by Mark G. Sullivan

Created on: June 30, 2009

It was a warm fall day when I made my first visit home from college. Having left three weeks earlier I was looking forward to catching up with the goings on. After greeting my mother, I walked into the living room where my father was located. I also knew my golden would be with him. Coming into the room the dog gave me a casual look along with a couple of tail wags. Otherwise, he was content curled up against the steel chair my father was sitting in.

Four years earlier Wild Wing's Lancelot of Arrowhead Farm, more commonly known as Lance, joined the family. He came to us as the result of my involvement with a local kennel. After spending a summer helping train other pups, it was time to try on my own. My parents were reluctant yet I could tell there was interest in my father's voice. He made the final decision by declaring, "Yes, bring the puppy home but it will be your responsibility to take care of him."

Lance was a blond golden retriever, much lighter coat then one would normally see. The small playful puppy quickly grew into a 98-pound mass of fun loving muscle that demanded attention. His tail was known to bruise many legs as he excitedly greeted anyone who came near. It quickly became apparent that I was not doing a good job of controlling him for he also enjoyed the laps of many visitors to our home.

My father, pop as we kids called him, would have liked to help with the training but his legs no longer support him. I am sure he could walk with the aid of a cane in my early years but that is a faint memory. As I think of him now he is sitting in a wheelchair that was the result of injuries during WWII. When his plane crashed during a training flight, a POW held in a camp nearby saved him. Attempts to find out who that person was were unsuccessful so someone, an enemy to America, is responsible for my being today.

Pop was a man of few words. If someone were to ask me if he was happy, I would have to say no. At times, and maybe more often then not he seemed to be mad at the world. The steel chair was his safety net allowing him to move about as his legs once did. Before the war, he spent many hours in the outdoors, hunting, fishing and the like. Now all he could do was watch his six kids fly like the wind, enjoying life as he did years earlier.

It seems the young golden took to the steel chair from the outset. There was safety underneath especially when it became time for a nap. Initially I tried to keep pop from feeding him but it was a losing battle.

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