When my family got our Labrador retriever, he was about 5 months old. My cousin owned his dad, Barkley, a black Lab. A friend owned Winnie, a white/yellow Lab. There were 9 puppies, two were yellow.
I’d wanted a golden retriever for a while. I knew if I ever got a gold colored dog, I’d name him Midas. But the little bear cub that trotted around the corner of my father’s house came with his own name — Toby.
My father told me I could change his name, but it just didn’t seem right. The boy already knew what he was called, and he was just taken from his canine pack and his mama. The least I could do was let him keep his name.
Since then, I have received countless pooch smooches, paw shakes and high (paw) fives. We’ve been down the eastern seaboard, across the Chesapeake Bay, across the country, swimming in the Niagara River, through dozens of drive-thru’s, hundreds of visits to “Aunt Amy’s” house, and even made homemade dog treats together.
He has truly been my best friend.
The other day I woke up to a smooshed Lab muzzle in my face and two amber-colored eyes staring at me. His bum was wiggling, tail thumping on the bed and more kisses. There’s no better way to wake up.
The Unmanned Stagecoach 