10 stories of doggone cute pups beloved by Church leaders

Tommy’s childhood seemed to come straight from the cover of The Saturday Evening Post, with a Norman Rockwell kind of charm. He was the boy with the tousled blond hair, the broad smile, a fishing pole in one hand, marbles in the other, and a dog yapping at his feet.

He has always believed every boy should grow up with a dog of his own. With his cousin Richard Carter, he would set out in the neighborhood with a wagon that had an orange box precariously positioned on top where they could stow stray dogs. One afternoon they locked the captured dogs in Tom’s family coal shed, not sure what to do with them next.

His father came home from work and, as was his habit, took the coal bucket out to the shed to fill it. When he swung open the door, he was nearly knocked to the ground by six dogs wanting their freedom. “As I recall,” Tom explained, “Dad flushed a little bit, and then he calmed down and quietly told me, ‘Tommy, coal sheds are for coal. Other people’s dogs rightfully belong to them.’” Not only did Tommy learn about the inadvisability of borrowing other people’s pets, he learned a lesson from his father “in patience and calmness.”

Another time Tom “found” a mangy dog while staying at the family cabin at Vivian Park. It belonged to a local sheepherder, but Tommy hoped he wouldn’t miss it. He was wrong. The man came to the cabin looking for his dog, and Tommy reluctantly handed it over. “Tommy,” said the man, “you wouldn’t want this dog. He’s part coyote.”

But Tommy did want the dog—or any dog, for that matter. Finally his Uncle John found him one. The mongrel was not much to look at. Evidently abandoned in the desert, he was “a sorry mess, with a cast on one leg, a splint on another, and a broken tail.” But Tommy accepted him appreciatively and named him Duke. Boy and dog became fast friends.

Early in his marriage to Frances he ran an ad in the classified section of the newspaper seeking a brown and white English springer spaniel. He got a phone call from a man who asked what exactly he was looking for in a dog. Tom explained that he wanted a dog he could train for hunting, and the man said, “You really don’t want a springer spaniel. What you want is a new breed of dog called a German shorthaired pointer.” The man proceeded to extol the virtues of the breed, indicated that he just happened to have a litter, and offered Tom his pick. The caller was a good salesman; Tom ended up buying the pup for what he considered a steep price: twenty-five dollars. He named the dog Freck von Windhausen and called him Freck.

Tom tried unsuccessfully to teach Freck to “heel” in walks around the block. His granddad, sitting on the swing, caught sight of him coming around for the third or fourth time. He hollered, “Tom, what did you give for that little dog?”

Tom was not going to tell him twenty-five dollars. He reduced the price, responding, “Five dollars.”

His grandfather’s reply was scorching: “Ya darn fool. You paid four dollars and six bits too much!”

That assessment certainly seemed right. The dog was no good at hunting or much else; he was high-strung, and he churned the backyard up in dust. Tom and Frances’s young son Tommy could not compete for a place to play. Frances finally announced, “The dog has to go.”

First, Tom gave Freck away to a man who within days was back, saying the dog had chased the repairman servicing the kitchen appliances. He gave him to another, who returned him with the report, “He howled all night and the neighbors complained.” Finally, one of Tom’s business associates offered to take the dog to a farmer in Idaho, who later reported he was “the best hunting dog ever!”

As a student at Wasatch Grade School, one of Russell’s daily highlights was walking with Scottie—a black, brown, and white collie—to and from school. Scottie walked with Russell down Butler Avenue to University Street and across Reservoir Park to a red light at South Temple and Thirteenth East. The dog would sit and watch as Russell crossed at the light and walked the next three blocks to the school. When the school day was over, Russell would often find Scottie waiting by the stoplight to walk him home. Needless to say, boy and dog were inseparable friends.

Years ago, I arrived home from work and was startled to see white paint splattered everywhere—on the ground, the garage door, and our red-brick house. I inspected the scene more closely and discovered the paint was still wet. A trail of paint led toward the backyard, and so I followed it. There, I found my five-year-old son with a paintbrush in his hand, chasing our dog. Our beautiful black Labrador was splattered almost half white!

“What are you doing?” I asked in an animated voice.

My son stopped, looked at me, looked at the dog, looked at the paintbrush dripping with paint, and said, “I just want him to look like the black-spotted dogs in the movie—you know, the one with 101 Dalmatians.”

I loved our dog. I thought he was perfect, but that day my son had a different idea.

Around my 14th birthday, … I noticed different behavior on the part of my parents. Considering what I observed, I asked, “Are we going on a mission?” The shock on my mother’s face confirmed my suspicion. Later, in a family council, my siblings and I learned that our parents had been called to preside over a mission.

We lived on a beautiful ranch in Wyoming. From my perspective, life was perfect. I could come home from school, complete my chores, and be off hunting, fishing, or exploring with my dog.

Shortly after learning of the calling, I realized that I would have to give up my dog, Blue. I confronted my father, asking what I should do with Blue. I wanted to emphasize the unfairness of what God was requiring. I will never forget this response. He said, “I’m not sure. He probably cannot go with us, so you had better ask Heavenly Father.” That was not the response I had anticipated.

I began reading the Book of Mormon. I earnestly prayed to know if I had to give my dog away. My answer did not come in a moment; rather, a specific thought kept penetrating my mind: “Don’t be a burden to your parents. Don’t be a burden. I have called your parents.”

I knew what Heavenly Father required. That knowledge did not reduce the pain of giving my dog away. However, through that small sacrifice, my heart softened, and I found peace in seeking Heavenly Father’s will.

Young Howard collected things: stamps, coins, and, especially, the eggs of birds—pheasants, meadowlarks, bluebirds, robins, and wrens—which he found while exploring the swamps and woods near his home. He loved animals. His dog, Daisy, a fox terrier, followed him wherever he went. His two favorite pet rabbits were Bunny Boo and Mary Jane. One of his very favorite things to do was spend the summer at his aunt and uncle’s ranch, where he rode horses, herded cows, and even slept in a haystack at night with his cousins.

Our son is the oldest child in our family. He has five sisters and no brothers. Just before the birth of our third daughter, my husband promised our son a dog if this baby was another girl. When our baby girl was born, my good husband kept his promise. The dog became our son’s best friend. He loved that dog. But one day, the dog got lost. We searched and searched, but to no avail. We called the animal control officer. He didn’t give us much hope since we lived fairly close to the freeway. The officer felt that enough time had gone by that there was a good possibility that the dog had made its way to the freeway and been hit by a car.

We did our best to console our son when we shared what we had heard, but he was devastated. I remember inviting him to pray to Heavenly Father for comfort. Our sweet little boy looked me in the eye and said, “I’ve been praying and praying, Mom.”

A couple of days went by. Then early one morning there was a knock at our door. One of the children answered the door and came running to get me. I was concerned as I noticed a car parked in our driveway with the words “Animal Control” written on the side. The man at the door looked at me and said, “Mrs. Burton, I think I have something in my car that belongs to your son.”

My heart sank. I remember worrying that he had picked up our dog and that the dog might be dead or terribly injured. To my great delight, there was our dog in the back of the car—lively, well, and ready to bound out of the car and into the arms of our little boy.

I asked the animal control officer where he had found our dog. He said: “The most unusual thing happened this morning as I was leaving home. There, right in front of my house, was a dog that fit the description you had given me on the phone. The dog responded when I called her name. So I thought I’d bring her home and put your little boy’s mind at ease before he left for school.”

I know that the Lord answers sincere, tender, childlike prayers. Heavenly Father wants children to know He is there early in their lives so they will continue to trust in Him as they grow to maturity. Because children are generally filled with humility, they qualify to receive Heavenly Father’s promise as given in the Doctrine and Covenants: “Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers.”

While serving as a mission president in France, I would travel with Sister Andersen once a month to the airport to pick up the arriving missionaries. On one occasion as we stood waiting outside of the baggage claim area, we met a very interesting Frenchman who was also waiting. The difference was that while we were waiting for missionaries, he was waiting for his dog.

He spoke fondly of his large, black Labrador retriever, with great affection and respect, almost as we would speak of one of our children. I could sense that he treated the animal with love and kindness. The man had been transferred to the city of Bordeaux and until he could get settled in the right apartment he had left his dog in a kennel in his previous city. Now things had been properly arranged, and the dog was arriving on the same plane as our missionaries.

In my imagination I thought of what had transpired—from the point of view of the dog. I imagined that he had been treated like a king in his master’s home. He may have been allowed to jump on the sofas and sleep on the foot of his master’s bed. Maybe he even had his own shelf in the refrigerator, stocked with his own special food.

Then one day, without any explanation, he was suddenly behind bars, in a kennel with a cement floor and steel bars, his food pushed underneath the door to his pen. If a dog could connect the events together, this dog would have wondered: “What happened? Why am I here? What did I do?” He did not realize that his master had a plan for him, that they would soon be reunited, and that in the meantime, his master was paying for his kennel and his food, ensuring that he would be kept in a warm place out of the cold. All that time his master was preparing a place for him at an even finer house in Bordeaux.

Suddenly, looking through the glass into the baggage area, we could see workers rolling out a large crate. We could hear the barking of the dog inside. I could tell he was frightened and anxious. Again, in my mind I could imagine two men arriving at the kennel one day, taking the dog, and putting him in the crate. Soon the Labrador found himself in the belly of an airplane. Again he must have wondered what was happening. I could imagine his fear.

Now, at last, the crate was in front of us. Workers opened the door, and out came the beautiful Labrador. First he was nervous. His head was up, he was alert, and he was ready to defend himself.

Then suddenly the eyes of the black Labrador met the eyes of his master. Immediately, the dog’s behavior changed. His barking stopped and his tail started wagging. He jumped into the arms of his master and they embraced, a Frenchman and his dog reunited.