Sun & Sand Goldens

Isabelle’s Story: The Dog I Couldn’t Keep but Never Stopped Loving

Not every rescue story ends in the way we hope. Some dogs come into our lives for a moment, leave an impact that never fades, and remind us that even the strongest love sometimes isn’t enough. For me, that dog was Isabelle.

Isabelle came to me right after having puppies. Her body was worn, her spirit frayed, and her eyes those deep, watchful eyes held stories I would never fully understand. She wasn’t just a dog in need. She was a soul in survival mode, trying to make sense of safety in a world that had only ever asked her to defend what little she had.

I wanted so badly to be her safe place.

From the start, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Isabelle wasn’t just cautious she was on edge, hyper-aware, and overwhelmed. She was resource guarding everything: her food, her space, even her presence. She lashed out not out of cruelty, but out of pure instinct. She had spent so long having to protect herself and her babies that she didn’t know how to live without that edge.

She didn’t trust my other dogs. The aggression was real, and it came fast. I tried to manage it separating spaces, supervising closely, staying patient. I saw glimpses of softness in her, quiet moments where her guard dropped just enough to imagine what could be. But they were fleeting, and they were never enough to make life safe for her or my pack.

I’ve worked with dogs long enough to know that healing takes time. And I gave her every bit of time I could. But sometimes, even the biggest heart and the best intentions can’t change the fact that certain situations need more than one person can offer.

Letting go of Isabelle was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

I had to find another rescue to take her a place better equipped to help her work through the trauma and behaviors that were too big for me alone. That decision felt like a defeat, even though I knew deep down it wasn’t. I wanted to be the one who helped her turn the page. I wanted her to look at me one day and know she was safe.

But the truth is, some dogs come with wounds that need more than one home to heal.

Isabelle broke my heart in the way that only the ones you can’t keep do. She’s the one that still lingers in the back of my mind when I’m watching other dogs play peacefully in the yard. She’s the one I think about when I see a new rescue come in, wide-eyed and afraid. Because I know the difference between fear and trauma now. I saw it in her.

And even though our time together was short, I saw her. Beneath the tension and growls was a dog who had just never known safety. A dog who had been let down again and again. A dog who wanted love but didn’t know how to trust it. I didn’t fail her. I gave her a step forward and sometimes that has to be enough.

I don’t know where Isabelle is today. I hope she found a place where she could finally exhale. A place that was quiet, patient, and steady. I hope someone took the time to reach her in a way I couldn’t. And I hope she knows that, for a while, she was deeply loved even when she couldn’t return it.

She may not have stayed with me, but she stayed in my heart. Some dogs do that. They change you, challenge you, and leave you different than they found you.

Isabelle reminded me that rescue work is about more than happy endings. It’s about meeting a dog where they are, even if they can’t stay. It’s about doing the right thing, not the easy thing. And it’s about loving without condition even when it breaks your heart.

Daisy might only be three going on four, but she’s already lived a big, beautiful chapter of her life as a mom and now she’s enjoying every bit of her well-earned retirement. She’s had two litters, one with Shadow and one with Fred, and to say she was a natural would be an understatement. She took to motherhood like she was born for it. Gentle, patient, and endlessly nurturing, Daisy gave everything she had to those pups. But after watching her pour her whole heart into raising her babies, I knew it was time to let her rest. I love her far too much not to.

Now she’s retired, and this next chapter of her life is slower, softer, and just as meaningful. She no longer has pups nursing at her side or trailing behind her everywhere she goes, but that motherly instinct hasn’t gone anywhere. Daisy still watches every puppy that comes through this house with those same warm eyes and that steady calm. She may not be the one doing the hard work anymore, but she’s still the one the babies gravitate to.

She’s seen a lot of puppies come and go some she raised herself, others born from different moms but she treats each one like they’re her own. It doesn’t matter who they belong to. If they need a little extra love or someone to cuddle up to, Daisy’s right there. She doesn’t push herself into the center of attention, but somehow, that’s exactly where she always ends up.

When I brought in new additions to the pack, Daisy welcomed them with open paws. There was no jealousy, no pushback just that classic Daisy grace. She sniffed them over, gave her quiet approval, and carried on like she’s known them all her life. It’s like she knows her role has shifted from active mom to honorary auntie, and she wears it beautifully.

She’s still playful, still silly, still Daisy. She gets the zoomies when the mood strikes, and she never misses the chance to chase a ball or roll in the grass. But there’s a new kind of peace in her now. She moves with the ease of a dog who’s found her place in the world. She knows she’s loved, she knows she’s home, and she knows she’s done her part.

Daisy doesn’t need a new litter to feel fulfilled she just needs to be near her people and her pack. Her heart’s still as big as ever, and she’s always ready to give it away. That quiet, steady love never left.

And honestly, I don’t think it ever will.

From the Other Side: A Dog’s Final Message to the One They Loved

Please Be Happy

From your dog, from the other side

Please don’t cry too long. I know your heart is heavy, and mine was full when I left. My tail may be still now, but everything we shared still moves through time. What we had doesn’t end it just changes shape.

You were my whole world. I saw every sunrise and every treat through your eyes. You brought joy in your voice, peace in your hands, and comfort in your footsteps. With you, everything made sense. You were my safety. You were my home.

I know it hurts. I know the silence feels unfair. But I’m not far, not really. Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m gone. I’m there when you open the door. I’m in the sound of paws that aren't really there. I’m the memory that makes you smile before the tears come.

If I could speak again, just once, I’d tell you to get up. Step outside. Let the sun hit your face. Let the wind tangle your hair the way I used to. Run like I did no plan, just the thrill of the moment. Chase something wild. Something beautiful.

I’d want you to live fully. Laugh without guilt. Smile without hesitation. If I meant anything to you, then let that love light you forward, not hold you back. Joy was always what I wanted for you when I was with you, and even now.

I didn’t need forever. I just needed you. And you gave me everything I could’ve ever hoped for. You were strong, even when you thought you weren’t. You showed up every day, and that mattered more than you know.

So let me be the soft push that helps you find your way again. Let my memory be a spark, not a shadow. Remember the good. Let it wrap around you, not weigh you down.

Because when you smile, I’m right there. When you laugh, I feel like I’m home again. No pain. No fear. Just the echo of all the beautiful days we had.

So go live. Go love. Go run free just like I do now.

Your happiness was always my favorite thing to chase.

What It Really Means to Own a Dog

Beyond the Cute Pics and Wagging Tails

We all love the idea of having a dog. The heart-melting eyes. The Instagram-worthy cuddles. The tail that thumps just because you walked in the room.

But if you’ve ever rescued, fostered, or adopted a dog especially one that didn’t come with a clean slate you already know.

It’s more than cute.

It’s real.

It’s not just long walks and happy licks. It’s work. It’s patience. It’s showing up, every single day, whether you’re ready or not.

It’s Not Always Pretty

Owning a dog, really owning a dog means you’re signing up for muddy floors, chewed-up furniture, and fur in every crevice of your life. It’s learning to read their body language better than you understand your own mood some days.

It’s messy.

It’s inconvenient.

And it’s one of the most honest relationships you’ll ever have.

Especially with rescue dogs.

They don’t always trust at first. They might flinch, hide, freeze. Sometimes they come home carrying trauma in their bones. You might feel like a stranger in your own home at first, tiptoeing around their fears, unsure how to help.

But then, one day, they inch closer.

They wag their tail.

They eat in front of you.

They nap on your feet.

And just like that, the walls begin to come down.

The Things No One Sees

They don’t see the 5:00 a.m. wakeups for potty training or medications.

They don’t see the walks in the pouring rain because your dog is anxious if they miss their routine.

They don’t see you learning to clip nails, clean ears, or hand-feed dinner just so they’ll eat.

They don’t see the quiet victories.

Like when your formerly shut-down dog wags her tail for the first time.

Or the first time they run to you instead of away.

Or the night they finally curl up beside you and exhale like they finally feel safe.

That’s the moment rescue becomes more than a word. It becomes a connection.

The Trade-Off? Love You Can’t Measure

Yes, you lose the freedom to travel on a whim.

Yes, you budget differently because vet bills are real.

Yes, your white couch may never be white again.

But in exchange, you get something bigger.

You get love that never plays games.

You get a companion who won’t leave when life gets hard.

You get to become someone’s entire world.

And they become yours.

There’s No Manual, Just Heart

Rescue doesn’t come with a step-by-step guide.

It’s not always neat or easy or immediately rewarding.

But it’s honest. Raw. Unfiltered.

It’s about showing up when the honeymoon ends.

It’s about staying when progress is slow.

It’s about loving a dog enough to give them the time they need to become who they were always meant to be.

And when they get there?

When they finally bloom in the safety you created for them?

That’s when you realize the truth:

You didn’t just save a dog.

You built a life together.

Thinking of adopting? Or maybe you’re in the middle of that messy, beautiful transition with your new rescue? Just know this: it won’t always be easy. But it will be worth it.

And when in doubt? Reach out. We’re here to walk beside you.

A Breeder’s Wish: The Unseen Heart Behind Every Puppy

There’s a side to breeding that rarely gets talked about. It's not in the contracts, the health clearances, or the pick-up day instructions. It's in the quiet, sacred space between a heartbeat and a breath the moment a new life enters the world and everything changes. Because from that first cry, from that first fragile inhale, I’m all in.

As a breeder, my greatest wish isn’t for ribbons or recognition. It’s for people to understand what it really means to love this deeply, this often, and this unconditionally. Every litter I welcome into the world takes a piece of me with it. And that’s not just poetic it’s the truth.

From First Breath to First Steps

Long before eyes open or ears can hear, I am there. I’m talking to them as they squirm blindly in my palms, telling them they are safe, they are wanted, they are loved. I hold them against my chest not just to keep them warm, but because that’s the place closest to my heart. I memorize the shape of their heads, the sound of their tiny squeaks, and the feel of their wobbly movements against my skin. Each one is known. Each one is special. Each one matters.

I pour my entire soul into every litter not just their survival, but their thriving. I obsess over their growth, their milestones, their personalities as they develop. I document their days not because I have to, but because I want to remember. Because this is not a job it’s a calling.

I make choices based on instinct honed through years of experience, medical training, and an unwavering sense of responsibility. As a veterinary assistant, I do more than feed and clean I assess hydration, monitor weight fluctuations, treat any signs of distress, and act swiftly when something’s not right. I am not guessing. I am watching always. Because I know how fast things can change.

This is not just care. It’s devotion.

Saying Goodbye: A Bittersweet Duty

When the time comes for my puppies to go to their new homes, I’m the one holding back tears behind the smiles. People see the happy handoff, the wagging tails and joyful goodbyes but they don’t see the empty whelping box I stand over that night. They don’t hear the silence where squeaky toys and puppy yelps once filled the room. They don’t see the spot on the floor where I used to sit for hours, just soaking in their presence.

Yes, it’s what I signed up for. But that doesn’t make it easier.

I do my best to match each pup with the right home. I screen, I educate, I support. I send them off with care packages, transition instructions, lifelong support, and a heart full of hope. I ask for updates, not because I’m nosy but because I care. I want to know if the puppy who loved to cuddle still curls up in laps. I want to know if the quiet one found their voice, if the bold one found a challenge worthy of their spark.

But not everyone stays in touch. Some disappear. Some send a photo once and never again. And those are the ones I wonder about in the middle of the night. Are they happy? Are they healthy? Do they remember me? I remember them. Always.

More Than Just Puppies

Breeding, when done right, is not a transaction. It is a relationship. Every puppy that leaves my arms takes with it a piece of my time, my sleep, my strength, and my heart. They are not just “dogs I sold.” They are mine, in the most maternal, visceral sense, even if only for eight short weeks.

My wish as a breeder is simple. I want the world to see that behind every healthy, confident, well-socialized puppy is someone who stayed up all night during whelping, someone who tube-fed the runt, someone who held their breath during a vet visit, someone who cheered the first time eyes opened. Someone who kept the records, cleaned the messes, watched for signs of fading, and celebrated every little victory like it was the most important thing in the world.

Because it was.

My Extended Puppy Family

And to those who do stay in touch thank you. You have no idea how much those texts mean. The photos, the videos, the stories about their quirks and growth it makes every sleepless night worth it. You become part of my extended puppy family, and that bond is something I treasure more than words can express.

You see, a breeder’s legacy isn’t in show titles or pedigrees it’s in living, breathing hearts curled up on couches, playing in backyards, walking alongside their humans through every season of life. My legacy walks on four paws. It chases balls, catches snowflakes, and gives kisses. It brings comfort in hard times and joy in the ordinary ones.

Each and every puppy I’ve raised carries with it my best intentions, my deepest love, and a silent promise whispered into their fur in the quiet hours of the night: You were wanted. You were loved. You always will be.

So when people ask what I want out of all of this, the answer is simple: I want to know they’re okay. I want to know they’re loved like I loved them. I want to know that the soul I poured into their beginning still echoes in the lives they live now.

That’s my breeder’s wish.

Too Many Dogs? Or Just Enough Love

Defying the Stigma of Living a Life Surrounded by Dogs

For years, I’ve lived under the critical gaze of people who made assumptions about me based on one thing: the number of dogs I live with. Strangers, acquaintances, even family members raised eyebrows. They questioned my sanity, my priorities, and my ability to care. To them, “too many dogs” meant chaos, neglect, or some emotional void I must be trying to fill.

They were wrong.

What they didn’t see was the years of learning, the routines built with care, and the daily discipline behind the scenes. They never asked the right questions. They just counted heads and came to conclusions.

But here’s what I’ve learned: there is no magic number. No universal limit that marks the line between love and “too much.” The only number that matters is the number of lives you can fully and responsibly care for. Medically, emotionally, physically, and behaviorally. That’s it. That’s the measure.

And I am not just capable of this life. I am trained for it.

This Is Not a Hobby: I’m a Veterinary Assistant

I’m not a well-meaning amateur juggling a household full of pets. I am a certified veterinary assistant with real clinical experience. I’ve been trained in everything from preventive care to emergency response. I monitor vitals. I manage wound care. I administer medications. I perform palliative support. This is not something I guessed my way through or picked up from YouTube. This is what I do.

Every single day, I use the knowledge I’ve gained to provide a level of care many people don’t even realize is possible outside of a vet clinic. My standards are high because they have to be. Not just for my peace of mind, but for the lives that depend on me.

Even so, the judgment came. And not from other professionals, but from those who have never done the work.

Before Breeding, There Was Rescue

Before I ever considered breeding, I was deep in the trenches of dog rescue. I spent over a decade taking in the forgotten ones. Seniors. Medical cases. Trauma dogs. The ones no one else wanted. I syringe-fed the weak. I cleaned wounds, treated mange, calmed anxiety. I watched the broken become whole again.

It was not glamorous. It was not always rewarding. But I did it because it mattered. Because I couldn’t look away.

Each dog had a name, a story, and a custom plan for recovery. I wasn’t just giving shelter. I was rebuilding trust. Creating structure. Giving them the kind of life they had never known. And slowly, I placed them in homes where they were loved and safe.

At first, people clapped. They admired the stories from afar. But as the number of dogs I helped grew, the applause quieted. The whispers began. “It’s too many.” “She’s going too far.” “Something must be wrong.”

They didn’t understand that I wasn’t looking for approval. I was looking for peace. And I created it for myself, and for the dogs.

Breeding Was a Natural Evolution

Eventually, my work shifted. I moved into purposeful, ethical breeding. That shift wasn’t a betrayal of my rescue roots. It was a continuation. A refinement. I had seen too many cases of poor breeding create suffering. I wanted to be part of the solution.

So I took what I knew about health, behavior, and genetics, and applied it. I focused on sound temperaments, healthy bloodlines, and lifelong support for every puppy I brought into this world. I worked to prevent the very problems I had once cleaned up after.

Still, the judgment didn’t stop. In fact, it got louder. Now I was no longer just “the woman with too many dogs.” I was “a breeder with too many dogs.” And with that came every stereotype you can imagine.

That I must be in it for profit. That I keep dogs locked up in kennels. That they’re just numbers to me.

None of it was true. Not then. Not now.

It’s Not About Numbers. It’s About Quality.

There’s no rulebook that says what number is too high. What matters is the quality of care. My dogs are healthy. They’re socialized. They’re exercised. They receive top-tier nutrition, structure, medical attention, and affection. They are not a burden. They are part of a rhythm that works because I built it with intention.

I have systems. I have a vet network. I have decades of hands-on knowledge. This isn’t just a house full of barking dogs. This is a working home, full of love, order, and connection.

People like to set arbitrary limits. Two dogs? Fine. Four? A little much. More than that? “You must be broken.” But those limits are built on nothing but misunderstanding. On discomfort. On outdated expectations about what women, caretakers, or professionals should look like.

The truth is, for me, dogs aren’t a side passion. They are life itself.

You Don’t See the Work, You Just Count the Dogs

If I had fifteen dogs who were suffering, that would be a problem. But I don’t. I have happy, well-cared-for animals whose needs are met every day. If someone had five dogs and couldn’t afford a vet bill, that would be too many. It’s not about the number. It never was.

You may not see the 5:00 a.m. wakeups. The sanitation protocols. The enrichment routines. The first-aid supplies. The hours spent reviewing books, creating health plans, or logging notes. You may not see the late-night bottle feedings or the training reps. You just see a number and jump to conclusions.

But I see lives. I see healing. I see a purpose that gets me out of bed every morning.

So no, I won’t shrink to fit someone else’s comfort zone. I won’t apologize for the number of tails wagging in my home. Because they’re not just dogs. They’re family. They’re responsibility. They’re joy.

And they are loved. Deeply, intentionally, completely!

Some dogs slip into your life so quietly, you don’t even realize they’ve changed everything until one day you look down and can’t imagine walking without them. They don’t make a scene. They don’t need to. Their presence alone is enough to shift something inside you. That’s who Bailey is to me.

Bailey was born from Bella and Shadow’s final pairing. Bella’s retirement litter. The last chapter in her journey as a mother. For me, that litter felt different from the very beginning. I had always given my heart to every dog and every pup, but this time, I gave all of me. I was fully present for every moment. From pregnancy to whelping to those first days of tiny wobbles and sleepy snuggles, I soaked it all in without distraction. I knew it would be the last of Bella’s gifts to the world, and I wanted to honor that.

And somehow, it gave me something more than I ever expected.

There were fourteen puppies in that litter, each one healthy, beautiful, and full of promise. But Bailey stood apart. She was the lightest in color, almost like Bella had run out of ink by the time she got to her. Her coat shimmered in the softest shades of gold, and when she looked up at me with those warm, doe-like eyes, she felt like sunlight with a heartbeat.

But it wasn’t just her appearance. It was her spirit.

Even when she was still small and unsure on her feet, Bailey carried a calm energy that radiated through the room. While her siblings played and tumbled, she would quietly watch or gently cuddle up next to them. She didn’t push. She didn’t fight for space or attention. She simply waited. And in that waiting, I could feel something rare and wise.

Bailey didn’t feel like a choice. She felt like an answer.

I had told myself this litter would go on to other homes. It was Bella’s final legacy, and I wanted those lines to reach far and wide. But Bailey felt too close. She felt like a piece of Bella that was meant to stay. And so she did.

Now, she is my quiet constant.

Bailey sleeps beside me every night, her soft fur curled against my side. She doesn’t move much and she never asks for anything. Her presence alone is grounding. She’s the kind of dog who slows your breathing and steadies your hands without saying a word. Just being near her reminds me of everything good and gentle.

There’s a sweetness to her that’s hard to put into words. A soft buzz of joy, always humming around her like a bee in the garden. She’s small and light, but she carries a weight that keeps my world in balance. Without her, something would feel off.

Her temperament is exactly what I strive for in my program. She’s patient, intuitive, affectionate, and intelligent. Bailey is the reflection of all the love, care, and intention that went into that final litter. She is proof that when you give everything to something, it gives something beautiful back.

And while I have high hopes for her future, I’m in no hurry.

One day, I know she’ll be a mother. Paired with Boot’s gentle spirit and stunning white coat, she’ll produce Goldens that carry the best of both of them. Beautiful in structure, rich in temperament, full of heart. But for now, I’m embracing the pause. I’m holding onto this sweet season before her role grows and changes.

Right now, she’s just mine.

Our days move in a rhythm that feels natural. We wake up side by side. We walk the house together. She sits beside me in the yard while the others run and play. She always chooses to be near, not because she’s told to, but because she wants to be. And that choice means everything.

Sometimes I catch her watching me the way I watch her. Soft eyes, gentle expression, as if she knows this time is special. That we’ve been gifted something rare. One day, she’ll have a litter of her own. She’ll raise pups who go on to brighten the lives of families everywhere. But today, she is just Bailey. My honeybee. The quiet close to Bella’s beautiful story, and the soft opening of a new one I’m just beginning to write.

Breeding is about more than producing beautiful dogs. It’s about connection, intuition, and honoring the ones who came before. It’s about those rare souls who walk into your life and gently stitch the past to the future.

Bailey is that soul for me.

She’s not just a favorite from a special litter. She is the golden thread that ties it all together. Soft. Steady. Unforgettable.

Angel Baby & Priscilla: Sisters Born of Chance, Kept by Destiny

There’s something deeply sacred about “firsts.” Your first love. Your first heartbreak. Your first real win. And for me? It was my very first litter of Golden Retrievers. That chapter opened a whole new part of my life, one filled with awe, nerves, and a love so powerful it still humbles me.

I had bred dogs before, but this was different. These were Goldens. And from that litter came two girls who weren’t just meant to be born, they were meant to stay. Angel Baby and Priscilla didn’t just find a place in my home. They found their place in my heart.

It started with Bella, their mama, going into labor during the day, which felt like a small blessing. That timing gave me the chance to call my mentor, someone who had been my steady guide from the beginning. I didn’t know how much I’d need her that day until everything changed.

At 9:19 p.m., one of the pups was born limp and silent. She was full of fluid and struggling to breathe. The room shifted. My heart dropped. But we moved fast, working together to clear her lungs and breathe life into her tiny body. Slowly, her color returned. She started to wiggle. She was back.

That time, 9:19, stopped me in my tracks. It was my late sister’s birthday. I felt something shift, something more than coincidence. That little girl didn’t just survive, she was meant to. From that moment on, she was mine. I named her Angel Baby, a tribute to my sister and a promise that I would never let her go.

Angel Baby has lived up to every part of her name. She’s soft and steady, a calming presence in the house. She never demands attention, but she gives her love freely. Puppies gather around her. Older dogs respect her. And me? I still look at her like she’s a little miracle. She brings a kind of peace that’s hard to explain but impossible to miss.

And then there’s Priscilla.

Priscilla didn’t stay because I planned it. She stayed because she made it clear she already belonged.

Out of a litter of thirteen, she was the one who kept showing up where she wasn’t expected. No matter how tired she was, no matter how secure the pen, she would climb out and find her way onto a pillow. Not a blanket on the floor, not a dog bed, but a pillow. Every time.

That wasn’t random. That was her way of telling us, “I’m home.”

So, we listened. And we kept her.

Priscilla is different from her sister. She’s not quick to give her heart away. She wants affection, but only when she chooses it. She’ll come for snuggles, but it has to be her idea. She has a quiet strength and a selective, deep kind of love that feels like a gift once she gives it.

Every night, she sleeps on my pillow. Not beside it. Not at the foot of the bed. Right on it, behind my head, like a little protector. She’s been doing it since she was small enough to fit there without making a dent. Now that she’s grown, we still make room. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t sleep well without her there.

Angel Baby and Priscilla are sisters, but they move through life in their own ways. Angel Baby blends in with any dog, never causes trouble, and brings a steady kind of peace to the house. Priscilla watches everything carefully, choosing when she wants to play, engage, or just observe.

Their bond is quiet but strong. They don’t need to be side by side to be connected. They just are. There’s a knowing between them, a respect that doesn’t need words or constant closeness. It’s like they’re both aware of something bigger than themselves, the story that brought them here and the love that holds them in place.

These girls taught me something I’ll never forget. Some dogs don’t need to be chosen. They choose you. Angel Baby came with a sense of divine timing I could never ignore. Priscilla came with determination that made it impossible to imagine her anywhere else. They were part of this story before I even realized it had begun.

Now they live in a home filled with other dogs — retired mamas, playful pups, curious rescues. Angel Baby watches over the younger ones, always nurturing and kind. Priscilla comes and goes as she pleases, resting when she wants, playing when it suits her, and always keeping her favorite humans within reach.

Sometimes I catch myself just watching them. Two girls from the same litter, born into a swirl of nerves and hope, now fully grown and completely themselves. Angel Baby is the breath of calm in the room. Priscilla is the quiet loyalty that stays with you through the night.

When Bella gave birth that day, I didn’t know what to expect. I had the guidance of a mentor, the jitters of a first-time Golden Retriever breeder, and a heart still sore with grief. What I got instead were two souls who changed everything.

And they’re still here. Making every day feel more full. Every night more warm. And this journey more beautiful than I ever imagined.

Happy Father’s Day to the Men Who Love Dogs Like Family

Not all dads have two-legged kids.

Some have four-legged shadows who follow them from room to room, wait by the door, and look at them like they hung the moon.

This one’s for them.

The dog dads.

The ones who don’t care about fur on their clothes or slobber on their boots. The ones who speak in goofy voices when they think no one’s listening. The ones who would never admit how often they scroll through photos of their dog like proud parents.

Because let’s be honest....they are.

The Ones Who Said Yes

Some didn’t grow up around dogs. Some never thought they’d have one. But then a pair of eyes met theirs, and something shifted. One “we’ll just look” turned into a forever friendship. One hesitant head scratch turned into a bedtime routine. One casual walk became the best part of every day.

And now, they couldn’t imagine life any other way.

The Quiet Caretakers

Dog dads build fences. They patch up toys with duct tape. They sleep on the edge of the bed so there’s enough room for the dog to stretch out. They carry heavy bags of food, memorize medication schedules, and are the first to notice when something seems “off.”

They don’t post about it. They don’t ask for applause. But they are always there.

Behind every well-adjusted dog is someone who put in the time, showed the patience, and gave the kind of love that doesn’t need to be flashy, it just needs to be real.

The Rough-and-Tumble Best Friends

They play hard. They run wild. They throw the ball until their shoulder protests and still go for one more round. They teach “sit” and “stay,” and sometimes ignore the rules because… who can say no to that face?

They bring home treats just because. They sneak bites under the table. They say things like “he’s not allowed on the couch” while gently scooting over to make room.

The Ones Who Stay

Dogs age faster than we want them to. Their muzzles gray, their walks slow, but their love never fades. And neither does his.

The true dog dad doesn’t pull away when the days get hard. He leans in. He adjusts the routine. He adds supplements, ramps, soft blankets. He carries them when they can’t climb stairs anymore. He stays up through the night. He whispers soft words at the end, no matter how much it hurts.

Because that’s what love does.

So today, we raise a toast to the dog dads.

To the ones who never planned on being one,

To the ones who swore “the dog won’t sleep in the bed,”

To the ones who treat their dog like family—because they are.

You’re more than a buddy. More than a caretaker.

You’re Dad.

And your dog knows it.

Happy Father’s Day.

Shelby & Maggie: The Healing That Turned Into Legacy

There are some dogs whose presence is so deeply intertwined with the turning points in your life, it’s impossible to think of those milestones without thinking of them too. Shelby is one of those dogs.

She wasn’t just a gift she was a symbol of something bigger. A surprise that arrived wrapped in fur and unconditional love during one of the most emotionally raw periods of my life. My father had just passed away. The kind of grief that dulls the world had settled in around me, and without saying a word, my mother and husband stepped in with a plan. I didn’t know it at the time, but what they gave me wasn’t just a puppy they gave me a reason to get up each morning.

Shelby, a golden doodle with eyes full of heart and fur as soft as her temperament, came bounding into my life without warning. She was a burst of light in the dark. I can still remember the moment she first looked up at me with that wiggling tail and complete trust. She didn’t know what I had lost, but she knew I needed her. And she delivered, every single day.

She became the companion I didn’t know I was desperate for. Loyal, affectionate, gentle, and emotionally in-tune in ways I can’t quite explain. Shelby was never just “a dog.” She became part of my emotional architecture a quiet anchor during the stormiest of days.

As Shelby grew, so did the idea of something I had only ever dreamed of: raising a litter. But the dream was met with real fear the moment it turned into a plan. I had never bred a litter before. The responsibility of it all the lives, the risks, the unknowns weighed heavily on me. I wasn’t just nervous. I was terrified. When her due date arrived, I was physically sick with worry. I questioned everything. Was I capable of this? Was I ready?

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. Two seasoned breeders stepped in like guardian angels. Their presence brought a sense of calm and control, and I leaned into their experience with gratitude. With their help and Shelby’s incredible instincts, I watched the miracle of birth unfold. I saw this gentle dog, who had once brought me through my grief, now bring life into the world with grace and strength.

That moment changed me.

Out of that litter came Maggie a little girl with Shelby’s soul and her own spark. From the beginning, Maggie wasn’t just a puppy. She was part of something deeply meaningful. She was a continuation of Shelby’s story. And though I raised every one of those puppies with care and intention, Maggie never left. She became a permanent part of our home, and in a beautiful twist, she didn’t attach herself to me.

She chose my husband.

From the earliest days, Maggie was drawn to him. She followed him from room to room, curled up on his side of the bed, and watched the door until he returned. Their bond is something special. It’s not dramatic or loud, but it’s unwavering. She lights up when he walks into a room. He calls her his shadow, and honestly, that’s exactly what she is. Maggie seems to know when he needs quiet company and when he needs a goofy distraction. She has a sixth sense when it comes to him, and I’m convinced their hearts beat on the same rhythm.

Together, Shelby and Maggie are like bookends to a chapter I never could have predicted. Shelby, the dog who arrived when I needed saving. Maggie, the dog who stayed to become part of our future. Shelby made me a breeder. Maggie made our family feel whole.

Shelby is still the queen of the house in many ways. She’s gentle but confident. She’s playful with the puppies but happy to let them know when they’ve crossed the line. There’s wisdom in her now an earned patience that only comes from experience. I look at her sometimes and marvel at how she grew alongside me. We’ve both come so far.

Maggie is like watching a new version of Shelby bloom, but with her own rhythm. She’s softer around the edges, more sensitive, and clearly tuned into the energy around her. While Shelby is a calming presence, Maggie is more of an observer quiet until she’s ready, but fully present when she engages. Together, they embody everything I love about raising dogs: the bond, the growth, the joy, the lineage of love.

They remind me that this isn’t just about breeding or pedigrees or programs. It’s about the hearts behind the dogs. It’s about the legacies we build not in bloodlines alone, but in the stories, the memories, and the companionship that shapes us.

Shelby will always be the beginning for me. The one who made me a dog mom, a breeder, a believer in second chances and new chapters. And Maggie is the thread that carries that beginning into the future, wrapping it tightly around the people I love most.

Our home is filled with dogs now. Puppies, retirees, rescues, and lifers. But Shelby and Maggie? They are pillars in that chaos. They are my emotional north stars one who came to heal, and one who stayed to nurture what came next.

The journey they’ve taken me on wasn’t one I saw coming. But I can’t imagine my life without either of them.

More Than “Just a Dog”: Why That Phrase Misses the Entire Point

Somewhere in the world right now, someone is sitting with their dog and hearing the words: “You’re doing all that for just a dog?” It’s a phrase meant to trivialize perhaps not out of malice, but out of misunderstanding. But for those of us who’ve lived our lives alongside a dog, that phrase echoes like a dismissal of a chapter in our soul. Because we know it’s never just a dog.

The Weight of a Bond That Has No Words

Dogs don’t speak, but they communicate with a fluency that transcends language. A glance, a tail wag, a nudge of the muzzle when tears threaten to fall they sense our shifts in mood better than most people do. For many, “just a dog” has been there through life’s heaviest seasons: divorce, grief, depression, isolation, illness. When words failed, when friends disappeared, when the noise of the world became too much, it was “just a dog” who curled up beside them and stayed.

There’s no manual that teaches a dog how to recognize when someone needs comfort, yet they always seem to know. That intuitive companionship is far more than a casual relationship it’s a lifeline.

The Cost No One Calculates But Every Dog Owner Pays Gladly

Critics often scoff at how much money people spend on their dogs: food, vet bills, surgeries, holistic treatments, training, grooming, behavioral therapists, orthopedic beds, ramps, life jackets, and even custom nutrition plans. But to those critics we say: you’re measuring the wrong currency.

Sure, you could tally receipts and cite dollar signs. But how do you measure the warmth of a sleeping dog nestled against your legs at night? Or the security of knowing you’re never truly alone? Or the sheer joy of a tail thumping in welcome every time you walk through the door, even if you were only gone five minutes?

You don’t measure love in dollars. You measure it in moments, in devotion, in the way your dog’s presence rewires the very atmosphere of your home.

Life’s Most Profound Lessons Come on Four Paws

For many people, “just a dog” has taught them their most sacred values: patience, responsibility, empathy, and the grace of consistency. A dog doesn’t care how much money you make, what your title is, or if the world thinks you’ve failed. Dogs love in a way that isn’t performative or transactional. They love because they choose to. Freely, wholly, and without hesitation.

That kind of love forces you to be better. You learn to slow down. To find joy in simple things like an early morning walk, the scent of fresh grass, or the familiar weight of a head resting on your lap.

“Just a dog” is how you find yourself scheduling life around meals and potty breaks, cutting vacations short, or turning down social invitations because your dog needs you. And you don’t resent it. You don’t question it. You feel honored to return the loyalty they give so unconditionally.

Grief, Love, and the Space They Leave Behind

The loss of a dog can be shattering. It’s a grief so specific, so raw, that it’s often misunderstood. “Why are you so upset?” someone might say. “It was just a dog.”

But when you lose your dog, you’re not just losing a pet. You’re losing your silent therapist. Your hiking buddy. Your reason to get out of bed. The one who saw you at your worst and never flinched. The one who loved you through every messy chapter of your life.

Their absence is a quiet hollow that echoes through every routine they once filled. The leash that no longer jingles. The food bowl that sits untouched. The empty space on the bed. It’s a grief with no timeline, no script and no shame.

The Science Behind the Feeling

If you think the emotional connection we have to dogs is purely anecdotal or exaggerated, science says otherwise. Multiple studies have shown that oxytocin, the “love hormone,” is released in both humans and dogs when they interact particularly when making eye contact. This hormonal surge promotes bonding in the same way it does between a mother and her infant.

In fact, MRI scans show that dogs process human emotions using similar areas of the brain as people do. They’re not just reacting to commands—they’re attuned to our tone, body language, and emotional states in complex ways.

This isn’t anthropomorphism. It’s a legitimate interspecies connection grounded in evolution, neuroscience, and mutual need.

Just a Friend. Just a Sunrise. Just a Promise.

When someone says “it’s just a dog,” they may as well be saying “it’s just a heartbeat,” “just a home,” or “just your soul.” Because for those who understand, that phrase falls apart under the weight of truth.

Dogs are our companions not because we own them, but because we choose each other. Every scratch behind the ears, every muddy-pawed welcome, every tear licked away is a reminder of the purity that still exists in the world. A dog doesn’t know how to lie, manipulate, or betray. They simply are. That is enough. That is everything.

So when we wake early to walk them in the rain, or when we spend our savings on life-extending treatment, or when we spend a year grieving after they’ve passed we’re not being excessive or dramatic. We’re honoring a relationship that has, in its own way, saved us.

For Those Who “Just Don’t Get It”

Let them think it’s just a dog.

Let them shake their heads while you whisper goodnight to a gravestone or frame your dog's old leash.

Let them miss out on the most genuine love most people will ever experience.

Because we do get it. We know what it's like to have a dog show us the way back to ourselves. To remind us of joy, presence, and purpose. To rescue us not always from danger, but from the dull ache of being unseen, misunderstood, or disconnected.

So the next time someone says “it’s just a dog,” just smile gently. Because they’re right in one way they just don’t get it.

Lillian: The Dog Who Taught Me How to Love Every Moment

Some dogs enter your life as if they were always meant to be there not just to share your days, but to shape the very way you see the world. Lillian is that dog for me.

She wasn’t bred with a purpose or planned with a pedigree in mind. She didn’t come with papers, titles, or expectations. She came in a box. Abandoned with her 11 siblings, she was spayed at only five weeks old and listed for adoption at just seven. Before her life had truly started, she had already survived more than most. And yet, from the moment I brought her home, she showed nothing but strength, love, and a kind of loyalty that is impossible to explain unless you’ve lived it.

Lillian was my first puppy. Not my first dog that honor belongs to another, but my very first puppy. And she was a firecracker from day one. A German shepherd mix with a brilliant mind and the kind of spirit you don’t train you just learn to honor. She taught me patience, taught me grace. She taught me that consistency builds trust, and that dogs, like people, carry their past but live for the present.

Raising her wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it. Every stubborn moment taught me something about commitment. Every success made me feel capable and proud. She challenged me, not out of defiance, but because she trusted me to rise to her level. And in doing that, I grew not just as a handler or dog owner, but as a person.

Lillian has lived through every chapter of my life. She was there when I brought home every rescue, there when I experienced the heartbreak of a failed rehoming. I remember walking fields for hours, calling for a dog that had disappeared. Day after day, Lillian walked beside us. She never pulled, never lost focus, never gave up. Her devotion never wavered. And when we found that lost dog, it felt like she understood the magnitude of it all like she knew what her role had been.

Years later, it happened again. Another dog lost, another search that stretched into weeks. And once again, Lillian was there. She knew the assignment, the rhythm of our search, and the goal. She never needed to be asked she just showed up, ready to work. Her resilience astounded me.

But Lillian has never been just a working dog. She’s been the calm in my storm, the constant through every change. She’s watched dozens of puppies come and go rescues, adoptees, fosters, and forever dogs. She’s greeted every one with curiosity, patience, and quiet acceptance. She made room for them all, never once demanding more than her share of space or love.

That’s just who she is.

Now, almost nine years later, I see the shifts. Her body isn’t what it once was. Her face is dusted with gray, and her eyes carry a softness that only age can bring. She’s not the bounding puppy she once was, chasing through fields and leaping into life headfirst. But she’s still here. She still plays gently, but joyfully. She still perks up when the young ones run past her, and sometimes she’ll join them for a lap or two before retreating to her favorite soft spot in the house.

We believe she may have cancer. There’s no official diagnosis, and at her age, comfort is more important than invasive tests or harsh treatments. So we’ve chosen peace. She deserves it. She’s earned every quiet afternoon, every extra treat, every moment of gentle affection. We’re not chasing time; we’re savoring it.

Because when you love a dog like Lillian, you learn that time is both a thief and a gift. You learn that you can’t hold on forever but you can hold on fully. And that’s what I’m doing.

There are so many things I could say about her. About how she knows when I’m hurting, how she’ll lean into me when I need grounding. About the way she waits at the door like she’s on guard duty, or how she still chases birds in her dreams. About the way her presence makes every house a home.

She’s never needed attention, never asked to be the star. But in my life, she is. She’s the thread that ties everything together. She is woven into the fabric of my journey from the early days when I was just learning what it meant to raise a dog, to now, where she stands as the quiet matriarch of a home filled with wagging tails and happy chaos.

Lillian didn’t come into my life by chance. I believe she was sent to teach me about resilience, compassion, and unconditional love. And while I don’t know how many more days we’ll have together, I know I’ll never stop being grateful for every one we’ve already had.

Every morning that she greets me with those soft eyes and that slow wag. Every time she settles beside me and still enjoys “smushy face”. Every old soul moment that reminds me of the puppy she once was and the legend she’s become.

Some dogs are forever dogs not just because they stay, but because they leave an imprint on your soul. Lillian is that dog for me. And when the day comes that she has to leave this world, a part of her will stay behind in the lessons, in the memories, in the way she changed me.

She may not live forever, but her love will.

The Heart I Couldn’t Let Go: Jade’s Forever Place in Our Pack

There are dogs who come into your life with such quiet strength that their presence lingers even before they ever leave your side. Jade is one of those dogs.

She was born into a very special litter Daisy and Shadow’s only litter. A pairing that brought forth something beautiful and singular. From the start, Jade stood out. There was something in her eyes, in the way she moved, and the way she nestled into your hands as if she had always belonged there. She was adopted out as a young pup, her future seemingly set. But life has a way of rewriting stories, and through no fault of her own, Jade came back.

Sometimes life shifts in ways we can’t control. But what I will say is that her return changed everything. She came back to me still so young, still soft with puppy breath and round with promise. I took her in with the intent to do what I always try to do, make the right decision, think about her future, prepare her for a good home.

But Jade had other plans.

It wasn’t long before I realized that the bond we were building wasn’t ordinary. It wasn’t temporary. Jade followed me everywhere, never more than a few steps behind. At first, it was subtle. Then it became so much a part of our daily rhythm that I stopped noticing until I did. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just a dog I was caring for. This was a soul-deep connection. And once you feel that, rehoming isn’t a choice anymore. It just isn’t.

She’s not part of my breeding journey, and she never will be. Jade has a different role one that’s perhaps more profound than I could have planned for. She is my constant. She’s the steady heartbeat beside me when the world feels loud. She’s the warmth curled at my side during quiet moments, the presence that brings peace in the rush of day-to-day life. And she gives just as much love to the rest of our pack, especially the puppies. She has a natural gentleness with them, a kind of maternal spirit that surprises people. She doesn’t assert herself; she simply welcomes them, rolls in their energy, plays right along, and always knows when it’s time to calm the room down with just a look or a lean.

There’s a sweetness to Jade that’s hard to put into words. She’s the dog that always wants to be touching you in some way a paw on your leg, her head on your lap, her side resting against yours when you sit. Her affection is simple and honest. She’s never demanding, but she’s always there. That quiet loyalty has become one of the most precious parts of my everyday life.

Even in a home filled with dogs, where personalities range from goofy to wild to wise, Jade brings her own kind of energy. She’s intuitive and grounded, like she knows she’s not going anywhere and she’s okay with that. She isn’t trying to prove herself. She doesn’t need a purpose beyond just being. And somehow, that’s everything.

People often ask me how I choose which dogs become part of the breeding program and which ones remain as pets. There’s a process, sure. I look at health, temperament, structure, genetics all the things that matter in building a strong, healthy lineage. But sometimes, a dog chooses you for a different reason. Sometimes, a dog’s place in your life has nothing to do with programs or pedigrees.

Sometimes, a dog becomes the heart of your home simply by never leaving your side.

Jade reminds me every day that not every story needs a grand plan. That some of the most meaningful connections are the ones you don’t expect, the ones that come when things don’t go the way you thought they would. Her presence in my life wasn’t part of the blueprint but I now realize she’s part of the foundation.

She’s not here to produce the next generation. She’s here to love the ones who do. She’s here to guide, to play, to cuddle, to ground us. And she’s here because letting her go would have meant letting go of something unrepeatable.

There’s a certain beauty in having a dog who doesn’t have a job no expectations, no roles to fill. Just a heart full of love and a tail that always wags when you walk into the room. Jade doesn’t need to do anything but be herself, and that’s more than enough.

So while she won’t be a part of my breeding plans, she’s part of something bigger. She’s woven into the everyday life of my home. She’s the one I look down to see beside me when I’m folding laundry, the one who waits outside the bathroom door, the one who curls into the crook of my arm when the day winds down.

Jade’s story is a quiet one. Not dramatic or full of fanfare. Just a soft, enduring bond that rooted itself into my life before I even realized it was happening. She’s the dog I didn’t know I needed, the one who came back and never left.

And now, I can’t imagine a day without her.

Let Them Live Loud, While They’re Still Here

You don’t get forever with them, only a handful of precious years. So let them climb into your bed, curl up on your couch, and ride shotgun every chance they get. Let them carry sticks twice their size, tails wagging like banners of joy. Let them dig, roll, splash, and get dirty without worry. Let them live.

Their time here isn’t measured in decades, but in unforgettable moments. One day, you’ll blink and they’ll be a memory. So make every moment count.

A dog isn’t just a pet. They’re laughter when life feels heavy. They’re warmth when the world is cold. They show up for you always without expectations, without hesitation. They don’t care if your hair is a mess or if your bank account is empty. They’ll never whisper behind your back or walk away when you’re at your worst.

They love with no conditions, no doubts, no limits. Every glance they give you, every tail wag, every lean against your leg says one thing: You are everything to me.

They don’t know how to pretend. What you see is what you get raw, loyal, complete devotion. And in return, all they ask is to be close to you. To be part of your world.

You’ll never find another friend like them. Not in this lifetime.

So hold on tight to every moment. Make room on the furniture. Open the windows. Say yes to the extra walk. Toss the ball one more time. Rub their belly until they fall asleep. Let them be wild, let them be goofy, let them be them.

Because their love is the purest thing you’ll ever know and their time with you is heartbreakingly brief.

But their paw prints?

Those stay with you.

For a lifetime.

What if the Miracle Was You?

What if the miracle isn’t some grand event or distant hero?

What if the miracle is you?

You don’t need a cape.

You don’t need a fortune.

You don’t need anyone’s permission.

You only need a heart that refuses to stand by and watch suffering continue.

Because somewhere, right now, there’s a life trembling in the cold.

Eyes dull with defeat.

A soul silently waiting.

Not for perfection. Not for someone famous.

Just for someone… someone like you to show up and care.

It’s not about saving the world.

It’s not about fixing everything.

It’s about saving the one life that crosses your path.

The one curled up in the shadows.

The one no one else noticed.

The one who gave up hope a long time ago, thinking their story had already ended.

Rescue? Absolutely.

Because rescue means more than lifting a broken body.

It means lifting a soul, reminding it that it matters. That it always did.

Love? Yes.

Because love is not about offering leftovers.

It’s about sharing the deepest part of who you are your time, your care, your humanity.

Respect? Always.

Because they can’t speak for themselves.

They can’t shield themselves from judgment or cruelty.

But you can be that shield. You can be their voice.

So don’t say, “Someone else will do it.”

Don’t say, “It’s not my problem.”

Don’t say, “I can’t.”

Maybe, just maybe you are the only hope they have.

Maybe destiny put you here for that reason.

And one day, when you kneel down and look into their eyes,

when they lick your hand with no resentment,

when they finally fall asleep feeling safe in your lap,

you’ll realize something powerful.

You didn’t just save them.

They saved you, too.

Because in rescuing them,

you found compassion.

You found purpose.

You found the best version of yourself.

Rescue. Love. Respect.

Do it for them.

Do it for yourself.

Do it because you still can.

Because when you look back on your life,

you’ll want to be able to say with certainty

I wasn’t indifferent. And I just did it again.

Shadow and Ozzy couldn’t be more different. Shadow is the definition of a clingy goofball. He’s full of energy, always buzzing around like he’s had three cups of coffee. Every little movement you make is his cue to jump up, wag his tail like crazy, and act like it’s the best moment of his life. He wants to be involved in everything, all the time. If you’re walking, he’s at your side. If you sit down, he’s in your lap before you even realize it. Life with Shadow is nonstop excitement and a whole lot of love, all delivered at full speed.

Ozzy is the complete opposite. He’s calm, gentle, and more reserved. He’s the type who likes to quietly observe things before getting involved. While Shadow is leaping into action, Ozzy is taking his time, thinking things through, and watching from the sidelines with a soft, thoughtful look. He’s affectionate, just in a quieter way. He’s happy to be near you, but he doesn’t need to be glued to your side. Where Shadow needs constant reassurance, Ozzy gives you space while still staying close.

They’re total opposites in personality, but they complement each other in the best way. Shadow brings the energy, the chaos, and the comedy. Ozzy brings the calm, the patience, and the grounding energy that keeps things balanced. Together, they make a perfect pair.

Facts:

The purchase of a well bred purebred did not sentence another dog to death.

The purchase of a well bred purebred did not cause an increase in the number of dogs in shelter.

Someone wanting a dog with a predictable temperament from healthy lineage did not cause another dog to not get adopted.

Someone's meticulous research and support of only the most responsible of breeders is not the problem. It is not what you should be mad at. It is not what you should be pushing the blame onto.

I am not the one who brought these dogs into the world irresponsibly and left them in a shelter. Responsible breeders are not the ones who put dogs into shelters either.

It is my home, my life, and my choice of what kind of dog to bring into it. Maybe I needed a working dog, a sport dog, or simply a companion puppy to raise of a breed I enjoy. No matter the reason, the choice to support a reputable breeder did not send a shelter dog to its death.

A breeder who health tests, temperament tests, studies pedigrees, proves a dog worthy of being bred, and only breeds when doing so is of benefit to the breed is not contributing to the number of homeless dogs.

The number of homeless dogs in the world is a problem, but it is not a problem exacerbated by reputable breeders and those who purchase from them.

Your neighbor down the street who refuses to contain his unaltered dogs IS contributing to the problem.

Your friend who impulse bought a dog at Pet Land IS contributing to the problem.

That guy on Craigslist pumping out the trendiest designer mix as fast as he can IS contributing to the problem.

Your relative who just HAS to let their dog have one litter “so she can experience motherhood” or because “she’s just so sweet” IS contributing to the problem.

Your old high school classmate who bought a high energy working breed without taking the time to research its needs and realize it was not a good fit for their household ahead of time IS contributing to the problem.

A reputable breeder offers their lifelong support. A reputable breeder would never allow their dogs to end up in a shelter to begin with. A reputable breeder makes it a contractual obligation to return dogs they have produced back to them should you find yourself unable of keeping it.

It is understandable to be angry about the number of homeless dogs in the world, but if you take a deeper look, you will find your anger is misplaced.

If you take a deeper look, you will find reputable breeders and those of us who purchase from them are just as angry, we are just pointing fingers at the right causes.

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