Mack in His Younger Days. Photograph, 4 x 6 in. Copyright Lianne Daradics, 2003. Used with permission.
I spent the day looking through my computer for pictures of Mack in the early years, and in addition to the photos, I also found an article I’d written about him. About a year after we adopted Mack from Lianne Daradics (Charmlee Goldens, Lianne provides Golden rescue for the province), she asked me if I’d write something for the “Rescue Spotlight” section of Golden Leaves, the Golden Retriever Club of Canada’s newsletter. I agreed. I’m not sure if they ever used what I wrote, but I did keep the original article and it made me smile as I read it and remembered the slightly shy, scrawny dog we brought home six years ago. I see also that I was hopeful enough then to think when the time came, my experiences with Mack would have spoiled me for nothing other than another Golden.
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Just a couple of weeks before Lianne asked me to write about Mack, my brother-in-law and his fiancée were over for a visit when the conversation turned to the newly engaged couple and their recent house hunting expeditions. When asked what features they were looking for in a home, their list included a yard suitable for a future dog. “What kind of dog?” we asked. “Mack,” was the reply. “Oh, yes,” we agreed, “Goldens are great dogs!” “I’m sure they are,” my soon to be sister-in-law said, “but I meant Mack.” We all enjoyed a good laugh, but I know she wasn’t joking. I have resigned myself to the fact that people who come to our house will greet our children and Mack before finally saying hello my husband or me. How has this Golden, without the usual recommendations of pedigree or titles, so endeared himself to us?
I could tell you about the experiences we’ve had together: classes and training; demonstrations at Girl Guide meetings and at school; and family outings – including trips up north to my husband’s family cabin where Mack has a standing invitation - the stamp of acceptance in their family. Mack even accompanied us on our honeymoon! But those things do not explain the touching and immediate way this dog reaches out to people. I wouldn’t understand how this could be possible if I, too, hadn’t fallen for him. And I think I can best explain that by telling how I came to adopt him from Lianne.
In early 2002, about a year after the death of Casey, our Border Collie cross, I decided it was time to find another dog for our family. Because I grew up on a farm with a variety of herding breeds I found myself looking for a dog with the sensibilities of a Rough Collie, but without the size and heavy grooming requirements. The joi de vivre and bidability of a Border Collie, but without the intensity and hyper-drive. I read books, surfed the Internet, and drove my husband to distraction with the seemingly endless research. One breed kept coming up over and over again, and I was convinced I had found the perfect dog for my family: the Australian Shepherd. I started looking for a breeder with an adult dog or a younger rescue dog and my friend Donna (a local poodle breeder) put the word out among her contacts in the dog world. It was summer before a reply came back from Lianne Daradics, a local dog breeder, who had a rescue dog that was “everything you want: year and a half old, mid-sized, well-mannered, likes people, safe around cats, but…he’s a Golden Retriever, named Molson.” A retriever? I thought sporting dogs were goofy, galumphing, perpetual puppies so enamoured by everyone that they were too friendly to be truly faithful. But a Golden named after an alcoholic beverage? It was almost too much.
However, as there weren’t any Aussie breeders beating a path to my door, I decided I would try to keep an open mind. I called Lianne and made an appointment to meet Molson that Saturday afternoon. As luck would have it, I had no sooner gotten off the phone with Lianne, when I got a call from a local Aussie breeder who also had a young dog. I made an appointment to meet with her Saturday morning. As I drove to my first appointment, I was very excited. This Aussie sounded like exactly what I was looking for and dreams of visiting my parent’s farm with my new working dog pranced through my head. And when I saw her she was exactly what I had pictured: a beautiful, compact dog, who moved with the aloof grace and assuredness of a pointed champion. I openly admit I drove to my appointment with Lianne more out of politeness than any real interest.
And so I met Molson. Lianne told the story of how he had come to her: found by a farmer on the side of the highway near Southey, chasing after a school bus, so starved he was little more than bones and fur. She had managed to put some weight on him while she evaluated his suitability for adoption, but he was still scrawny. Lianne invited me for a walk into the hills behind her home and when she left us in the front yard to let her dogs out of their run, Molson and I were alone. He did not follow after her, but came to sit at my left side. I reached down to pet him. My hand met the velvety fine fur on top of his head and he shifted his weight, placed a paw over my foot and leaned into my leg. He sat like that until the first of Lianne’s dogs rounded the corner of the house, then he was off, bounding across the yard to meet them.
While we walked, I could not help but note the sharp contrasts between Lianne’s dogs and Molson. Intelligent eyes and expressive ears highlighted their lovely heads; Molson accentuated the angles of his skull by keeping his eyes lowered and his ears well back, flicking them forward only in fleeting moments. Lianne’s dogs moved with joyful grace, as though sure of the path before them; Molson moved with cautious uncertainty, as though he could not trust the ground beneath his feet. In fact, the only similarity I could point to was the colour of their fur. Molson matched their rich, dark golden colours perfectly. We made our way back to Lianne’s house and into the living room. We sat, sharing the couches with several dogs. Molson sat on the floor beside me and once again leaned against my leg. This time, however, he raised his head, place his chin on my knee, and I looked down into the most open and trusting eyes I had ever seen.
I went through the motions of introducing my children to both dogs and to bringing Molson home for a trial weekend, but I was sold. Well, on everything but his name. My children picked the name “Mack” and we have, as the stories go, lived happily ever after. And, just in case you’re wondering: yes, my next dog will be a Golden. I may even name him “Molson.”
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