Golden Retriever - Chance, Coincidence or Reincarnation

Golden Retriever - Chance, Coincidence or Reincarnation

By: Lucy Burr

His eyes told me it was time to go. The cancer had taken its toll, and my 13-year-old Golden Retriever Teddy was ready for his final release. Under a heavy gray January sky, we placed him on a blanket next to a stream behind the vet's office. "He'll just fall asleep," said the vet as he administered the shot. "I'll be right back." When the vet returned five minutes later, Teddy was sound asleep and snoring. The vet picked him. "He has a strong heart. I'll take him inside. He'll be gone in a few minutes." With tears streaming down my face, I walked leadenly into the office and paid the bill. When I opened the door to leave, I looked at the spot where Teddy's blanket lay and knew he was gone. The sun's rays had broken through the clouds and infused his blanket with a soft, golden light. I could almost hear the angels sing as the clouds parted and the sun came out. God and his creatures at the Rainbow’s Bridge had welcomed my beloved Teddy.

Six months later, in September of 1997, I found myself at dog camp with Poppy, a young, mean spirited bitch of a Golden Retriever. Raphaela Pope, an animal communicator, was giving sessions, and I thought Poppy and I might benefit by seeing her. It wasn't long before I found myself talking about Teddy. "Would you like me to speak with him?" she asked. I explained that he'd been dead for almost eight months. "Sometimes I can get through to the other side, especially when there has been a strong earth bond. Would you like me to try?" I figured she was crazy as a loon, but told her to give it a try. Her knowledge of the time we'd had together was amazing, then she added: "Teddy says he can come back, and he'd like to be a Golden Retriever again. Would that be alright?" I was sure she'd lost her marbles, but said yes. "He says to expect a phone call about puppies in January, but you should wait for the second puppy. You'll know when the time is right."

Just before leaving camp, I spoke with a woman who owned a beautiful Golden Retriever named Bass, and asked to have his breeder give me a call when puppies were available. I got home and promptly forgot about my conversations with Raphaela and Bass's owner.

The following January, the phone rang. It was Bass's breeder. She'd didn't have any male puppies, but she'd bred Bass's half brother to a bitch in Southern California and said she'd have the owner contact me.

Within a week I'd sent a check for a male Golden Retriever puppy named Lick. Two months slipped away, and I still hadn't picked up my new puppy. On a lazy March weekend, I watched the clouds drift by, and noticed one of them looked like my dear Teddy's face. Slowly, it shape-shifted into a running puppy. That evening I called Lick's breeder.

"I can't believe you're calling me! I was just looking up your address so I could return your money. I hadn't heard from you and figured you didn't want him, so I sold him." It didn't bother me in the least, and I told her it was ok. Then she added, "We have another male, which we were going to keep, but we've decided to keep his sister instead. Would you like him?"

"Yes!" I shouted into the phone, "I'll be there in two days." I wasn't thinking about a second puppy, or Raphela Pope. I just knew I had to get there, fast. Two days later I was sitting on the couch when the breeder let the mother and her three puppies out of the garage. They tore though the den and into the back yard. But the last puppy stopped dead in his tracks at the back door, turned around, looked at me, then ran back into the room and jumped in my lap. "He's darling," I sputtered with a mouth full of puppy hair. "Which one is he?" "That's Teddy. He's your puppy." I was surprised by his name and told her, our old dog had been named Teddy. "Well, we were calling him Buddy, but he never seemed to respond to the name. My daughter came home from school a few weeks ago, said he looked like a teddy bear, and suggested we call him Teddy. I'm not sure why, but from that point on he responded to the name."

That night on the way to Napa, it began to snow. It had been nine years since I'd seen snow, much less driven in it, so I stopped at a motel. As I played in the snow with my new puppy, it hit me: the last time I'd driven in snow and stopped at a motel was when I moved to California with my old Teddy, heading for my new home in Napa.

A week later I called Teddy's breeder to find out where she'd taken him for training. At three months, he knew almost all the commands my old Teddy had learned over a 13 year period: come, stay, sit, lay down, move, wait, left, right, keep going, go around, don't touch. She said she'd only taught him to sit and walk on a leash. He's no different today at nine than he was when he arrived. We're best friends, communicate with out eyes, and walk slowly into the sunset with a great deal of love and respect for one another. Call it chance. Call it coincidence. Call it reincarnation. No matter what you call it, I got my best friend back and will love him forever.

Lucy Burr