I bought my first house in 1990—a three bedroom townhouse in suburban Baltimore. I didn’t think I needed a house. It was something people told me I should do—prepare for the future.
But I was excited about one thing. I could finally get a dog.
Turns out, those people were right. My future came more quickly than I expected. As I was preparing to close on a house, I met a girl. We connected. She soon moved in. And it was nice to have the extra space.
As our first Christmas together approached, I wanted to get her something special. She was a dog lover. So was I. She liked Golden Retrievers. I liked German Shepherds.
I looked for puppies in the Baltimore Sun classifieds. There were Golden Retriever/German Shepherd mixed puppies for sale in Golden Ring.
I went to see them and met Boomer. He was unlike any dog I had ever seen before. He had a brindle coat and a German Shepherd face with ears that stood halfway up before flopping over—just enough to make him look a little goofy.
He came home with me that afternoon.
I learned many lessons from Boomer. The first one: a puppy as a Christmas present sounds like a good idea. But you’ll be housebreaking that puppy in January.
Boomer had the intellect of a German Shepherd and the spirit of a Golden Retriever—full of energy, but obedience was not his strong suit.
More than once, Boomer bolted out of the front door when someone opened it. He wasn’t chasing anything. He was just looking for adventure.
I would hear the commotion and, by the time I got to the door, he was nowhere in sight. I was never concerned. I just grabbed his leash and followed the path of our usual walks. I would find him casually trotting through the neighborhood taking himself for a walk. Every time.
Another lesson I learned from Boomer is to watch what you say out loud. You never know who is listening.
One evening, I asked my wife if she wanted pizza for dinner. Boomer’s ears shot up and he darted to the door to wait the delivery man. I had no idea he knew what pizza was—let alone the series of events that would follow.
I guess we ate a lot of pizza in those days. In fact, we ate a lot of take-out. Lesson three: never leave your food unattended.
That one was double-edged—part one coming when we stepped away from dinner one night and returned to find two full plates of Chinese food gone. Part two came a couple hours later when I had to clean up the mess.
More than anything, Boomer was part of our family.
When I asked my girlfriend to marry me, Boomer helped. I put a fanny pack on him and handed him a handwritten note with the word, “Mommy,” scribbled on the front.
He took it in his mouth and darted downstairs, eager to show off his prize. She read the note.
“Dear Mommy,
The other dogs in the neighborhood are teasing me because my parents aren’t married. I’m running away from home to end the embarrassment. Please check my fanny pack to make sure I have everything I need.”
When she opened the pack, she found an engagement ring.
He welcomed two children into the home with us. He was gentle with them when they were babies and patient when they were toddlers—climbing on him and tugging at his fur.
In addition to his Golden Retriever goofiness, he could command respect like a German Shepherd.
One day, I got a call at work that I had won a free home security system in a raffle I had entered a week earlier. The salesperson wanted to come to the house to talk about it.
She knocked. Boomer barked loudly as he always did. She jumped back about six feet. I held on to Boomer while she hurried past him into the living room. I told him to sit. He did, still alert.
She looked uncomfortable.
“I wanted you to meet our current security system,” I said.
I still do that today. Anyone who comes to the house—salesman, repairman, or unknown neighbor—meets the pack first.
In early 1999, the flu hit our family hard—really hard. Both children were sick, fevers spiking concerningly high. We were up through the night taking care of them—worried and exhausted—for seven days. Doctors told us the virus would run its course, and it did. But the first day we were all feeling better, Boomer was not.
He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t get up to go out.
I took him to the vet who found a large mass in his abdomen. That’s when I learned my first real lesson about hard choices—the ones you have to make when there are no good options, and someone you love can’t make the choice himself.
Boomer died at eight years old. He was too young. I was not prepared. It was hard.
And for a long time, all I could remember about Boomer was how he died.
Everything else—the chaos, the adventures, the love, the silly things we did—started to fade.
That bothered me.
Boomer deserved better.
We should never let the ending overshadow the joy.
If Boomer’s story reminds you of a dog you’ve loved, I’d be glad to hear about it.
You can find more stories from the pack here:
It is very tough to let go of a part of the family. Our pets are so close in there to us every day. Always happy to see us love our attention and can make our sad days. Happy. Another great story thanks Mitch.
Thanks, Jeff. You’re right. It’s not easy.