Chloe was six months old when she came to us, a pretty little champagne coloured puppy with gentle, loving eyes. She had an impressive pedigree but she was small for a golden retriever – even for a female – and that, along with her mottled nose, meant she would never strut her stuff in the show ring. We didn’t care, though, because she was destined for a higher calling – to be our loved family pet.
Chloe was ‘golden’, but hardly a ‘retriever’ - she steadfastly refused to fetch a ball more than once, fixing us with an exasperated look that seemed to say “Why should I get it when all you’ll do is throw it away again?”
Built for comfort rather than speed, in recent years she loved nothing better than to laze on a warm garden bed soaking up the morning sun. She enjoyed so many cuddles during her full and happy life, and showed endless patience with our tiny granddaughter. After all, she had been a mother herself – after a one-night stand with the border collie down the road. It sure made us smile to see Chloe suckling five little black bundles of joy! Here she is with her babies (in no particular order!) Winston, Billie, Sox, Satchmo and Whoopi.
Sadly, we had to say our final goodbyes to our darling Chloe yesterday when she became very ill. She was 14 years old - a good age, we’re told, for a golden retriever.
As one of our children said, “She was a good girl”.
I like to think she’s in God’s perfect doggy heaven now, her old bones warmed by the sun as she sleeps forever on His flower bed.
[I know this is basically theologically unsound, but please let me have my fantasy. It helps.]