Golden Retriever Mix-Up: A Pet Care Tale That Started with a Name Tag

So two Saturdays ago, I took my dog, Biscuit, to the vet for his routine checkup.

Biscuit’s a hyper little golden retriever with a dramatic flair. Like, if you don’t greet him first when you walk into the room, he’ll sulk. Legit sulk.

Anyway, on our way back, I passed this cute pop-up pet shop. You know the kind—Instagrammable setup, pastel signs, and employees who look like they walked straight out of a Pinterest board. The sign said:

“Locally Made Pet Products – Leashes, Collars, Treats & Surprises.”

I was sold at “surprises.”

I told myself I’d get just one thing. Ended up leaving with a premium leather collar, some calming chews, an eco-friendly poop bag dispenser (because vibes), and a bandana that said “Certified Good Boy.”

The collar though? That thing was chef’s kiss. Tan leather, gold hardware, and a tiny brass nameplate already engraved with the name “Dino.” I asked the shop assistant if they did custom orders, and she said, “That one’s just a sample. It’s discounted if you don’t mind the name.”

I laughed and thought, why not? Biscuit wouldn’t care, and honestly “Dino” sounded like his alter ego. So I bought it.

That night, I posted a story of Biscuit wearing his new “Dino” collar, looking like a celebrity dog influencer. Got replies like:

“Who’s Dino? You got a second dog?”

“Dino’s giving main character energy.”

“Where can I get this collar!?”

But here’s where it gets wild.

The next day, while walking Biscuit at the park, this little girl—maybe 8 or 9—ran up to us and just froze. Her eyes went straight to the collar. Then her face cracked.

She whispered, “That’s Dino’s.”

I was confused. Thought maybe she mistook Biscuit for some other golden retriever. Then her mom caught up, and the woman’s face dropped too.

Turns out, Dino was their dog. He went missing three months ago.

The collar I bought? It was his. They recognized the scratch on the nameplate and even showed me pictures on their phone. Biscuit looked eerily like him—same coat, same eyes—but the energy was different. Dino, they said, was calm. Biscuit is a chaotic cinnamon roll.

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Biscuit started barking and doing zoomies in circles like he always does when he’s stressed.

The mom crouched down, called “Dino?”

Nothing. Biscuit ignored her and bolted toward an ice cream cart.

We all laughed nervously.

“I guess he’s not our Dino,” the mom said, her voice shaky but smiling. “But that collar… wow. What are the odds?”

We exchanged contacts. I promised to check the pet shop again and ask where they sourced the collar. Maybe it was a donated item. Maybe not. Maybe it was just one of those weird universe things.

Now every time I look at that collar, I wonder if it somehow found its way to me for a reason. Like a small piece of someone else’s story dropped into mine.

I still call him Biscuit. But sometimes, when he’s sleeping curled like a cinnamon bun, I whisper “Dino”—just in case he remembers something I don’t.