Everyone Loves Franklin

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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.

FranklinDanLisaBeach

FranklinDanJamesBackyard2025

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Love at First Bite

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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.

 

Nicholas, Dan, and Rick first evening home

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

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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.

 

Nicholas, Dan, and Rick first evening home

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When Christmas Was Illegal – My article from the Bourne Enterprise

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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

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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.

Rescuing Morgan

MorganValentineCandyFull

First online photo of Morgan

Bay Woof February 2024 cover art

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A Year in the Life of Franklin

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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.

Franklin at the ICA Museum

Family Outing at the ICA

Franklin at Long Beach Cape Cod

Franklin at the ICA

Franklin at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

Franklin Snowy Hike in the Woods

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A Year Without Him

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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.

Pirate Hat

Uncle Sam hat

Erin Go Braugh

Morgan the Pilgrim

Morgan’s Candy Cane hat

One-Antlered Reindeer

Graduation Day

Morgan’s Snow Cap

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Franklin’s First Christmas in Boston

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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.

Franklin and Dad

FranklinRosieJamesBobBoston2022

Ali and Franklin

Franklin Dan and Ali

Franklin and Dad

FranklinRosieBench

FranklinBenchBoston2022

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Happy Thanksgiving

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Hello friends. My name is Franklin. In honor of my first New England Thanksgiving, and in keeping with a tradition, my dads have let me write this holiday message. I’m told that all my Golden predecessors have written columns and blogs in the past. Now it’s my turn.

Firstly, I’m grateful to be in a home with lots of love. I’m a big dog who insists on a huge amount of hugs and kisses, let me just say – I get all I could ask for. In fact, from the moment I arrived, I have been welcomed in the neighborhood where I get hugs and pets from just about everyone. When we walk down the street people shout from their front doors, “Hello Franklin! Are you headed to the beach?”

Second, I’m a boy who loves to eat. Fortunately, my new adopted parents are the best cooks. All freshly made meals. Always different. Eggs and potatoes. Soups, Veggies. Fruits. ( For those wondering. I love bananas as much as Morgan did.) Sometimes coleslaw. Oatmeal. My dads are mostly vegetarians, but sometimes, just for me, they buy some ground beef and cook it up.

But one thing concerns me. I’m hearing that they don’t eat turkeys. My dad read that over 46 million turkeys are killed for our Thanksgiving dinner every year. So my first holiday wish is that we all take a moment to thank them for being our feast on Thursday. That said, my cousin Loki, who is also a lucky rescue, had promised to bring me a plateful of leftover turkey when he visits this Saturday. I mean, the tofu turkey from Trader Joe’s doesn’t sound all that exciting to me. I don’t complain too loudly.
Now for my second wish. Here on Cape Cod and Plymouth, where the first Thanksgiving began, live the Wampanoag Indians. The Wampanoag are a Native American people and are indigenous to southeastern Massachusetts and historically parts of eastern Rhode Island.

My dads have taught me that it’s important to remember and honor the tribe who saved the Pilgrims from starving. So my second wish is that before the meal we acknowledge and honor the Wampanoag people who have lived here for 12,000 years.

I’m thankful that I live two short blocks from the bay and for all the times that my dads have taken me to the beach to hike, chase the ball and swim. Last week I had the pleasure of rolling in my first Cape Cod dead seagull, I was so excited I raced down the shoreline before my dad could catch me.

I’m most grateful that Cape Cod is definitely the ice cream capital of the planet. Every neighborhood has an ice cream shop. We visited nearly all of them this summer. Fortunately for me, I could pay for my own small cup of vanilla just by letting them pet me. Can you believe that? Needless to say, I was in heaven.

Lastly, my Thanksgiving wish is that all homeless animals are blessed with a meal and find their forever homes.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone from Cape Cod!

How I Became a Dog Lover – Part 2

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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?

Nicholas, Dan, and Rick first evening home

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