dogs enjoy cooling off by a pond, lake, river, or ocean. Some may even have a pool in the backyard.

I used to think all dogs naturally liked to swim, but through the years I’ve  learned this isn’t always the case. My brother’s dog Loki only goes into the water up to his belly. He splashes around and then runs back onto shore.

But I’ve been lucky to have had four Golden Retrievers who all loved to swim, and I’ve always enjoyed letting them play in the water. To me, that’s what summer is all about.

When Willy first came into my life, I was living along the Russian River. Willy and I couldn’t wait for the hot weather and our daily swim and ball-fetching games. All summer long and into the fall, I’d toss his ball across the river to the other side and together we’d race after it like an Olympic event. Sometimes I could even hear him squeal in delight, paddling so fast I thought he might just fly out of the water.

But my favorite thing was holding Willy while we were both in the river. He’d sit on my knee and we’d take in the scenery as the water flowed around us. I’d wrap my arms around him and kiss his wet forehead. When he’d finally had enough of this smooching, he’d squirm out of my grasp and head to shore. Back on land he’d slam his body onto the dirt and roll until he was covered in mud. I didn’t mind. It   comes with the territory when you have a Golden.

Be Aware: Swimming Risks for Dogs

While summer splashing can be fun, it’s important to remember that taking your furry BFF out for a swim always has its risks. Never let your best friend swim unsupervised and always know the condition of the body of water.

Once Willy and I were walking on a wooded path near the Russian River in the wintertime. It was the rainy season and the river was high and flowing strongly. I had no intention of letting Willy into it. But as we meandered along, the bank curved and there was an unexpected trail leading right down to the water. Willy, off leash, bolted. He leaped into the water and began to be carried downstream. I ran along the edge coaxing him toward shore. Little by little, he got closer until he was against the bank of the river and I helped him out. I learned my lesson that day that even well-trained dogs can suddenly do unexpected things.

There have been some heartbreaking stories in the news lately about humans attempting to rescue their dogs from turbulent ocean waves only to be swept away and drowned. Shortly after Thanksgiving last year, a family and their dog were walking on a beach in Eureka when a wave suddenly swept their dog out to sea. Their 16-year-old son went into the breaking surf to attempt to rescue the dog, and when he got in trouble both parents rushed into the water to save him. The dog made it safely back to shore unharmed. The mother, father, and son did not.

A month later, a Bay Area man died attempting to save his dog from the surf at Point Reyes National Seashore. Two weeks after that, a 32-year-old woman was walking her dog along the coast at Shelter Cove when a sneaker wave carried her out to sea. In northern California alone, at least seven people have died since 2008 while attempting to rescue their dogs from the ocean. In all but one case, the dogs made it safely back to shore without any human intervention.

According to army veterinarian Captain Lynn Miller, “The simple truth is that dogs are better swimmers than their two-legged masters. Compared to their human counterparts, many dog breeds have a compact center of mass in relation to their limbs and an elevated head and neck, which makes them good swimmers in calm water…If your dog is swept away, simply give him or her an opportunity to swim back to shore. Dogs are far better equipped to ‘go with the flow’ and get themselves to shore than are humans.”

Tips for Safe Swimming

If you do take your four-legged buddy to the beach this summer, keep these safety tips in mind.

  • Vigilance and prevention should be foremost. Know where your dog is at all times.

  • Always make sure you and your dog have plenty of fresh drinking water. Too much salt water is not good for a dog’s intestines and stomach.

  • Use a dog life vest. To quote Captain Miller, “As a sensible safety precaution, any dog that enters open water (whether at a beach or riding on a boat) should be fitted with a life vest, regardless of their size.”  Note: A life vest is also helpful for senior dogs. When my third Golden, Morgan, became older and grew wobbly with arthritis, we bought him a life vest to help him swim and keep his head above water. Swimming is a great non-impact exercise and helps keep the muscles strong and firm while keeping weight off a dog’s legs.

  • If needed, use a sunscreen approved for use on dogs. The American Kennel Club now recommends sun protection for some breeds. Is yours one?  Learn more here.

The heat won’t be with us forever so get out there now and have a nice safe splash with your best friend. Enjoy these dog days of summer while they last.  We’ll see you in the water!

Happy Birthday Franklin

In honor of Franklin’s 9th birthday, and the start of summer,  I’ve decided to post another chapter from his “work in progress”, Everyone Loves Franklin. This is the story of his first swim at a beach on Cape Cod not long after he joined our family.

 

 

Franklin’s First Swim at the Beach

Now I know I’ve talked about my two years of education at service dog school and all the training it provided me to help humans in need. And how smart I claimed to be until Loki uncovered that I never learned to play with other dogs. In fact, I was isolated from other dogs growing up and taught to keep my focus on humans only.

And even more challenging, I never ever heard the command “Relax Franklin”. Just the opposite, as a working animal you are on duty 24/7. At the slightest noise, I need to jump up to check if my assignment is alright and not in need of assistance. Which means that sometimes I would get no shut eye at all.

Now that I have been assigned to Dan, my duties have been lighter. He needs me to be his hearing dog. Which means letting him know if there is someone at the front door, or if the phone is ringing, or if the smoke alarm is wailing. Basically, be his ears when he can’t hear.

You see if he takes out his hearing aids, he is completely deaf, which he does when he goes to bed at night or during the day to let his ears dry out. His hearing aids cause moisture to build up which can cause infections to occur. It’s a constant balancing act. Especially now that he lives on Cape Cod with all the humidity.

I say all this to let you know my responsibilities and the pressure on me has lightened up which gives me more time to relax. And to play. Again, the problem is I never learned to relax or how to play even with humans.

So, the real challenge began one spring morning when I was trying to relax in the backyard doing deep panting exercises that I saw on a TV show about Yoga. I concentrated on each breath in, then out. Everything seemed to be going well. Bird songs filled the air, when suddenly my garden nirvana was interrupted by noises in the kitchen of cooking utensils banging around.

Enough with the relaxation, I had to see what was up. I found my dads scurrying around the house gathering up bottles of water, beach towels, suntan lotion and naturally, food for all of us. I wondered what all the activity was about. I watched as they mixed lots of ingredients in a medium sized glass bowl. I observed as they lightly toasted a Portuguese roll, slathered a layer of mayonnaise on one side and spooned the mix in the bowl onto it. Don’t you like that word – slather. I have a large vocabulary. I know over one hundred words. Not sure where I learned the word slather but it’s much more descriptive than saying “put a layer.” Lastly, my dad stabbed the roll with a toothpick. Couldn’t tell what they were making but it smelled good. My nose is a very sensitive organ. I can scent food in the kitchen from anywhere in the house or from anywhere on the property for that matter.

“Do you think it’s warm enough?” I heard James ask.

“I think it’s alright for a brief swim. My other dogs swam in Lake Tahoe for God’s sake. In the winter. They loved it. Besides the bay is probably warmer than the ocean.”

“I sure hope he likes the water,” James worried.

They were talking about Buttermilk Bay, a mere block and a half away.

“That would be awful if he didn’t,” Dan exclaimed.

For those unfamiliar with Cape Cod, let me give you some information that only the locals know. Spring on the Cape can be blustery because the waters of the Atlantic haven’t warmed up yet. But by May, the wind paused. The skies cleared and the temperature rose. To celebrate my first swim my dads bought me a bag full of tennis balls just for this occasion and handed me one. I couldn’t believe it. It was my first very own ball. I will never put it down except to eat of course.

That’s when Dan ordered, “Let’s go.”

James pocketed a second one and carried it for me. They have a lot of experience with
tennis balls and know you must have a second one in case mine disappears somehow.

We had previously walked along the shoreline several times before, but they never encouraged me to go in the water by tossing a stick or a ball. When we arrived at the beach, Dan directed me to, “Drop the ball, Franklin!” This was a command I had never heard before. I stood blank eyed. He repeated his order. With no response he tried to pull the ball out of my mouth. I was not giving up my precious gift. No way. Frustrated, he took the second ball from James and lobbed it out into the bay. What was I supposed to do now? This was a conundrum. I was torn between fetching the ball in the water or keeping my present clenched in my mouth. I felt tricked. I was slightly reluctant to retrieve it. For good reason, if you have ever seen the movie “Jaws.” You may also know that it was filmed just across the bay on Martha’s Vineyard. But being a retriever, I had no choice but to retrieve the ball. It is in my DNA, no schooling necessary. I dug a hole in the sand with my paw and carefully placed my new present in it for safekeeping. Then took a couple of cautious steps into the shallows. No fins in sight. The cold and wet felt good on my pads. I admired the beautiful view of the bay should it be my last and then bravely set out. I swam fairly smoothly and at a brisk pace. I could hear my dads shouting, “Good boy, Franklin. You’re doing great.” Dan didn’t throw the ball out very far, which I appreciated. He must have thought it was all still new to me and not sure if I had the ball fetching down yet. Which is silly. Had he forgotten that I’m a retriever? It’s in my blood.

It did take me a few tries to grasp the ball out of the water before I got a good grip. At first, I kept missing it with my jaws. It was clear to me that with some practice I’d get better at it. I quickly turned around and headed to shore. Back on land, they applauded my accomplishment. “I guess he likes the water.” James announced.

But after a few shakes of my body to get rid of the excess water they discovered quickly I don’t give the ball up easily. Even on command. “Franklin, drop the ball,” Dan ordered. I didn’t drop it. Dad tried to twist the ball out of my mouth. But I clenched my jaw even tighter. Apparently, my predecessor Morgan would eventually drop the ball. We spent about ten minutes by the water’s edge with them trying to get it out of my mouth.

I could see that my dads were clearly exasperated. I could understand, as Goldens are known for having weak jaws so we don’t tear the birds that we were bred to recover way back in “Merry Ol’ Scotland,” with Lord Tweedmouth. My jowl is so firm I have a strong grip on everything. It’s nearly impossible to pull anything from my grasp. The more someone tried, the tighter I clenched.

Dan exclaimed, “This is not fun. He’s not a well-behaved service dog. He may have been at one time. But we definitely need to teach him to drop the ball.”

I heard what dad had said and stopped to stare at him, slightly offended, and grumbled in my native tongue, “I resemble that.”

Dad heard that he had hurt my feelings and said, “I’m sorry Franklin. But it’s true.”

“Let’s have lunch,” James suggested. Together they spread the beach towels. I sat as close as I could and watched as they emptied the knapsack of drinks and the small plastic containers with potato chips, the sandwiches and a bowl for my food consisting of cucumbers, apples and half a cup of my kibble. As my dads ate their sandwiches, I had no choice but to drop my ball in order to gobble down my lunch. When I finished, they took out another container of egg salad mixture just for me and placed it on a low-lying rock. The smell was exquisite, and the taste was better than anything I had ever eaten. I’m not kidding. Of course, I deserved this special treat having risked my life in shark infested waters to fetch a ball. I wished they had filmed this heroic act.

Now that I’m at the end of this chapter I want to share the recipe. Earlier, back home in the kitchen, I had watched intently as they made our sandwiches, which are so delicious that I wanted to disclose the ingredients with all my friends:

— 2 Portuguese rolls cross-sliced and slightly toasted. If this kind of roll is not available in your local market, any kind of roll will do. Even a hot dog roll.

— 4 large organic eggs – previously boiled the night before for 10 minutes.

We use Vegan Mayonnaise. Which is cholesterol-free. And the best part is “No Cruelty”, which means no cow was involved in the process of making this product. In our home, whenever we can, we’ve substituted a plant-based product for one that calls for animal protein. Mayonnaise is one. Some vegan cheeses are every bit as tasty as cow milk cheese, too. And we’ve made the switch there as well. Now back to the recipe:

— 2 stalks of organic celery sliced and cut into small bits

— 1 tablespoon of Capers. I recently read that you can wash them to get some of the salt off.

— ½ organic red onion sliced and diced.

— 2 spears of a dill pickle sliced and diced.

Mix all ingredients in a medium bowl.

Slather – here’s that word again, the rolls with some vegan mayonnaise. Using a spoon, cover one side of the roll with the mixture. We make it about an inch thick. My mouth waters just thinking about how good it tastes. If I’m drooling, as I’ve been known to do, can someone grab a napkin or hanky and wipe my jowl, please? Thank you.

Cover with lettuce and top with the other side of the roll.  We like to hold it together with a toothpick. Then wrap with Saran Wrap or aluminum foil so that it doesn’t fall apart while you travel. I know you’re going to have a delightful lunch someplace lovely, I hope. Bring your favorite drink. We like carbonated water from a place called Trader Joe’s.

I have to make a confession; it turns out I was not so brave going into the water today. I overheard them say at lunch that there have never been sharks in Buttermilk Bay for two reasons. First, because they can’t survive in freshwater and apparently our part of Buttermilk Bay is fed by a year-round stream named Red Brook. The second reason is that there are no seals for them to eat. Seals do not hunt for prey in Buttermilk Bay and do not haul out anywhere on its shore. So, no seals mean no sharks.

 

I guess I can finally relax now.

 

My Dog, My Ears: How a Hearing Dog Changed My Life – My article from “Bay Woof”

We’re all aware of the usual things that our canine companions do for us, like offering unconditional love with a side of goofiness. But a few special working dogs go above and beyond, providing specific help for some of life’s toughest challenges.

In my case, I’ve been fortunate to be served by four hearing-assistance Golden Retrievers over the past 35 years.  Many times people have stopped me to ask about my hearing dog. Why do I need a hearing dog? What does he do exactly? Well, let me tell you.

Back in the mid-90s I was hit with a series of ongoing sinus infections as a result of HIV. The infections spread to my ear canals and destroyed my eardrums. I was deaf. Gone was the familiar hum of the refrigerator or the sound of the birds in the garden. I could no longer talk on the phone to friends or hear the knock of someone at the door.

After I lost my hearing, it became dangerous to walk Nicholas, my first Golden, around the hill near our Russian River home for his exercise. I remember the day I was shaken when a car behind me suddenly sped by treacherously close to us. I had seen Nicholas turn his head, but I hadn’t given it any thought until it was nearly too late.

From that moment on, I learned to watch Nicholas for his every movement. He became my own private radar system. He monitored the area around me and let me know if anything was approaching. Now, when walking on the road, if he turned and looked in a certain direction, I knew something was there. I became even more in tune with him, noticing the slight shift of his ears, the squint of his eyes, and the speed of his walk.

After Nicholas passed, my second Golden, Willy, took over the job of hearing for me. Fortunately, I was able to have him officially tagged as a hearing assistance dog by Sonoma County Animal Control. With this license, he could accompany me into restaurants and even on planes.

Having Willy as my functional ears changed my life. Once he even saved my house from burning down. As a writer, I spend a lot of time at my computer and often lose track of time. But when Willy came into the bedroom where I was working and nudged my leg, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Sure enough, flames were shooting up from the stove in the kitchen where I’d absent-mindedly  left some eggs to fry. Grabbing the handle of the pan, I carried it through the back porch and out into the yard, then went back inside and put a big sign over the stove reminding me to never leave it while something was cooking. And, of course, I took a few minutes to thank my house-saving companion.

Not too long ago, I lost my most recent service animal, Morgan, after 14.5 years. Trained by Officer Dan LaMaster, Morgan was my best friend and touchstone. I’ll never forget that first night soon after I got him when he alerted me that someone or something was on the property late at night. I felt him move on the bed and witnessed his barking. I watched his ears perk up as well.  The next day my neighbor informed me that some cats had been fighting in her yard. While the feline fracas didn’t pose an immediate threat, it felt good to know that I was being protected again.

Though Morgan never had to save my house from fire, he did once alert me to smoke coming out of the microwave when a houseguest overcooked a sweet potato. But mostly it was his wide grin greeting me when I first opened my eyes in the morning that got me through the day.

It’s now been over three years since a giant six-year-old, English cream Golden named Franklin arrived at my front door with his handler, Lisa. Franklin had spent two years studying to be a helpful companion for a veteran with life challenging disabilities at Golden Paws Assistance Dogs based in Naples, Florida. But after four years of service, the veteran decided she no longer wanted the responsibility of an animal, and Franklin was retired. I knew Lisa and she arranged for Franklin to be flown to me to become my service animal for hearing.

Now that I’m older, I’ve become more wobbly on my feet so Franklin has learned an additional skill known as “bracing,” where he stands firmly on all fours and I lean on his back to steady myself when standing up. Of course, he still alerts me when anything is amiss in the hearing world. He’s a multitasker, for sure.

I’m grateful for the selfless service Franklin and all of my Goldens have provided to me over these many years, and I honestly believe I am still on this planet today because of them. So the next time you see a hearing dog, you’ll know what they do. They change lives – and sometimes even save them.

Everyone Loves Franklin

Hello dear reader. My name is Benjamin Franklin. Yes, that’s honestly my full name. I’m sure
you’ve all heard it before. And it’s true, I am named after our early forefather. But you can just call
me Franklin. I am an extremely handsome and incredibly intelligent cream-colored Golden
Retriever. This might sound decidedly immodest. But, besides my gorgeous good looks, I was top of
my class in service-dog school. Don’t chuckle. I have been studying to be a service dog since I was
eight weeks old and fully weaned from my stunningly beautiful mother

It was not easy to be accepted into this competitive program and even harder to pass the tests. I spent two years studying to be a helpful companion to a human with life challenging disabilities at Golden Paws Assistance Dogs based in Naples, Florida. We were called cadets and all learned basic commands such as – sit, stay, come.

But I was further trained to walk backwards in a straight line, believe me it’s not so simple when you have four legs. This comes in handy when I’m at the movie theater and need to walk rearward out of a row of seats when it is too hard to turn around. You might ask why I would be in a theater? Well, as a certified service animal I am allowed to go anywhere my human goes. Which is great because I love going to the movies. This is also especially useful when you are in tight quarters, and you can’t turn around like in a bathroom stall. I could calmly reverse my steps to exit, as I said, I can go anywhere my human goes.

During my training, I accomplished the skill known as “brace”. I stand firmly on all fours, and my human presses on my shoulders if they are on the ground and need help getting up. This is especially useful if someone is prone to falling. Also, I am a very intuitive pup. I can recognize when someone feels sad and go to them. Then I put my head in their lap or hop on the bed with them and stay there until their breathing slows.

When I was finished with my training, and ready for service, I was placed with a young woman, and helped her with PTSD induced nightmares. After four years, for reasons beyond my control, I have returned to Golden Paws where I received a warm welcome. My handlers, especially my favorite one, Lisa, spoiled me with treats and hugs. It was tough awaiting a new placement, and I so
hoped that it would be my forever home this time.

I knew I would find the right home, but I was still feeling sad. Golden retrievers are known to be highly emotional creatures. That’s especially true in my case. For example I have found myself crying like a puppy when I was watching my favorite movie, Legally Blonde 2 – Red White and Blonde when I learned that Bruiser’s mom was imprisoned in a cosmetic testing site.

While I waited for my next placement, I lived at the GPAWS training facility. Volunteer handlers
took turns walking and training me. I watched young cadets train in class. Occasionally, I even
offered advice to the young pups. But after a few weeks the excitement began to wear off, and I
wondered what was next for me. According to conversations that I overheard, they were
unsure what my next assignment should be. When would I find my forever person? I am a service
dog, and I needed to get back to work.

 

Then one day my handler mom – Lisa, took me aside and said, “Franklin, I have an idea. I think I might have the perfect person for you, sweet boy. His name is Dan, and he just lost his hearing service dog. He needs a companion. When he removes his hearing aids, he is, for all practical purposes, deaf. It will be your job Franklin to alert him if the fire alarm goes off. Or a car is behind him on the street. It’s going to take a few more weeks. But I am working on something special that will change your life forever.” I barked my approval. I couldn’t imagine what she had up her sleeve, but I trusted her and was very much interested in her plan. After all, she had been there for me when I was eight weeks old.
On the morning of March 23rd, 2022, my handler mom, Lisa, said to me, “Franklin, are you ready to go on a trip? I have two special friends that I want you to meet.” Yes, of course I am,” I barked. She is fluent in my golden-speak. As we were leaving, everyone shouted, “Goodbye Franklin and good luck Franklin!” Some people hugged me with tears in their eyes as Lisa led me out of the Golden Paws Center and into a big black SUV.
I had been in cars before, so it was no big deal, but this one made me feel very important. When we arrived at the airport, I was escorted through security like a VIP because we were met by one of the GPAWS handlers who is a former law enforcement officer
and works closely with the TSA at our local airport. I felt very special. I sensed everyone stopping to watch me as I trotted by.
Finally we traversed down a long narrow terminal through an entryway and sat in the first row, so I had plenty of room to stretch out. I had never been on one of these contraptions before. Once, as a young pup at the training center, I heard a story about
these big cars that flew in the air, but I was skeptical. How could people and dogs fly in the sky?
But here we were high above the ground in a bird-like machine called a jet. I am tall enough that I
could look out the window to see that we went higher and higher into the sky. We passed through
lots of fluffy white clouds. This jet was noisy and shook a lot too. A couple of hours went by when
I heard squealing noises beneath me. Then from the window I could see we were approaching terra
firma. The jet bounced and skipped on the ground. Passengers lurched in their seats several times
before a female voice said, “Welcome to Boston.” Being in the first row we disembarked before anyone else. The flight attendants all said, “Goodbye Franklin. Thank you for your service.”
From here we were whizzed away in another SUV. From the back window I saw houses and
factories, water and bridges, zoom by. I didn’t know where we were going; I just knew that this was
something to do with my handler mom’s plans for me and I couldn’t wait to arrive. One thing
was for sure, this place had no palm trees.
Then we slowly drove into a driveway and the car stopped. Peering out the window, I spied a tidy
yellow house. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. I just knew that something good was about to
happen. I could feel it in my bones. When the door opened I jumped out and greeted the two men
standing in the doorway. Then Lisa let me off of my leash to explore my new surroundings. I
couldn’t contain myself; I dashed from room to room sniffing everywhere I went. There were no
kennels, no other dogs. It was a whole house just for me, Franklin!
I knew it instantly. These guys were my new people. They were my new dads. Dan and James. I was certain. They knelt down on
the floor and hugged me and stroked my soft golden head and shoulders with both hands. Let me
say here that I have a big broad golden retriever head, and it took both their hands to rub all of me.
By their actions, I could tell that they were as excited to meet me as I was to meet them. Then we
went outside to the backyard, where I got to play with toys. I ran around and around the yard, and
I heard Dan say, “This is all yours Franklin.”
All mine! I knew it already. I’m sensitive to things like this. I can feel it. I had never had my own
yard before. Now I could run and roll anytime I wanted to without a leash. My very own yard
with lots of grass. I sniffed around to make sure there was no smell of another dog. Or worse – a
cat.
Then my handler mom Lisa said, “I think someone has found a home.”
“I don’t think he’s leaving,” said James.
“I think he’s here for good,” Dan stated.
Over the next few days, my new dads couldn’t believe I was there. I heard them wonder how they
could have been so lucky to get this beautiful golden boy named Franklin? It just didn’t seem
possible to them. When Dan posted my first picture on Facebook, people were saying that his
former service dog, Morgan, had sent me to them. My dad wasn’t sure about this, but he
responded, “Well, if he did, he did it spectacularly.”
I had no idea what they meant by Facebook. Or why I had to pose for a picture. They kept telling
me to smile but I didn’t understand. From my picture, everyone could tell that I was a big boy. But
in real life I am positively huge. Polar bear huge!
Dan, who is a writer, wrote a blog about me and said, “Franklin had big shoes to fill. But we soon
realized that not only did he have a big head, and big paws, but he also had an even bigger heart,
and he helped mend our fractured lives.”
That night I discovered that I had my own bed set up right by my new dads’ bed. It had been a long
exciting day. From FLA to CC. I curled up on my new firm mattress and drifted off to dreamland
in nothing flat.
;

Love at First Bite

It wasn’t until I was 24 and living in San Francisco that I got to experience the joy that a puppy brings.  It was just before Christmas when my partner Rick and I picked up the runt of a litter of my friend’s Golden Retriever. We brought the little guy home in a shoe box when he was eight weeks old.

We had covered the back porch with old newspapers and introduced him to this area as his housebreaking room. I had never done this before and was nervous about my ability to accomplish this most important goal. To my astonishment, he walked right across the sports section of the New York Times and piddled on a picture of New York Yankees manager Joe Torre. As a staunch Red Sox fan, I couldn’t have been prouder of my boy.

We all sat on the couch in the living room as I ran my hands through his soft fur. I couldn’t stop myself from kissing his forehead over and over again. I couldn’t believe he was ours.  I felt like I had to get as much love in as possible right then before someone took him away. Then he wiggled as though he had had enough smothering from me and bounced and tumbled over to Rick’s lap where the scene was repeated. Then Rick slipped his arm around my shoulder. I could tell he, too, was thrilled with our new pup.

Then it was time to choose a name. I didn’t have any ideas. I’d never named anything before in my life. Rick suggested Nicholas, after Tsar Nicholas, the last emperor of Russia. Before he met me, Rick had been a teacher in Chicago and during summer recesses he’d traveled to Russia three times. He even had a belt buckle with the hammer-and-sickle engraved on it. A gift given to him by a previous boyfriend in the Russian army.

Nicholas. Hmm.” I would never have come up with a name like that. I’d been thinking of maybe Duke after my grandparents’ dog or possibly Spike. I repeated the name as I regarded our puppy. Did he seem like a Nicholas? Like a young prince? Yes, he most certainly did. I liked it. It was noble. Plus, it was Christmas when jolly Saint Nick was in the ether.

But before the decision was made, we both took turns holding him in our arms and asking him if he liked his new name. He licked our faces and then bit our noses. We took this as an indication that he approved. I held our four-legged prince high in the air, above our heads. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten or twelve pounds. As our boy squirmed excitedly in my clasp, I proclaimed: “I name thee Nicholas, after Tsar Nicholas and St. Nicholas.”  After which we smothered him with more hugs and smooches.

Then Rick gave me an early Christmas gift: my first book about Golden Retrievers, by Joan Gill, an Englishwoman who got her first Golden Retriever in 1936 and was an advocate for the breed. I glimpsed through it as we sat watching our pup discover all the nooks and crannies in the living room. We both called out his name again and again. From my new book I learned that the ideal for a Golden was to live in the house, and that a puppy needed a box just big enough for him to lie in comfortably with some warm soft bedding.

I got a large cardboard box from the basement and cut a wide opening in one side and placed it right next to our bed. Then I folded my red, cotton blanket and placed it inside for him to sleep on, and called for him to come see his new bed. Already I loved saying his name. Nicholas slipped through the opening I’d cut for him and immediately started gnawing on the edges of the box. I was a bit worried that he might destroy it, but he soon grew tired and laid down. His head rested on the blanket and he quickly slid into the world of dreams.  From our bed I watched Nicholas sleeping. His chest rose and lowered slightly with each breath. Occasionally he’d move a paw and shift his body. Or he’d move his little head into another position. I wondered out loud whether he’d sleep through the night. When I got no reply I turned and saw that Rick had joined him in dreamland.

Nicholas was home and it was love at first bite.

 

;

Educating Nicholas – The Ripple Effect of Good Training (My article in “Bay Woof”)

I still remember the day I took my first Golden, Nicholas, to visit my alma mater, the University of San Francisco. As I snapped a photo of him with my old graduation cap atop his head I thought about how important his own education would be. And for dogs, that means good training.

Before making the decision to bring a puppy into our home, my partner Rick and I had talked about the responsibilities that went into having a dog. Since I didn’t grow up with them, Rick wanted to be sure that I understood what I was getting into. He thought it was a good idea, under one condition – obedience lessons.

“There’s nothing worse than a dog that didn’t know how to behave,” he declared. “You are going to want to take him everywhere with you and classes were going to teach him – and you – how to behave.” He pointed out that he had always trained his Irish Setters, emphasizing that this gave them a better life and let him enjoy them more. Then he paused and looked at me before saying, “And Dan, he’ll be your dog. I won’t have time to take care of him.”

Rick was alluding to the fact that he was then in law school and working days while I was in between jobs with the free time to train a puppy. I assured him that I’d heard his concerns and would do whatever it took to have a well-behaved pet.

Keeping my end of the obedience agreement, Nicholas and I started lessons sponsored by the San Francisco SPCA as soon as he completed all of his puppy shots. Back then the SPCA lessons were held out at the National Guard Armory.

Once inside the imposing stone edifice, it was a three-ring circus – or should I say four? At least that many different classes – puppies, beginners, intermediate and field –  were all happening simultaneously. To be surrounded by dogs of all sizes, breeds, and ages, barking. running, and sniffing each other, was heaven. I wanted Nicholas to learn everything. I wanted him to jump over poles and run through tunnels and grab ropes like I saw the advanced classes doing.

But first we started in the puppy section. This is where both of us would learn how to socialize with other dogs and their owners. Things started out well enough, as Nicholas tumbled and played with the other dogs, but soon my boy started mounting all of the bigger students. It seemed cute at first and everyone laughed. But when my wannabe stud continued this behavior, it became a problem. A few of these dogs, but mostly their owners, became agitated and I had to watch him more closely. After a snappish exchange with one woman, I learned that dog owners are a breed of their own and that some of us could use etiquette-training ourselves.

With Rick busy working and studying, Nicholas and I practiced our obedience lessons every morning in the schoolyard down the street from our apartment. I used the basketball courts to work on heel, sit, and stay – all the exercises we were shown in class.

But all work and no play was no fun, so afterwards we’d drive out to Golden Gate Park, where Nicholas would sit at my left leg and wait until I wound up and sent the tennis ball sailing, far, far through the air. From the way he raced down the field, like a Greyhound charging out of the gates, I could tell that neither of us was going to quickly get enough of this new game. I’d sling it ten, eleven, twelve, and sometimes even twenty times in a row and up and back he’d go chasing that ball.

Once I started a real job again, my friends knew how much I hated leaving Nicholas home alone so they asked if they could take him for walks in the neighborhood. At first I said no. I couldn’t bear the risk of something bad happening while I wasn’t there to help. But my guilt about leaving Nicholas alone gnawed at me.

While having dinner one night, Rick observed that I’d done a remarkable job training Nicholas and that our dog was one of the best trained dogs he’d ever seen. He said Nicholas was a joy to be around and that if I wanted to let a couple of my friends walk him, he thought it would be okay and that Nicholas might really enjoy it.

That was the turning point. I gave our apartment key to several friends who worked nights, and soon Nicholas was enjoying outings with his new pals.  Each day around noon – the friends were bartenders and waiters – they took turns walking Nicholas around the neighborhood. Of course, it wasn’t totally altruistic on their part. They knew that, in the Castro, a beautiful Golden Retriever was a boy magnet, too. Talk about a ripple effect. It seems that our good training paid off for more thank just Nicholas and me.

 

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When Christmas Was Illegal – My article from the Bourne Enterprise

Back in the 1700’s Christmas was known for a time of excess drinking, disorder, begging, misrule and chambering. It was a time when social roles were reversed. The workers told the bosses what to do. The servants acted like the masters. Men dressed like women and women dressed and acted like men. Often people darkened their faces or disguised themselves as animals and cross-dressed in a protective cloak of anonymity.

Christmas psalms weren’t sung back in these days, but the practice of wassailing comes from this era. Roving bands of young men would demand to be let in to the wealthy homes singing ballads such as this:

We’ve come to claim our right…
And if you don’t open up your door,
We will lay you flat upon the floor

The Puritans of New England were so aghast at the customs of Christmas that they actually outlawed Christmas in most of New England. In 1651 the Massachusetts Bay Colony passed a law that levied a five-schilling fine on anyone who was found observing any such day as Christmas or the like, either by forbearing of labor, feasting, or any other way. The point was reinforced by a provision in the law that threatened to impose a second five–schilling fine for gambling with cards or dice, a practice, the court noted that was frequent in many places at such times as Christmas.

However, this doesn’t mean that Christmas was suppressed completely. Laws are not enacted unless there are people who are engaging in the forbidden activity. Traditions with such deep roots in English culture could not simply be erased by fiat. They always hovered just beneath the surface of New England culture, emerging occasionally into plain sight. Those who celebrated Christmas were called Christmas-Keepers. It’s really mind boggling to think that celebrating Christmas was a forbidden activity.
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Who were those who celebrated Christmas? Evidence suggests that they were mostly on the fringes of official New England culture. Many were fisherman and mariners who had the reputation of being the most incorrigible sinners in New England, festering in decadent enclaves such as Nantucket and Marblehead.

Eventually, the Puritans realized that they were never going to eliminate Christmas, but they could change how it was celebrated. They began to call for moderation and temperance. Others, like Benjamin Franklin and Nathanael Ames, New England’s most popular Almanac-makers took up the call to combine mirth with moderation. It only took the next two hundred years for it to become a Hallmark Christmas..

Yet the Puritans held out, continuing to ban Christmas in New England. Schools in Boston were forced to stay open on Christmas day through 1870. They even expelled students who stayed home. It wasn’t until 1912 for the first illuminated trees to appear in Boston’s public areas. Outdoor Christmas trees quickly became commonplace in North America. Most towns have a display. This year is the 93rd anniversary of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.

I fondly recall our yearly winter trip to the Boston Common as a boy growing up in South Boston. We’d bundle in winter clothes and spend a few hours strolling through the park gazing at the lights. The highlight of the visit was the eight live reindeer the city put on display. How many names of Santa’s reindeer can you remember? Without cheating. I remembered six of them. Rudolph doesn’t count because he only led the sleigh on that one foggy Christmas Eve when Santa made a special request. After we were cold enough and numb enough my parents took us over to the Pewter Pot Muffin House for a piping hot chocolate with whipped cream, and a warm blueberry muffin dripping with butter.

Last Christmas we went back to the Boston Common to see the Christmas Tree all lit up. Here’s an interesting fact, since 1971, Nova Scotia has sent a tree to Boston to thank them for the help they provided after the Halifax Explosion in 1917. A disastrous explosion triggered when two ships collided, and one had high explosives on board. Nearly 1800 people were killed resulting from the blast, fires and tsunami that the explosion caused.

One of my Cape fun things to do at Christmas time is to attend the Falmouth Christmas parade. It was a drizzly day last year and my favorite groups were the young dancers who braved the cold rainy weather. Over on the village green we especially enjoyed the elevated Santa sleigh. Along with Santa’s mailbox, the children’s choir complete with a large organ, the colorful Carolers and the large Menorah.

At the other end of the Cape, we attended our first Holly Folly celebration in Provincetown. It’s a farcical 3-day event of music, live shows and festive PJs. My Golden Retriever, Franklin and I dressed in bright red scarves wrapped around our necks and me in my Santa cap. We especially loved that the Grinch was a woman and Mrs. Clause was a man. An only in Provincetown event. This year we’re attending the Boston Gay Men’s Chorus holiday concert called BYOB – Bring Your Own Bells at Town Hall. We just hope Franklin doesn’t decide to sing along with them.

I wish everyone a warm bright Solstice, a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa. And a Happy New Year’s wish from our home to yours.
May PEACE prevail on Earth.

Love Is Just The Start: How a Rescued Dog Became a Rescuer – My Article From Bay Woof Magazine

I had never rescued a dog before but friends of mine had and they seemed very happy with their new furry adoptees. So when the great Recession hit in the mid-2000s, and foreclosures were widespread with people abandoning their dogs, I decided it was time to pay back the Golden breed for all they had done for me. They saved my life. They rescued me during the dark days of the AIDS epidemic. Now it was time to rescue one of them.

This would not be my first dog. I’d already raised two Golden Retrievers, Nicholas and Willy, from puppies. So I figured what could go wrong?

I found the Golden I wanted to help, a one-year-old who’d been sick and abused. I named him Morgan after Captain Morgan of rum fame. He was anxious and aggressive. But I figured with enough love Morgan would behave. With sufficient positive feedback and basic training Morgan would learn to obey and become friendly. Afterall, I had trained my first two dogs with the San Francisco SPCA. I knew the commands. Boy was I wrong.

There was a time when I could tie the leash around the leg of a chair and know that my dog would wait for me quietly while I ran inside Spike’s to grab a latte. But those days were over. Unfortunately, I didn’t know this before Morgan and I were having lunch with a friend Chalet on Ocean Beach and I excused myself to use the bathroom. When I returned, the table was tipped upside down with the plates and silverware strewn in all directions.

I quickly realized I could never leave Morgan alone, even for a minute. He would go berserk, barking furiously. Nonstop. Having always to be prepared for the unexpected, I called him a Jekyll & Hyde Golden.

It was clear that I needed help, because he needed help. The kind of help that I could not provide, even with all my experience raising dogs. A friend recommended Officer Dan La Master, who trained police dogs. I was reluctant at first, but I had no other place to turn. And refused to use an electric collar as I felt that Morgan had been abused enough. I finally admitted, as much as Morgan needed training, so did I. Most importantly, Officer La Master taught me that I had to take command. I was in charge, not Morgan. Over and over again he instilled this in me. Finally, with this understanding, there was a definite shift in our relationship, and we made remarkable progress. By the end of class, Morgan was awarded his AKC Good Neighbor Certificate.

My life with Morgan may have begun with a rocky start, but he taught me so many things during our time together. First and foremost, he taught me patience. After all, if love alone had been the solution, Morgan would have easily been a well-behaved companion. But I learned firsthand that an abused dog takes extra time to learn the basic socialization skills and to heal. That patience was just one of his gifts to me.

He also gave me a refresher course on compassion. Each time I thought about the abuse he had endured my heart reached out to him. And he reminded me that neither one of us was perfect. There was the constant forgiveness for his mistakes and for mine, trusting that we were both doing the best we could.

It was the end of April, and gloriously, the weather was stormy when I awoke that morning. We reached Ocean Beach at noon to find a deserted paradise, empty except for seabirds and surfers. Morgan raced ahead of me on the beach, sniffing at something in the sand. “I hope he doesn’t get into anything,” I said, thinking a clump of seaweed. Or a dead bird.

Then I saw whatever he was occupied with stir. “Oh no. That’s a live animal.” I sprinted to Morgan as fast as I could and coerced him away. There in the sand was a small harbor seal. He appeared sick. The poor animal had closed his eyes.

“We can’t leave him like this!” I dialed the Marine Mammal Center and reported the situation. A volunteer informed me someone would be there within thirty minutes.

Soon the Marine Mammal rescue team arrived and safely secured the sick pup in a cage. Then the team leader, Anne, turned to me and said, “This was the third we’ve rescued in a week. The others are recovering, so he should, too. What do you want to name the seal? Since you found him, you get to name him.”

“Actually, my dog found him.” I thought for a moment, then declared, “Let’s name him Morgan. He rescued him.”

Anne petted Morgan on his head and told him, “Good job!”

I smiled proudly. My rescued boy was now a rescuer.

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A Year in the Life of Franklin

My sweet Goldens Franklin and Morgan will always be indelibly linked to one another. James and I were deep in distress after we lost our boy Morgan, a year ago February. We really didn’t know how to move forward.

Morgan had been unable to walk for the last year and a half of his life. But as everyone knows we were committed to him until the very end. However, if the truth be told, even though we loved Morgan with all our hearts, we now longed to have a dog that could run and fetch and take hikes. I mean summer on Cape Cod is synonymous with Goldens and Labs.

We knew we had to rise above our emotions, at least temporarily, to contact rescue groups. But there were no Goldens to adopt anywhwere. The abandoned dogs coming from Asia were not allowed into the country due to COVID restrictions. That was just another disappointment.

When I shared my feelings with my friend Lisa in Florida, who worked for a foundation that trained Goldens to be service animals, she asked, “What does your gut say?” I told her it was too soon for me. I wasn’t yet ready to move on from Morgan, in the way that James was. After another week passed, on March 2nd, Lisa sent me a photo and said, “Dan, this is Franklin. A six-year-old who needs a forever home.”

We both fell in love with him instantly. We thought he looked so much like Morgan’s old buddy Cody, a cream-colored Golden. I felt like we knew Franklin already. James was immediately on board with adopting him. Me, not so quickly. Even though I felt bad that Franklin did not have a forever home, I didn’t want to forget Morgan. After a few more days, I looked at Franklin’s picture and my heart melted and my resistance along with it. I realized if we didn’t act on Franklin we might lose the opportunity for him.

It was with great expectations when on March 23rd, Lisa pulled her SUV into our driveway with Franklin in the back seat pressing against the window. I admit, we were a little nervous. Would he like us? Franklin jumped out of the SUV and raced inside the house through the side door. It was an instant match. How could we have gotten this beautifully handsome Golden boy named Franklin? It just didn’t seem possible. I remember some of my Facebook friends saying that Morgan had sent him to us. Well, if he did, he did it spectacularly.

It’s been a year now and it feels as though Franklin has always been with us. He loves to swim. He can even beat James in a race for the ball. We’ve taken him on field trips to Boston. He’s become quite cultured, having been to the Institute of Contemporary Art three times. The other day he asked for a black French beret. Then we took him to Provincetown for his first visit. People rushed to pet him as we walked down Commercial Street. With his celebrity status he was given the keys to the city.

One of my favorite things about Franklin is his ability to walk backwards. I’m not kidding. He’s like Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk. I’d never seen a dog do this. The other night we attended our niece’s play. There were eight of us and we all sat in the same row. At intermission everyone got up for some air except my parents. Franklin walked down the narrow row to see them. As my family returned to their seats Franklin wasn’t able to turn around so he just walked backwards all the way to the aisle. I couldn’t believe it. That’s not an easy task to learn. And he does it with such ease. It makes me laugh.

There could be no better antidote for my feeling of loss for Morgan than Franklin’s big goofy smile and his antics. As you can tell I’m quite smitten with Franklin. But I will forever be grateful for the amazing life I had with Morgan and the memories of all our adventures.

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A Year Without Him

It hardly seems like a year since Morgan left us. On February 12th at 3 am in the morning, while lying next to me in bed, he took his last breath. I have thought about him every day since.

Some evenings when I go to sleep, I recall that night. He was having difficulty breathing so we had given him a sedative that we got from our vet. It brought him some comfort. The way he looked at me with his glossy eyes, I knew he was saying good-bye. I felt he was thanking me for our amazing life we had together. I gently stroked his head, over and over again, telling him how much I loved him and thanked him for all our adventures.

Morgan had such a rough start. He came to us aggressive, anxious, and undernourished. Without a doubt, because he was abused, raising him was more challenging than my first two Goldens. But as Auntie Mame says, “Life is a banquet and most poor bastards are starving to death.” We may have gotten off to a rocky start, but our life was definitely a banquet.

I mean what other dog can say he swam in San Francisco Bay with a backdrop of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, the Gulf of Mexico in Naples, Rehoboth Beach on the Atlantic while a school of porpoise leaped by, Maine, Cape Cod, and lastly, our own Buttermilk Bay?

What other dog can claim to have hiked on the Pacific Crest Trail in Palm Springs and Franklin Canyon Park in Beverly Hills, overlooking the ocean? Or visited Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge or camped in Acadia National Park? And because he was my service animal, he was allowed to take the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway up to Mt. San Jacinto State Park, 8400 feet above the desert floor and hiked even higher.

Mt. San Jacinto State Park was our oasis in the hot months, enabling Morgan and I to escape the heat. The desert floor roasts at 110 degrees, but within twenty minutes we were on the tram to the top where the temperature was a comfortable 75 degrees. We’ve been there during each and every month, in rain, snow, sleet and hail. In the winter, if snow had fallen the previous night, we could be the first people in the park the next day. Morgan loved running and rolling in the snow. I dressed him in silly winter hats and took pictures.

But there were other silly hats that he wore: the big “Mad Hatter” green St. Patrick’s Day hat, the brown Pilgrim’s hat, the black top hat that he donned for the Opera in the Ball Park, the red, white, and blue Uncle Sam’s hat for the Fourth of July, and the red floppy Santa hats that he sported for his pictures with Santa. (See below for those pictures.)

Throughout his life he taught me so many things. First, and foremost, he taught me how to be more patient. Having an abused dog takes extra time to learn the basic socialization skills. I had a refresher course on compassion. My heart reached out to him each time I thought about the abuse he endured before coming into my life. There was the constant forgiving him for his mistakes and for mine. Trusting that we were both doing the best we could.

And of course, I’ll always remember that day at the private trainer’s shop, when I had to decide if I wanted to commit to the work that an aggressive Golden would demand. I looked down at Morgan sitting by my side. He gazed up at me with his sweet face. I reached down and petted his head and determined: yes, I would set aside my hearing problems and my other health concerns and pledged to give Morgan the life all young dogs deserve.

Morgan gave me a lifetime of adventures and memories that I will never forget. Most of all, I miss touching him and telling him he was the prettiest boy in the whole world.

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