I was introduced to golden retrievers when I was 4 years old. We already had an Irish setter, Anjin, and my mom brought home a puppy friend for him that she named Tasha. She wasn’t even full grown when she scaled a 6-foot chain link fence and ran away and we never saw her again.

Anjin, who had come to us as a stray when I was 2, knew a good thing when he saw it and stayed put. When I was 5, we got his second friend, our second retriever named DC (for direct current, because she always ran around the yard at the same speed and in the same direction). We managed to keep her for about a year, until she streaked through a gate I had left open, reached the highway in front of my great-grandfather’s farmhouse in about 3 seconds, and was promptly hit by a car. 

Anjin hung in there until I was 17 and died the summer before I left for college.

You’d think I’d want an Irish setter, right? You’d think I’d be scarred for life by goldens and prefer to avoid these dogs. You’d be wrong. 

When I moved out on my own, I spent a miserably lonely year in an apartment. As soon as the lease was up, I rented a house in a slum because I could afford a back yard. And I adopted Gatsby from a rescue. I actually went to look for Irish setters, but I met that high-bouncing gold-hatted lover and all other bets were off.

He was my darling. He saw me through my 20s, a second dog to keep him company (a black lab mix named Anubis, or Annie), a slew of boyfriends, a slew of jobs, a marriage, and a baby. He even died on cue: A doctor told me our eczema-crusted toddler was allergic to dogs and milk, and three days later, Gatsby called it quits.

We didn’t get another dog for a long time after that. We switched to cats—until another round of allergy testing on the kid indicated dogs were not a problem, just everything else: trees, grass, dirt … you name it.  We started the kid on shots. We wound up taking our niece’s dog when she decided it was too much to manage two crazy boys, some cats, and a dog that was too rough for the smaller boy.  Amy was half shar pei, half black lab. She was a nice girl, but way more shar pei than lab in terms of personality. Smart and protective, but not much of a lover, really. 

When she died, in the middle of COVID, my husband was all, “No More Dogs.” The kid was almost done with high school; the cats were ancient, it was time to start making elaborate plans involving extended travel. I acquiesced.

That lasted about a month. I got depressed. I watched dog videos on social media. Then I started scouring rescue sites like they were porn. But the posts were all pit bulls and little punt dogs. I have no issue with folks who love those dogs; I’m glad those people exist. I’m just not one of them.

Occasionally I would find a post of a dog that looked friendly and not too damaged. My husband would shake his head and roll his eyes.

“Why don’t you get a puppy?” my mom asked.

“Because rescue puppies are hard to come by and there’s no telling what’s wrong with them,” I said.

“OK, why don’t you BUY a puppy?”

Well, that was a fair question. I had never bought a dog in my life. I had always adopted rescues and spent time working on fixing what the previous owners had messed up. Why NOT buy a puppy? Why not screw one up myself from scratch?

I started looking at breeder sites. I talked to a friend who breeds poodles. I figured that I’m not getting younger, I’ve got it in me to handle one more big dog getting old and needing to be lifted into a car to get to the vet.  So what kind of big dog did I want?

No contest. The husband agreed.

We made a false start with an absolutely bonkers breeder in Georgia who wanted us to send her full payment before ever even seeing the dog. We declined. We found another breeder who was much more rational.  Had AKC papers and health testing. Sent videos.  And so it was that one lovely spring day the hubs, the kid, and I drove a couple hours and picked up Miss Nicky Barkstrom.  She was an adorable puppy. Driving home, she did not get carsick, and she knew to whine so we could pull over. I put her on the ground and she peed immediately, then looked at me like, “OK, all set.”

She was in the house about 30 seconds before it became very clear that she was Daddy’s Girl. And he was her slave. “No dogs on the bed,” he’d said. Until the puppy climbed the quilt like it was Everest and he didn’t have the heart to toss her off.

She was sweet. She was eager to please. She was extremely food motivated. She was not a big fan of the wading pool or other water, but things were going great.

She was also very skinny despite eating voraciously. The vet assured me it was because she was still growing. She went through her first heat. Nothing remarkable there, but she got even skinnier. The vet said it was fine—maybe even a good thing, since retrievers are prone to obesity. She loved fetch and the treats she got for bringing the ball back.

We moved to Illinois. She was still skinny. She also had the runs a lot, but I figured it was anxiety from a new house and I’d give it a week or two. Then I noticed a fleck in her eye, so we took her to the vet.

God bless this vet. She ran a bunch of tests and informed us that our dog, barely out of puppyhood, had some gut issues, some hormone issues, and was diabetic. I wrote the breeder. None of the other pups were; apparently our girl just lost the genetic lottery.

We got her on medication. She evened out. She was also put on a very strict diet to regulate blood sugar. No scraps, very limited treats. But all the ice cubes she could crunch.

Needless to say, the treat issue put a big dent in her game of fetch. When the rewards diminished, so did her interest. She’s still only good for a toss or two. But she knows plenty of other tricks. She has escaped our yard once and then wandered the neighborhood looking for nice people to pat her head. She doesn’t bolt; she doesn’t wander off. She seems to know her boundaries, and she knows who belongs and who doesn’t—although she does still bark when delivery guys leave stuff at the front door.

(Incidentally, and maybe not coincidentally, tomorrow is National Thank a Mail Carrier Day. If your dog is also a barker—or even if they aren’t—maybe leave a nice card in your box!)

All in all, she’s our girl and she’s doing great!