Our Story

Before I Was a Breeder, I Was a 17-Year-Old Girl Who Loved a Golden Retriever.

Her name was Sophie.

I found her sitting in a dirty little enclosure at a pet store in Montana. She was incredibly sick. She had never been dewormed and seemed to have every parasite imaginable.

But despite all of that, she was so unbelievably happy to see me that I couldn't leave without her.

What I didn't know at the time was that Sophie would change the course of my life.

When I was 18 years old, I packed everything I owned into a truck and moved from Montana to Arizona after dealing with an aggressive stalker. I didn't know a single person here.

No family.

No friends.

No support system.

Just Sophie.

Somehow, that was enough.

For years, she was my constant.

She was there while I became a wife.

She was there when I became a mother.

She stayed beside me through postpartum depression, heartbreak, triumphs, failures, and all of the ordinary moments that quietly shape a life.

Every night, she slept upside down with her head on my pillow.

She carried three tennis balls everywhere she went.

She hunted rabbits like it was her full-time job.

And she loved me with her whole heart.

Then one day...

she stopped carrying her tennis balls.

That probably sounds insignificant to anyone who didn't know her.

But for nearly seven years, Sophie always had a tennis ball in her mouth.

Always.

When she stopped carrying them...

I knew.

Not long after, we learned she had Valley Fever, hip dysplasia, and bone cancer.

On her final day, we had a veterinarian come to our home.

We spent the day doing everything she loved.

Holding her.

Loving her.

Thanking her.

Then we buried her beneath a tree here in Arizona.

Losing Sophie shattered me.

Not because she was a dog.

Because she was family.

After she was gone, I made myself a promise.

If I was ever going to become a breeder, I would do everything in my power to protect families from avoidable heartbreak.

I wanted to build the kind of breeding program I wish every family could trust.

I grew up around breeding. My family bred dogs and horses, and from an early age I learned that there were many different opinions about what mattered most.

I decided I wanted to question everything.

If there was a better way to protect dogs and the families who loved them, I wanted to find it.

I became obsessed with learning.

Genetics.

Health testing.

Research.

Veterinary medicine.

Early neurological development.

Behavior.

Training.

Everything I could get my hands on.

Because I believed something with my whole heart.

If we truly love this breed, we have a responsibility to protect it.

Years later, another Golden Retriever entered my life.

Her name was Penny.

Penny wasn't Sophie.

But she felt familiar.

She slept like Sophie.

She loved like Sophie.

She followed me from room to room the same way Sophie had.

For the first time since losing Sophie, I felt that connection again.

Then Penny's story began.

At just eight weeks old, Penny was diagnosed with Valley Fever and a significant heart murmur.

Most people never saw that part.

They saw the adventures.

The photos.

The cuddles.

The smiles.

What they didn't see were the specialists.

The appointments.

The medications.

The fear.

The sleepless nights.

The uncertainty.

When Penny became critically ill, we fought for her with everything we had.

We pursued specialists.

We ran every test we could.

We explored every treatment option available.

In the end, we spent more than $26,000 trying to save her because she deserved every chance we could possibly give her.

And somehow, despite everything stacked against her, she made it to her second birthday.

I am grateful for every single day we had together.

When Penny died, I wasn't just heartbroken.

I was devastated.

Not because life is unfair.

Not because dogs get sick.

But because I learned there were things I should have known before I ever brought Penny home.

I learned that many of the decisions that shaped Penny's future had been made long before I ever held her in my arms.

The hardest part wasn't losing Penny.

The hardest part was realizing that the very promise I had made to myself after losing Sophie had become my own reality.

A family had been left carrying the consequences of someone else's decisions.

That family was mine.

That experience changed me forever.

Because families are not buying a puppy.

They're investing their hearts.

If someone trusts me enough to bring one of my puppies into their home, then I have a responsibility to do everything in my power to protect that investment.

Not just their financial investment.

Their emotional investment.

Their heart.

That is why every dog in our breeding program undergoes comprehensive health testing.

That is why temperament matters just as much as structure.

That is why I invest thousands of dollars every year into continuing education, genetics, veterinary care, early development, enrichment, and training.

That is why I believe honesty and transparency matter, especially when things don't go as planned.

Because I have made mistakes.

Every breeder who has dedicated enough years to this profession has.

The difference is what we choose to do after those mistakes.

I believe mistakes should be met with honesty.

With accountability.

With learning.

And with an unwavering commitment to do better.

I cannot promise that heartbreak will never come.

No ethical breeder can.

But I can promise that every decision I make will be guided by one simple question:

"Does this protect the dogs and the families who love them?"

Before I was a breeder, I was a 17-year-old girl who loved a Golden Retriever.

I never stopped being that girl.

Now, every puppy I raise is my opportunity to honor two dogs who changed my life forever.

Sophie taught me how deeply a Golden Retriever can love.

Penny taught me why protecting that love matters.

Their legacy lives on in every puppy we raise.

That is my promise.

That is my purpose.

Welcome to Top Gun Golden Retrievers.