As we were driving to Boston, Franklin stared out the side window curiously. I turned and explained to him,
“Franklin, that’s snow.”

James wondered out loud, “Do you think this might be the first time he’s seen snowflakes?”

“I doubt he ever saw snow in south Florida.”

When we arrived in Boston the flurries had ended. We walked up Charles Street into Beacon Hill, one of the oldest and most beautiful neighborhoods in the city. The brick sidewalks were lined with gas lanterns decorated with Christmas wreaths and bright red bows. It felt like we had just stepped into an old-fashioned colonial Christmas card. All that was missing were the Dickensian carolers on the corner singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Through the holiday shoppers we spotted our friend, Ali, who we met last summer at the beach in Provincetown. She introduced us to her friend Bob, who presented to Franklin, Rosie, his pretty six-year-old Golden Retriever. The two kids sniffed each other and a friendship was sealed.

As we strolled along on our way to Boston Common we passed families with strollers and dogs. Many of whom, surprisingly, were Golden Retrievers. There had to be six or seven of them. We even bumped into a Golden and his dad who we knew. This was definitely a Golden neighborhood.

There was barely room to walk on the sidewalk. Normally, I don’t like crowded places like this. But today it was exciting. It was good to be in a city with lots of young energy. Franklin, looking dapper in his new, red holiday scarf, and sweet Rosie, got lots of attention.

We entered the “Common”, which was established in the 1630s. It was originally used as pastureland by the Puritans. In the 1830s it became the first city public park in America. But we weren’t there for a history lesson, we were there to see the lights and decorations. We walked through the Common where on the outer boundary of elm trees were strung different colored lights. Two of the oldest elms were planted by John Hancock.

It was freezing cold that day so the brisk walk kept us a little warmer. James and I were definitely dressed up like folks from Lapland with scarfs, hats, gloves and sweatshirts, thermal shirts and long johns and winter coats. The Goldens thought the weather was quite comfortable in their fur coats. We stopped for pictures of Franklin and Rosie sitting together on a park bench, which caused a gathering of onlookers snapping their own pictures. (Make sure you check them out at the bottom of the blog.)

It had been a long time since I was in the Common to see the decorations and lights. As a young boy my parents used to bring us here in the early evening to see the festooned decorations and the live reindeer corralled in a fenced-in area. Afterwards, we’d get a hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin at the Pewter Pot Muffin House. It was always one of the highlights of Christmas.

For our own cheer, we stopped at the “Thinking Cup” on Newbury Street. It was a spirited and crowded shop. I had the best hot tea latte I had ever had. James was pleased with his caffe mocha latte. No whip. With two shots. Our friends sipped hot chocolate. While the pups slurped from their water bowls.

Franklin was sad to see Rosie depart as Bob had another commitment. To help lift Franklin’s spirits we continued across the wet slushy grassy mall, past the outdoor skating rink mobbed with families, to the giant, official, city of Boston Christmas tree. The perfect cone-shaped, forty-five-foot white spruce tree was protected from onlookers by a short white picket fence. Multi-colored lights, my favorite, were strung from top to bottom, around the entire tree, creating a celebratory atmosphere.

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.

Ali knelt down next to this historic tree with Franklin and reenacted her love-at-first sight, beach kiss from last summer when she first met Franklin. Then I joined her on his other side. We wrapped our arms around each other with our boy squished between us, careful not to muss his holiday apparel.

As the winter sun set on this cold December afternoon, it was time to head home. Our outing to Boston was cheery and bright. Spending time with Ali reminded us that there is no better gift than time with a friend. It was the perfect way to ignite the holiday spirit.

Happy Holidays to everyone from Franklin and me.

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 convinced that I understood what I was getting into. He thought it was a good idea, under one condition. I remember asking curiously what that might be and he emphatically said, “Obedience lessons. There’s nothing worse than a dog that didn’t know how to behave. You’re going to want to take him everywhere with you and classes are going to teach him, and you, how to behave.”

He went on that he had always trained his Irish Setters and that they had a better life and he got to enjoy them more. Then he paused and looked at me before he said, “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 in law school and working days while I was in between jobs at the moment and could use the free time to train a puppy. I assured him that I had heard his concerns and would do whatever it took to have a well-behaved dog. Now here we were with this wiggling, bouncing, finger-gnawing, lug of love, all ours.

Then it was time to choose a name. I didn’t have any ideas. I’d never named anything. Rick suggested Nicholas, after Nicholas the Tsar. He had told me lots of stories about being in Russia before he met me. He even had a belt buckle with the hammer-and-sickle engraved on it. Rick had been a teacher when he lived in Chicago, and during summer recess he’d traveled to Russia three times, and the belt had been given to him by a boyfriend in the Russian army that he had met.

“Nicholas. Hmm.” I never would have thought of a name like that. I was going to pick Duke after my grandparent’s dog or Spike. I repeated the name a second time as I regarded our puppy. Did he seem like a Nicholas? Like a young prince? Yes, he most certainly did. “I like it. It’s noble. And it is Christmas.” 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 of course 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. Our boy squirmed excitedly in my clasp: “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 had been an ongoing advocate for the Golden 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. I read further that the ideal for a Golden was, of course, to live in the house, and that a puppy needed a box just big enough for him to lie in comfortably, and 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, soft cotton blanket and placed it inside for him to sleep on. I called for him to come see his new bed. Already I loved saying his name. He slipped through the opening and immediately started gnawing on the edges of the box. I thought this might not work, but he soon grew tired and laid down. No sooner than that, his head rested on the blanket and he quickly slid into dream world.  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 dream world already.

Keeping my end of the agreement, Nicholas and I started lessons as soon as he completed all of his puppy shots. The San Francisco SPCA sponsored classes out at the National Guard Armory located behind the zoo near Ocean Beach. It cost one dollar a week. A dollar! How could I not go?

Once inside the imposing stone Armory, it was a three-ring circus. Four different classes (puppies, beginners, intermediate and field) would be going on simultaneously in different sections of a single enormous hall. To be surrounded by dogs of all sizes, breeds and ages, dogs barking and running, dogs sniffing each other, was heaven. Though I’d never had a dog growing up I quickly discovered that I was a dog lover.

When did you realize you were a dog lover?

Before you say, “Oyy,” I found the expression “perfect poop” featured on the American Kennel Club website. It was part of an article about how our dogs can’t tell us how they’re feeling. But that their excrement can tell us lots.

As guardians, most of us know this but are embarrassed to talk about it. Except maybe around close friends. The other day, my Golden buddy, Liz, announced, “Abby has diarrhea. She doesn’t like me watching her when she goes.” We all chuckled.  Shortly thereafter, I went to the local post office to mail a package where another friend, Marsha, a Golden Mom, works. She was on the phone when we arrived, after she hung up Marsha said, “That was my husband reporting on our dog’s poop. Our vet wants us to watch Phoebe so we can bring her a sample for testing.”

“We know that routine,” I said, smiling. “Has to be fresh.”

Since our furry companions aren’t able to tell us when something is wrong it’s up to us to look for the evidence. One is by monitoring their bowel movements. I do it on a regular basis. It helps me to decide what goes into Franklin’s next meal.  I’ve done it with all my Goldens.  Sometimes it involves searching the yard for a deposit. I don’t mind, it actually serves two purposes, the healthy things, of course, and by picking it up there’s one less for me to step in.  That’s a sure quick way to ruin my day.

I always keep a box of Uncle Ben’s brown rice in the cupboard. If something doesn’t look right I take a package out and mix it with some ground beef. This really helps with the runs. It was recommended by Dr. Long, my vet for Angel Nicholas way back in the 80s and I’ve been doing it ever since.

I thought I knew it all until I went online to the American Kennel Club website, I found that there are five things to look for – shape, size, content, color, and consistency.

There were two things I hadn’t thought of, though. First, the perfect poop ought to be sized proportionate to the amount of food your dog eats.

This never crossed my mind before. On occasion I might say, “That can’t be Franklin’s. It’s not big enough.” Or I might say, “That can’t be all he has.”  But I never made a health connection to it.

The AKC also wrote, “If you notice any changes in your dog’s elimination schedule and you haven’t changed his food recently, it may be worth contacting your veterinarian to rule out any potential problems.”

This is another point that I never made a health connection to.

What are some of the things you do to monitor your dog’s health?

And, if you want to read more about the “perfect poop” below is the link to the AKC website. You’ll find a more detailed statement on the importance of monitoring your dog’s movements complete with cute colorful graphs. It might be more than you needed or wanted to know. But check it out. It could make a difference to your dog’s well-being and your peace of mind.

When the temperatures recently climbed towards triple digits, Franklin did what patricians have often done – head to Maine. All the way north to Acadia National Park. Just like the Rockerfellers, Vanderbilts, Roosevelts, Morgans, DuPonts, Fords, had done.

Franklin had heard his dads talk about Angel Willy and Angel Morgan going there in the summer and he was eager to check it out. This vacation was a family affair as our nieces, along with their dog, Loki, were joining us on the six-hour trek.

We arrived at Smuggler’s Den Campgrounds before dusk and just before the rain began – sprinkles at first. Immediately, Franklin and his cousin, Loki, raced around the vast open spaces bordering the forest.  Our nieces helped their old uncles (us) set up the tent. It’s still shocking to me that I’m now sixty-five. But I digress as I often do. We were all exhausted and a bit cranky after the long drive. The prediction of light rain and some thunderstorms throughout the night, worried us. No one wanted to cook that first meal. For dinner my brother’s family had pizza, we had soup. Food is a good healer of emotions.

There wasn’t much room in the tent for two air mattresses and a large golden retriever, but Franklin found a spot at the entrance to the tent and settled down. Even though I wasn’t too thrilled at the lack of room for him, things seemed to work. That is until the first bolt of lightning lit up the sky; the first boom of thunder echoed down the valley; the first deluge of rain pelted the roof of the tent.

Surprisingly, Franklin didn’t seem too upset by the inclement weather. But after an hour of this, I’m the one who was uncomfortable with the set up. “Franklin, come on up!” I patted the bed. This is one command Franklin obeyed immediately. It was tight quarters on my blow-up mattress, but knowing Franklin was safe and dry was more important. With him next to me, I could stop worrying about him. Throughout the night the wind howled and the tent shook. It was difficult to sleep. Both James and I thought the tent might rip apart or become too wet. We were afraid we might have to escape to the car.

We awoke the next morning to blue skies and a sense of relief that we had all survived a night of storms, unscathed. My brother scrambled some eggs and cheese for our first communal meal. While we went about unpacking and setting up our camp. This was our third time on a camping trip together. The first was in New Hampshire with Young Morgan, Young Casey, with MJ on her way. (Not yet born.)  The second trip was five years ago in central Mass, with an older Morgan and now included Young Hannah. For that adventure we stayed in cabins. These family outings brought us closer together. It made us realize that we wanted to be with them year round. Not just for a few brief weeks on summer vacation.

We’re a family of bookworms, so after the breakfast dishes were cleaned and put away, we all grabbed a chair and a book and found a comfortable place to read for a while. In the afternoon, we took a casual walk on the trail leading around Echo Lake.

Franklin was thrilled about dinner on the grill that night where he got real beef burgers. James and I had plant-based, “Impossible Burgers.” While the dinner plates were cleared and cleaned, Steve got a campfire going. It was time for dessert. We had to be especially careful to keep our furry boy far away from the open flame and any cinders. We didn’t want any singed-fur on our hands. To avoid even a near miss, I grabbed the leash and kept him by my side.

Once it was dark, we all collected long thin branches and it was time for s’mores. Most of us had traditional ones with chocolate. But Courtney doesn’t eat chocolate, so she brings peanut butter, which she generously shared with Franklin. I don’t normally partake of this kind of treat. (James just shouted, “Oh sure!”) It’s only when we’re with our nieces that it happens. It’s quite delicious and decadent. Holding a marshmallow on a stick above the flame is fun watching it melt.  Everyone believes they know the right amount of time to heat the marshmallow. Mr. Franklin devoured his peanut butter s’more which I made for him.

There was another special surprise that night – fireflies. Shimmering magically around the tent. What a delight. I hadn’t seen fireflies since at my parents’ place on Cape Cod ten years earlier.

As I stated earlier, the tent we had wasn’t big enough for the three of us. We decided to give one of the air mattresses to Franklin right from the get-go. James and I would share the other one. They’re pretty wide. As we settled in, Franklin started to bark. At first, I feared it was an animal outside our tent. Oh my God, I thought, what food did we leave out?! But then I saw flashlights and realized other campers were walking by chatting away. So much for quiet hour.

Day three started unexpectedly when we opened the zipper of the tent and Franklin darted out to visit our neighbors next to us. Luckily, their dogs were still in their kennels in their SUV and James got to Franklin before there was too much commotion. We have no idea what got into Franklin, perhaps he heard something that we didn’t. But as they say, boys will be boys. Even the best-behaved kids and dogs get into mischief on occasion. We made sure it didn’t happen again.

Acadia Park, is the eastern-most point in the United States, which means it’s the earliest sunrise. There’s a tradition for park-goers to climb Cadillac Mountain, where during the winter months, it is the first place to see the sunrise. Don’t ask me to explain the “earliest place” for the summer months, click the link and you can read it.  https://newengland.com/today/living/new-england-environment/where-in-the-united-states-does-the-sun-shine-first/

My brother’s family decided to hike the 1526 feet to the top of the mountain. Driving up requires reservations which they didn’t have. Yes, it’s that busy there. It was a warm day and James and I decided to forgo this activity. We weren’t sure how Franklin would handle the climb in the heat. I’d been to the top with my parents and Angel Willy back in the 90s and it is dramatic. James and I drove to the top with Angel Morgan in 2018 but it was fogged in.

Instead, we chose to revisit Seawall Campground, in the southwest, less crowded section of the park. We had stayed there on our trip to Maine with Morgan. The picnic area is right down by the rock-covered sea-level beach. Here’s a description from their website:  Powerful ocean storms created a massive seawall. As waves break, they carry rocks from the base of the beach and carry them up to shore. As the tides come in and out, heavier stones get piled at the top and smaller, lighter stones remain down the slope.

Don’t miss the pictures of Franklin and his dads. This quieter part of the park is definitely worth a visit. And a second one, as in our case.

That night for dinner James prepared fish tacos over the flame for everyone. The girls were surprised that you could have tacos on a camping trip, but everyone gobbled their food down.  Hannah especially loved her meal.

We were all too tired to stay up for more s’mores, but we did take time to lay in the grass in the field and stargaze. It takes a few moments to adjust to the darkness. But if you lay still the stars come to life. Clearly, the Big Dipper is “the Big Dipper” and can’t be missed. To our left was the Milky Way, in all its softer glory. Here, in Acadia National Park, the Milky Way shines bright in the largest expanse of naturally dark sky east of the Mississippi River. Neither Franklin, nor Loki were as enthused with stargazing as their humans were and started wrestling in the grass. They were even less impressed when we saw the International Space Station pass by.

Both James and I are advocates for protecting the night sky. We were pleased when we read about the Acadia Night Sky Festival, a four-day celebration in late September each year that promotes the protection and enjoyment of the star-filled night skies of Acadia National Park.

The threat of severe evening-hour thunderstorms returned on Thursday. Our spirits sank. The last thing we wanted to go through again was another rough night of sleep, before a long drive. It would be hard to say good-bye. As difficult of a decision that it was, we decided we had to head home after breakfast.

A Field Trip to Boston

It was a day of firsts for our recently rescued Golden, Mr. Franklin. We began our adventure in Quincy, where he experienced his first Mother’s Day brunch. We brought a bouquet of red tulips for both, Courtney, our sister-in-law, and my mother. Then we took a sweet photograph of our handsome boy and our equally as pretty, sister-in-law, substituting for my mother, just for the day.

Franklin is a big boy with a big appetite. Though his dads are vegetarians, my brother’s family is not. Franklin got his first taste of bacon. And boy did he gobble it down. Both he and I were disappointed that he only got one piece. Especially since there was a big plateful of pig leftover. But let’s move on with our journey.

It was a blustery Sunday, too blustery for the beach walk, so our first stop was indoors at our favorite museum in Boston, Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA). It would be Franklin’s inaugural visit to a museum as my service companion. To get to the exhibits we had to take the glass-enclosed elevator to the fourth floor. Another first for our boy. He watched curiously as we rose between the floors. When the doors opened, he proudly marched out.

I wasn’t sure how Franklin would do surrounded by crowds of people and art displays. There were a few times where he got excitable, but I held his leash tightly and he heeled perfectly. I could tell from the expressions many wanted to pet him. A nicely dressed, matronly woman couldn’t resist taking a photo of him. He posed like a star. She off handedly said, “I know I’m not supposed to pet him, but…..”

I replied, “I know it’s difficult to resist him. But if I let you…,”  I looked around the room. “Then all these folks will want a turn.”  Several onlookers smiled and nodded their heads. Even the security guy grinned and said, “I’ll be the first in line.”

She understood my conundrum and we moved along. I always feel bad when I say no to someone. Under other circumstance, I would have let her pet Franklin.

The exhibition that day featured works of bright colors. We chose a sculpture by Raul de Nieves, a Mexican-born, New Yorker, for Franklin’s first art pose. It’s a life-size horse, rearing up on its (his) hind legs, covered in sparkling beads and sequins.

As we were leaving, Franklin said, “I never knew museums were so much fun.” (I told you he could talk.)

Now we headed across Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park and walked to the famous North End of Boston, the Italian neighborhood. Along the way, we couldn’t resist stopping for pictures of Franklin at several flower beds of tulips. Another first for our big boy. Tulips were the theme for the day. There were bright red ones and sun-shiny yellows and ones with an orange and yellow mix. My favorite was the reds. They looked like a 3-dimensional painting. They almost looked fake. And Franklin’s light blond fur and my red skull cap contrasted vividly against the rows and rows of red. Passersby stopped to watch us and took pictures of Franklin.

We finally made it to Hanover Street, in the heart of the North End. My grandfather used to take us here for the St. Anthony’s Feast Street Festival. It was where he shucked for me my first quahog when I was a young boy. We’d often go there to buy homemade raviolis, and for pizza at Regina Pizzeria.

It was a crowded Sunday on this Mother’s Day and lots of people said hello to Franklin, but due to the congestive traffic and throngs of tourist we weren’t able to get any pictures of him. We bought four plain cannolis and a whole ricotta pie at Modern Bakery, opened for ninety years and just a two-minute walk from the Paul Revere House. If you’ve never heard of a ricotta pie, it’s a creamy ricotta filling with a hint of lemon and almond that is baked inside of a sweet Italian pie pastry. This dessert is traditionally served at Easter time, but now it’s eaten all year long.

It had been a long fun-filled day of firsts for Franklin, but we could tell our big boy was getting tired. He seemed disinterested in sniffing the grassy field, a clear sign that he was ready for a dog-nap. We decided to forego an Italian dinner at one of the cafés and drive home. Heading back to the garage, along the Rose Kennedy Greenway, something utterly amazing happened, we found a beautiful bouquet of flowers lying on the ground, still wrapped in cellophane, and tied with a ribbon. It’s as though someone had left them there for us.