Past. Present.
It was my third blatant act of defiance against my father, and it was a doozy. Interestingly enough, now that I think about it, each violation had something to do with a guy.
The first held the least amount of risk. It involved me sneaking out of my bedroom window the summer after high school graduation… only to stay in my side yard with my friend Sean and climb back inside undetected about a half hour later. Yes, I’m typically a goody-goody. I think it took Sean about twenty minutes just to convince me to pop off the screen and leap over the boxwood hedge moat. My heart was beating out of my chest the entire 30 minutes, fearful of what would happen to me (and Sean) if my father found out.
This was Sean telling me how I had to "break free." Soon after, he was at my window. June 1989
The second time was staying out way past curfew (which was 12:00 AM) to go to a drive-in movie with – yes! – a boy. I was freshly 18 and he was a really nice guy. We double dated and honest to God nothing past holding hands happened. Both of our fathers said, “Have Gera home by 12:00 AM.” But we were infatuated with one another and didn’t want the night to end. Plus it was a double feature: “Dead Poets Society” followed by “Twins.” I think he begrudgingly brought me home around 3:00 AM? Oh the resilient days of youth when sleep wasn’t necessary to properly function! Thankfully my father trusted that guy (one of fewer than three guys he felt that way about) and let it slip “just this once.” Huge compliment in the world of Joe Krahe.
And then there was the time when my friend and I were simply passing time when Cupid hit me dead center in the heart.
I saw him from afar and he softly stole my heart. Those soulful eyes! We connected immediately. It felt like kismet. I felt as though I had known him forever, though we had only locked eyes for a few seconds. He was my first, and, because of that, he holds a very special place in my heart that no one can ever usurp.
This third infraction was so egregious that I was afraid to come home that night. I went through with it anyway, in direct defiance of my father’s explicit, “No.”
I bought a dog.
Behind glass windows, little noses pressed themselves in earnest pleas, smearing cuteness, yearning to have human touch. Visiting the pet store at the Millcreek Mall had become a pastime for me and this friend. A blatant “Beware All Ye Who Enter” sign should have been posted because you’d either leave without your money or a sizable chunk of your heart. The scent of sweet-smelling cedar chips swirled around us as we adjusted to the incessant peeping of finches above the cacophony of yapping from the wall of cages that spanned the room.
On this occasion, one little fellow perked up – a Golden Retriever puppy pawing at his bars, begging to bridge the distance between us. His eyes followed me while I moved around, as if he was trying to tell me something. I wanted to listen.
“May I please have some lap time with this one?” I asked the clerk, pointing to the obvious candidate. Under glaring fluorescent lights in a blinding white acquaintance room, the associate handed me a warm, exuberant puppy. The tail wagged him with excitement. Thrilled at the match, he scampered up my body to my face, his little tongue covering me with tiny kisses and the adorable scent of puppy breath.
And that’s all it took. He chose me, and I couldn’t let him go.
Brandon was so tiny that he could fit in a shoe box. By the time we drove the 2 miles back to my house, Brandon’s love wiped away any trace of trepidation that I had about my father’s reaction. What wasn’t there to love? Yes, admittedly, I exploited my unique baby of the family superpowers again. And it was so worth it.
With arms crossed in a steadfast attempt to resist, my father stood tall in the kitchen as Brandon sniffed curiously at his slippers, gnawing at the seams. “You’re paying for the dog food and vet bills,” Dad set down the conditions as Brandon discovered his own tail. “And you’re picking up the poop,” my father commanded, watching Brandon scramble for traction on the slippery laminate flooring with the hint of a smile. I swiftly agreed to all the provisions as Dad bent down and scooped Brandon into his arms – charmed into submission.
Back then, I ran three miles most mornings, only to discover my puppy couldn't make it four houses down the block. Our early version of taking a walk together entailed me holding him the remainder of the way with the occasional set down to encourage him going to the potty. Eventually he became my well-versed running companion and would bring me his leash once he saw me put on my Nikes.
Soggy doggy at the beach, Erie, PA Summer of 1996
A distance swimmer, I wanted him to join me in the joy of swimming at Presque Isle. Concerned for my welfare on our first-ever foray in the water, Brandon barked and whined on the shoreline then paddled out to “save me.” Grunting and straining, he touched me with his nose, then immediately turned around and headed back to shore. I wouldn’t follow, so he ardently tried to explain to me that I was in peril and repeatedly returned to retrieve me. I remember the feeling of holding him in my arms in the water, trying to reassure him of my safety. Although anxious, he patiently let me console him as I walked with him in my arms around in the 74-degree lake water. We watched the sun set together, sitting on the beach. Waterlogged and coated with sand, he barely made it back to my car. The next day he was so fatigued from his rescue operation that he could barely move.
Brandon did not tolerate my divided attention. One time, my friend and I were in my living room, watching a movie and apparently not doting on him to his satisfaction. Brandon retreated into my bedroom, picked out one of my shoes, and presented it to me proudly with a wagging tail. “Go get the other one,” I challenged him, not understanding just how intelligent he was. He didn’t just retrieve the mate. He systematically raided my closet, delivering twelve consecutive matching pairs, one by one, until a shoe store was assembled on the living room rug.
Brandon and I having a slumber party with my best friend Wendy Erie, PA Winter 1996
Brandon and Wendy Erie, PA Winter 1996
Brandon came to me at a time in my life when I was in between. I was just starting out in my career as a therapist and recovering from a broken heart. Unlocking the front door after a busy day at work, I was immediately greeted with a bone, a stuffed animal or a ball by 60 pounds of full-body wiggles. The cares of the world melted away in seconds as we pressed our heads together. For a while, it was just the two of us, but as my life expanded, Brandon adjusted without missing a beat. My father adjusted, too. When I wasn’t home, Brandon was always at my father’s feet, heartily accepting the last few bites of sandwiches and copious belly rubs. Like a good Catholic dog, Brandon was even vigilant about folding his paws during evening prayers with Dad, too.
Despite his possessiveness, Brandon heartily approved of Bob, nuzzling him and sharing a slobbery tennis ball of friendship. When Bob moved me from Pennsylvania to California, Brandon sat shotgun with me. For the entirety of the trip, he sat in the front seat of the U-Haul, panting with anxiety across every single mile. Brandon hated getting into the truck, most likely because of the loud rumbling. By the time we hit Sparks, Nevada, he felt confident enough to put his nose out the window. When we arrived home in the Bay Area, he refused to disembark, having become accustomed to his mobile home.
Brandon not amused with baby Jake Dublin, CA Summer 2003
When Brandon became a big brother, he patiently tolerated the shenanigans of young Jake and Molly, two Golden puppies we adopted. Jake sorely wanted Brandon to be his playmate, but when old-man Brandon had his fill, he knew how to derail Jake’s efforts. Brandon would saunter over to the satin-blue-lined wicker basket in the living room, procuring a stuffed toy to parade about. The young pup followed, trotting and biting at a dangling appendage in a futile tug of war. Brandon lay down, humored baby Jake for a few minutes, thumping his large tail in amusement. When the frustration mounted just enough, Brandon let go at just the right time to throw the fight, sending Jake in a backwards fumble with the toy. Proudly possessive, Jake would run off to claim his winnings and Brandon took his rightful place upon the couch or bed where Jake couldn’t reach him.
Brandon’s prominence in our lives shifted as kids and puppies were added to the pack. Quiet corners of the house where he could spectate from afar became his resting spots of preference. Brandon would kindly oblige in games of dress up and fetch. He was quite a gentleman, taking his turn last at the kibble bowl. Molly and Jake made nine puppies, and for whatever insane reason, Bob and I decided to keep two for a total of five Golden Retrievers in the house. Brandon was less than pleased.
As the other dogs grew, they claimed the coveted spots on the master bed at night. Brandon was wisely content to have the couch all to himself. Every morning I’d wake up in the one-sixteenth left corner of the California King bed, nudged out by a large husband, four heavy Goldens with a toddler or two flopped atop a dog pile. Brandon, however, had some solid undisturbed sleep.
My sister, Karen, and our 5 Goldens from left to right: Molly, Indy, Koda, Jake and Brandon (not amused) Dublin, CA July 2003
His fading started to show when he could no longer pull himself up on the couch and didn’t show interest in fetch or puppy play time. Quietly, Brandon told me that something was wrong. He began to brave the chaos of the master bedroom at night, sleeping on the floor next to me. Inevitably one of the kids or pups would use him as a footstool, but he was consistently accommodating and tolerated it. I noticed that his tail didn’t wag as much anymore, and his eyes gray with cataracts lost their shimmery enthusiasm. My baby was in pain.
Scans showed a massive cancerous tumor the size of a grapefruit. Having lived a long, full life we decided it was most merciful to let him go. This was also a first for me – being present at the euthanasia of a beloved pet.
The staff at the veterinarian clinic said that I could have some time with Brandon before they administered the drugs. By ourselves, we sat in the sterile room as I cradled him in my lap, holding my dear puppy. He was scared (who likes the smell of the vet!) and yet had no energy to try to escape. If I had any doubt of our choice, his exhausted body grew heavy and sank completely into my lap. This assured me that it was best to let him rest in peace. I brought him in as close as I could and showered him with thankfulness, appreciation and loving words, letting his fur absorb my tears.
His passing was akin to sensing a television being turned off three rooms away. I could feel the energy stop. So quickly, he was gone. They let me hold him longer in my arms, bawling that my faithful companion would no longer be by my side. So much silence surrounded me – a stark contrast to the vibrant, full life that my adorable puppy lived by my side.
Today Brandon sits in my home office alongside the latest two rainbow-bridged dogs, Panda and Honey. One day I’ll be brave enough to let his ashes go in the waters off Presque Isle during a summer sunset. He and I will always share that sacred space.
The capricious heart of a human is something you take your chances with. Human love can be frail, conditional, and without guarantee. But with a Golden, you know what you’re getting yourself into: unconditional, boundless love and loyalty that you will almost certainly outlive. And despite the heartbreak, it's absolutely worth it.
August 25, 2026