In 1976 John Brown unknowingly began a lifelong, generations-wide tradition. He gave his daughter a golden retriever puppy and my life, one among many others, was changed forever.

That tiny puppy from John Brown’s arms became Wrinkles, or Wrinx, and my mom took her everywhere: to the grocery store, graduations, first dates, second dates, movie night. You name it, Wrinx was there, waiting patiently in the car. A well-bred golden she’d point at every squirrel, moth and wind blown leaf she saw on their walks together, just like the hunters in her family before her, and she had that wonderful loving disposition that makes golden retrievers such great four-footed friends.

In 1978 Marcy was living in Pennsylvania with Gail, a long time friend. (They met in elementary school, and, as often happens with childhood acquaintances, they became very good friends in later years.) That October Marcy decided that Wrinx should be a mom, she was such a good dog, Marcy knew her puppies would be wonderful too.

Two months later, at 2AM on a very cold December night, Wrinx went into labor. The first potato-like puppy plopped out of a confused Wrinx who promptly ran across the house as fast as a very pregnant girl can run. Marcy shouted to wake Gail, “The puppies are coming! THE PUPPIES ARE COMING!!” (this was the first of many such cries in the decades to come). Gail rushed to the scene where she found Marcy comforting a frantic Wrinx. She ran to the newborn puppy, broke his amniotic sac and rubbed life into him. As he wriggled around she placed him on top of Wrinx, who, realizing the whole thing was only getting started, birthed another puppy and promptly bolted out of the room. Marcy left Gail to deal with this second puppy and shouted as she chased after Wrinx “Call my father! Tell him we need him to come over NOW!!” So at 2:30AM on a bone-chilling December night, Gail called John Brown. He arrived ten minutes later trudging into the cottage in his Bean Boots, red flannel pajamas and his hunting coat.

My grandfather calmly surveyed the scene and finally asked one question, “where is her whelping box?” Gail and Marcy shared a bashful glance as Marcy confessed, “Oh…we don’t have one.” John Brown sighed and said “Well make one, or at least make something. And both of you calm down.” Gail and Marcy hopped to it and dragged an extra mattress to the corner of the room. They put Wrinx and her suckling puppies on it and John Brown patted her head softly telling her what a good girl she was. As the minutes dragged by the three of them sat in silence, waiting to see how Wrinx would handle the rest of the ordeal. The next puppy arrived with little commotion. Wrinx took over the duties Gail had performed on the first two pups and, around 4AM John Brown, deciding his work there was done, said “well you two have this under control, so I can go home now.” And, as calmly as he’d walked in, he walked out the door. Over the next ten hours Wrinx had ten more puppies and that day her family became our family. These puppies would have more puppies and with each generation our families would wind closer together, walking the world side by side.

Jenny Swoops, Mom and Gail’s down-the-street neighbor took home a little puppy named Betty. And John Brown and my grandmother adopted a girl whom they named Samantha. Two years later my mom was living in Betterton (jewel of the Chesapeake), when Betty had a litter. Wrinx would have been four years old, but a year earlier she had escaped from the car she travelled in so often, and tragically drowned nearby. When Marcy got the news that Wrinx’s grandpuppies had been born, she raced north to pick one out. She named her new little girl Quid, for Tannequidgen which means crab, because crabs can’t drown.

After a few years my mom was ready for a new litter of puppies in her life, she knew at least half a dozen people who wanted a dog from Wrinx’s family and decided it was time. Major, a huge golden retriever that was a world class hunting dog, belonged to my mom’s friend Joyce and her husband Clint. A few months later Major and Quid begat Chief, who went to join his aunt Samantha with my grandparents, Scrapper, who went to live with my dad’s best friend Wayne, Jack who stayed with my parents, and Milo who went to Joyce and Clint, but died shortly after of Parvo. Chief and Scrapper would be the first of Wrinx’s family that I would remember.

Chief was regal, smart, loyal, loving, tender and proud. Much like my grandfather.

Scrapper was similar, if a little scrappy, much like Wayne.

Jack was my first dog. But, sadly, he did not make it into my memories, though there are many pictures of us together before he ingested a rock and, despite three trips to the vet, could not be saved.

Four years later Scrapper fathered a litter and 8 weeks after that I sat in the old Datsun truck, between my parents, hugging a new puppy, the most ecstatic a five-year-old child could be. My dad pushed to call him Beercan, but we vetoed that and he became Stout, solidifying a family tradition, that our dogs, Wrinx’s family, would be named for booze from there on out.

Stout was a dark red golden with all the characteristics of his family members before him. One warm summer afternoon my mom and I were floating on the creek in a little rubber toy with a rope trailing behind us. When we floated too far from shore Stout would admirably hop into the water, paddle over to us, grab the rope in his teeth and pull us to dry land. It was heartwarming, and a little annoying…

My grandparents traveled a lot so Stout’s uncle Chief spent a large part of his time at our house. Stout loved when Chief would visit. They were both alpha dogs and together they roamed and protected their territory, ganging up on any dogs they met along the way. Because of their aggressive behavior when united, we finally made the decision to give Stout to our very good friends: Jim and Tracy and their kids Zach and Tory. Zach and Tory were my best friends and I spent countless afternoons at their house, so I would see Stout regularly, and no other dogs would trespass on his land.

When he was 12 or so Stout was diagnosed with cancer. Tracy called me and I’ll never forget how she phrased the sentence when she told me they had put him down. “Matty” she said, “I would have eaten glass if it would have given him just a few more pain free days. But we had to let him go.”  It was one of the most painful conversations I have ever endured.

A year after we gave Stout to Zach and Tory, my parents had Chief father a litter in our town. Soon there were 10 more puppies in Wrinx’s family. And there would be two more in ours.

It was decided that we would get a puppy and that she would be mine, I knew I wanted a girl and I spent hours with the litter trying to choose the best one for me. I kept coming back to a medium sized girl with a white birthmark on her stomach. Meanwhile my dad fell in love with a husky male that slept all day every day, usually in my father’s arms. The day came to take our puppy home and I rushed to take Tammy from the litter (at the age of 7 I had strayed from the alcohol dog naming trend). I was so happy the whole ride home, I failed to noticed how sad my dad was to leave the chunky sleeper behind.

My mom did notice though, and two days later my dad and I intercepted a voicemail from the owner of the litter while my mom was out. “Hey,” the message said, “I’m holding that big male for you, when are you going to come pick him up?” My mom’s anniversary surprise for my dad ruined, the two of us took off full speed to go get Suds, and bring him home.

Suds slept a lot. Tammy was glued to my hip. Her favorite game was soccer and we would run around the yard passing the ball between us. She trekked into the woods with me on countless adventures while Suds slept under the porch in a hole he’d dug to get to cooler ground.

They were a year and a half old when they pulled a package of chocolate chips off the counter. We woke up to find the kitchen strewn with yellow plastic, no chocolate in sight. When I got home from school Suds greeted us at the car, clearly glad we were home. Tammy was nowhere to be seen. A few hours later, we buried her on the bluff overlooking the water, next to her uncle Jack. My dad was away, so Wayne, Scrapper’s owner, came over to help. He told me all dogs go to heaven and I cried and cried while he filled up the hole, with my best friend inside.

Chocolate has a caffeine cousin in it called Theobromine. Dogs can’t process this chemical the way we can and too much can be fatal. Suds was much bigger than Tammy, so he could handle it, but it was too much for her. I hate thinking of her uncomfortable, scared, confused and alone dying on the lawn. She had tried eating grass to throw up, but it was too late. I hope Suds was with her at the end.

It wasn’t long before Suds was forgoing his nap-time and accompanying me on my adventures down through the woods around our house. He slept under trees I climbed and crossed rivers while I crawled over fallen-log bridges. Without Tammy at my side he assumed the role of guardian.

I remember picking black raspberries down by the water on the rock jetty while he laid in the sun, one eye closed, one eye on me. I knew that the moment danger crossed my path he would be there. That if I was hurt he would sound the alarm. That if he sensed a storm rolling in he would trot home, looking back and barking to make sure I’d follow.

Suds the sleeper was a million dollar dog. The kind of dog that has an old, knowing soul. He was gentle, stoic, kind and caring. He loved being part of the action, even if he slept through it. At parties at our house he would often wander into the middle of a group of people talking, and promptly fall asleep at their feet after a few head pats. He would wake to notice they had moved on, wander over to another group and lay down again for another nap. He wasn’t afraid of fireworks or gunshots. He hardly ever ran away. He always came when called. He would put his big head on your lap and beg with watery eyes for just one more ear scratch.

He was also a force to reckon with. My dad is a tugboat captain, he works for 2 weeks at a time and comes home at strange hours at the end of his trips. One night he got in around 4am, not wanting to wake the dog, and have him wake us with his happy barking, he snuck in the back door. That night my dad met a snarling, growling and snapping Suds who had barreled through the gate from the kitchen into the living room to take on the intruder. As Suds lunged he realized who my dad was in mid air, did a little pirouette and landed a happy and friendly, mildly embarrassed, golden retriever again.

Chief and Suds, father and son, were thick as thieves. I saw them fight once, Chief remained on the dock, Suds ended up in the water. They never fought again.

Across the creek from our house is a sand-spit that people anchor their boats on during the weekends. The dogs have always loved to swim over and greet the yachters. We’d notice they were gone and a with a quick glance off the bluff we’d see them, mid swim, or trotting around on the point, looking for hotdogs and pats on the head. As Chief grew older he still enjoyed making the swim but it was not as easy as it had been. So Suds, who could do a few round trips before Chief made one leg of it, started swimming in circles around his father, keeping an eye on him.

My mom saw Suds walk straight off the dock once. She’s seen my dad do the same thing.

There was a time, before Suds was in the picture, that Chief locked himself in the cellar. He was in there for quite a while before anyone noticed. He must have somehow warned Suds, because Suds stayed away from that place like it was hell on earth. And Suds must have told our dogs after that because none of them have ever set foot in there, no matter how much coaxing they get.

I was nine years old when my grandfather, John Brown, Chief’s owner, passed away. We spread his ashes in two places: in the soil where we planted a tree so that new life could blossom, and in Langford creek where Bop hunted, boated, and sat enjoying the sunsets. As the ashes dissolved in the water behind the dinghy, Chief, quickly followed by Suds, jumped in the water and paddled through them, a final goodbye to the man who started this whole thing in the first place. A few months later Chief curled up in a comfy spot under the porch, and joined John Brown, not wanting to live without that knobby gentle hand on his head.

Two years later we brought a new puppy home. She was the first dog to come to our family that wasn’t related to Wrinx. Nugget (for Golden Nugget – also straying from the alcohol name trend) was playful and shy, and loved to roll in the mud. We hoped she and Suds would hit it off so we could have some more puppies in the house.

It took a few tries for Nugget to get pregnant, and when she finally did, she only had two pups, both males.

One, who would later be named Whiskey, went to Zach and Tory’s parents, just a year after Stout joined Tammy, Jack, and Chief, on the bluff overlooking the creek. Suds always slept at Gail’s side when she would visit Marcy down on the Eastern Shore, so Flip, Suds’ son, Whiskey’s brother, and the great great great grandpuppy of Wrinx (who Gail helped have all 13 puppies so many years ago), rightfully went home with her and her family.

After a few more failed attempts at getting Nugget pregnant (and more false pregnancies that we can count!) she was spayed, and Suds went on to father one more litter when I was 17. Tammy had been my dog. Suds was my dad’s. My mom’s was Nugget. And it had come back around to me. I knew I wanted a girl, so we could maybe have a litter of puppies in the family again. I agonized over a name, until my best friend Sarah suggested Bailey.  Finally the day came and Zach, Tory and I hopped in the Explorer to pick up Suds’ daughter, Tammy’s niece. It was the winter of my senior year of high school, and she threw up all over the back seat…

Bailey was a wonderful puppy, playful, quick to forgive, easy to train, dominant but willing to submit to dogs like Suds. When I go home now she sticks to me like glue. She sleeps in my bed and does what I ask her to.

When I was 18 my mom ran over Bailey’s foot in the car. I put her in the Explorer and told my (panicking) mom to breathe, and to call the vet and tell him to expect us.

It was only a sprain and she would be fine, but I was still pretty shocked by the whole ordeal and on the way home I got pulled over for not wearing my seatbelt. As the cop walked to my car I realized my mistake, and hastily buckled in. Bailey (who never got over her car sickness problems) stuck her head out the window to greet the cop. A long line of sloppy drool came with her, and found its way to the cop’s uniform. “Ugh! Nice dog.” He said, with as much sarcasm dripping off his words as there was drool dripping down his chest.

Having just narrowly missed losing Bailey forever, I was not in the mood to hear him criticise her, or me. He asked me about my seatbelt neglect and I told him he was crazy and I’d been wearing it the whole time. I was not very friendly but he let me go with a smirk and told me to drive safe.

Bailey has gone through 3 pregnancies, the first ended in a miscarriage after a uterus infection. My family and I were in Paris at the time and it was really scary to be away from her. But I was there the first time she gave birth.

Puppy gestation takes 63 days. But dogs can get pregnant for the entire time they are in heat. Even by different dogs. So it’s possible that a litter could be half purebred golden, half goldendoodles, and after 63 days from the first set of pups gestating, all of them are born. So some pups could actually be a few days younger than their siblings.

From Bailey’s 61st day on we were taking her temperature almost hourly (it will drop from 100 to 98 when she goes into labor), testing to see if she was hungry (she won’t eat if she’s about to go into labor), and watching her very closely. On the night of day 62 she got pretty frantic. Wanting to go out, to come in, to go out, to come in, over and over and over again. Finally we coaxed her into her whelping box (we remembered to build one this time, unlike 28-year-old Marcy and Gail), under the dining table. Her breathing was heavy, contractions were spasming through her. When she birthed the first pup she had no idea what to do. After a few agonizing seconds my mom picked up the puppy, broke the amniotic sac and handed the wriggling potato to Bailey, who immediately set about licking life into the little guy. She broke the umbilical cord with her teeth, consumed the placenta and settled down, happy the ordeal was over.

She was not expecting to endure this process again, but she did, seven more times. She didn’t need our help breaking anymore sacs, and by pup 8 she was a pro. Her discomfort seemed to fade and after a few hours with no more puppies we were certain that she was done, so my mom and I went to bed, leaving Bailey to acclimate to motherhood.

In the morning we found five more puppies in the box with her, two happily feeding, three, tragically still. We removed the cold stillborn pups, buried them quietly on the bluff beside their family members, and went back inside to care for the living.

Puppies are so amazing! It’s a crazy thing to literally witness a life begin, to go from dreamlike underwater state, to out in the world, nose smelling, mouth squeaking and lungs breathing. In three weeks they were a rumbling tumbling pile of puppies. Everything was new, even things they’d already encountered.

We put colored collars on them to start to see their personalities blossom.There was a sleeper in the mix. Just like Suds, his main mission was to wander off to the cool shade under a bush away from his rowdy siblings and pass out. It’s tough work being a puppy!

Nugget was always the wildest of our dogs. After she had her two puppies she would go hunting and actually catch things, she brought a dead bird to the door every day to feed to her family. She loved to hunt in the frog pound out in one of the gardens (and taught her sons to do the same.) She was certainly a dog marching to her own beat. She was a little nervous, a little smelly, and she liked to be outside as much as possible. She used to get so close to the fire her whiskers should have burned off. When she was older she tap danced for her food. One time, near the end of her life, she could barely make it down the two steps on the front porch, but we found her a week later miles from our house. In the fall of 2012 my parents knew the end was near for Nug. One warm night they let her sleep outside (she always wanted to sleep outside) in the morning she lifted her head to greet my dad, and then put it back on her paws. He checked on her half an hour later, and she was still. Now she’s sleeping forever on the bluff, looking over the water, an inlaw in the midst of a wonderful family.

Captain is still a sleeper. He is calm and loving and the kind of dog that leans into you while you pet him. If you step aside he’ll tumble to the floor. Bailey has grown so ornery! Motherhood has made her bossy. And without Nugget around to be the crazy one Bailey seems to have taken up the mantle. She growls a little when she wants something, she comes half the time she’s called. She’s even started tap dancing.

And now, the latest development in the intertwinement of these dogs and our family started by Wrinx and John Brown almost 4 decades ago: Brady, the pup that went off to New Jersey in 2009 has had a litter. 3 boys, 3 girls, and one of them is coming to Colorado.

We decided on a boy this time. Bender (aka BendërBrāu Bending Wait-For-It Rodriguez), is my Bailey’s grandson; if I’ve done the math correctly he is Wrinx’s great, great, great, great, great, grandson, and he is going to be a loving and well-loved mountain dog.

After 13 years of being part of their family, and continuing a 40 year tradition, Gail, her husband Gary, and her daughter Emily had to put Flip down this spring. He took one last trip home to where he was born, where he had spent many weekends visiting his parents, swimming in the creek, imitating his father, and hunting frogs with his mother. When he turned twelve he aged very suddenly. Generally a spry dog, this wonderful, polite gentleman could barely stand without the help of a harness. He was a 115lb dog at his optimal weight, but dropped to 104 that year.

Gail ran into a friend, Kim, in the grocery store one day, and sadly started talking about how she knew Flip was fading. “But how will I know?” she asked, “how will I know that it’s time.” Kim looked at her for a second and finally said “You know he’s dying now, but he’ll let you know when he’s ready, after a great day. Plan a great day.” So, in an inspired moment of genius Gail and Emily decided to make him a bucket list before confronting that most awful goodbye. On the list were things like eat a few chocolate chips for once, be allowed to order from the McDonalds drive through, and make one last trip to Maryland. He knew the ride by heart, perking up as the car turned into the driveway. Once there he did all he could to drag everyone down to the creek, but, knowing they’d never get him back up the hill, they took him to the bluff to stand with his family members who had been laid to rest before him and look out on the water he’d swam in so many times.

Like his mother he laid down in front of the fireplace, and he took one last trip out to the frog pond to wet his feet and smile at his many memories of that place. Gail swears Nugget was right there with him. And after the hardest goodbye Gail spread Flip’s ashes over the bluff, so he might rest with his family.

But it’s not all bad news, this litter came exactly at the right time, and they are getting a girl, Gilly. While she won’t ever replace Flip, she’ll fill the empty space that belongs to a family without a dog to lay his or her big head in their lap. And in a few years she’ll have a litter so Gail’s daughter Emily, and the other kids in my generation who grew up loving these dogs, Sarah, Kelsey, Zach, Tory and so many others, can have a puppy wherever they may be.

It ends there for now. But not forever.