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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.

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.

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.

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!

I never had a dog growing up in South Boston. We lived in the middle apartment of a triple decker house and though we lived right across the street from a huge city park our parents made sure me and my brothers were always busy with sports and had no time for a pet.  That’s why we were so excited the day that my grandmother and grandfather brought home a Golden/Lab puppy and named him Duke. He was a caramel-colored dog with huge paws and lots of energy.   We only lived a couple of blocks from my grandparents so we got to see “Dukie” often.

They lived in the middle apartment of their own triple decker and with a small back yard to play in. Our favorite thing to do was to drop a ball from the second story porch and watch Dukie retrieve it. The way he bounded down and around the wooden steps to the yard below, grabbed the ball with his wet mouth and then huffed and puffed back up the steps made us giggle with delight. Poor Dukie never got a moments rest.  With me and my three brothers along with my mother’s siblings, six of whom still lived there, it was no surprise that he liked to hide out on my grandparents’ bed for a break.  And even though my grandmother was fond of saying, “That damn dog is on the bed again.” Not much was ever done to keep him off of it.

With so much love and exercise, Duke lived a long and healthy life. It was a sad day for us all, when at fourteen, he got sick.

It wasn’t until I was 24 that I got to experience the joy that I felt with Dukie, again.  It was just before Christmas in 1983 when my partner, Rick and I drove in our giant Buick Le Sabre to pick up the runt of the litter of Golden Retrievers. He came home with us in a shoe box when he was eight weeks old.  Our new puppy bounced around in my lap. When I swaddled him like a newborn and touched his sweet tiny black nose, he bit my finger. This being my first dog, I was surprised how sharp his baby teeth were, they stung a bit. Within seconds, he was gnawing on the sleeve of my jacket. I’d never held such a young dog before and he squirmed his way out of my arms and slid on the front seat over to Rick’s side. Even he, the cautious driver, couldn’t resist reaching down with a hand and scooping the ball of strawberry gold fur up into his lap.

Once in our apartment, he waddled from room to room, following us wherever we went. We had covered the back porch with old newspapers and introduced him to his housebreaking room. I had never done this before and was nervous about my ability to accomplish this first goal. To our astonishment, he walked right across the sports section of the New York Times and piddled on a picture of New York Yankees manager Billy Martin. As a staunch Red Sox fan, I couldn’t have been prouder of my boy. Rick smirked, knowing my baseball loyalties, and said that our dog was going to make my job easy.

When we settled into the living room, the new addition to our family kept going to the staircase in the hallway and looking down at the door. It seemed he expected someone to come or else was eager to leave. “He’s not sure this is his home yet,” Rick said.

“Poor guy. We took him away from his mother.”

Rick assured me that by tomorrow he’d know that this was his home. Afraid that he might fall, I got up and carried him away from the stairs and into the living room.  As we sat on the couch, I ran my hands through his soft fur. I couldn’t restrain myself from kissing his forehead over and over again. I felt like I had to get as much love in as possible right there and then before someone took him away. I couldn’t believe he was ours. Then he wiggled away, 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 by the show of affection and his wide boyish grin that he, too, was thrilled to have a dog.

To be continued…