Two Dogs, a Sea of Octopuses, and a Whole Lot of Signs from Hunter

Two new hires are shaking things up at Bark & Gold Photography. Spoiler: They’re fuzzy, four-legged, and not remotely qualified, but we love them anyway.

There’s been a major shift in the Bark & Gold Photography org chart. Effective September 26, I’ve welcomed not one but two wildly enthusiastic team members: Toby, my new Chief Happiness Officer, and Levi, recently promoted (by sheer force of personality) to Chaos Coordinator.

They’re rescue puppies turned full-time employees: one’s a tactical cuddle machine with a talent for face-lick ambushes, the other thrives on feral energy and office supply theft. They don’t contribute to editing or task delegation (unless you count Levi’s attempts to walk across the keyboard), but they’ve completely taken over morale management, workplace distractions, and mid-day snack surveillance. And in true Bark & Gold fashion, they’ve completely reimagined the luxury pet photography experience with equal parts heart, hilarity, and delightful disorder.

Before we get into their official introductions, I want to share how these two found their way here, because their story starts long before they arrived—and with someone you may already know.

Signs from Hunter (And Yes, They Involve an Octopus)

After my husband and I said goodbye to Hunter on September 17, I wasn’t just grieving my best friend. I was grieving my heart dog, my constant, my original sidekick, and the soul behind so much of Bark & Gold.

The silence of a home without a dog—without that familiar rhythm of daily life, the love—was unbearable, hollow, and painfully still. So I did something that may sound a little odd, unless you’ve also loved a dog so deeply that it leaves you looking for signs after he’s gone. I asked Hunter to send me one.

Specifically, I asked him for an octopus.

Why an octopus? Because it was one of his favorite toys, a battered, well-loved stuffed blue octopus that brought him joy every day (and annoyed him when we’d put it on his head and ours like a hat, causing him to bark). And during his final moments, the vet tech unknowingly wrapped his leg with an octopus-print bandage, a detail so eerily perfect I could only interpret it as one last nudge from him.

So I told him before we left the vet, “When you’re ready, buddy, send me an octopus so I’ll know it’s you.”

And wouldn’t you know it…

Two Octopuses, Zero Coincidences

You have to understand, I follow a lot of rescue groups on social media. It’s practically a hobby-slash-dangerous pastime at this point. Usually, it’s harmless scrolling: a few awwws, a solid round of I’d adopt that one, and a growing list of dogs I have no business bringing home.

But two days after we said goodbye to Hunt, a post from Bridge to Home Animal Rescue stopped me cold, shared on the very same day Hunter passed.

There he was. This fluffy, long-legged goofball with a face I couldn’t ignore—and ears that immediately hit me like a gut punch of familiarity. One flopped down. The other? Sticking out just like Hunter’s did. His name was Toby, and while he didn’t look exactly like Hunter, he looked like someone Hunter would’ve liked. Someone he might’ve picked for me.

I tried to brush it off. Not now. Too soon. But a day or two later, I showed the post to my mom.

Her reaction? Instant. “He has Hunter’s ears. You have to apply for him!”

And just like that, the universe had thrown its first not-so-subtle nudge. There was just one catch: my husband.

Let’s just say he was…a hard sell. (To quote him directly, “No dog. Not this week. Not next month.”)

Cue several days of me begging, sobbing, negotiating, and borderline bribing until he finally sighed and said, “Fine. What are you waiting for? Apply. Just do it before I change my mind.”

So I did.

The morning I applied for Toby, whom I had already nicknamed Toby Longlegs, I still hadn’t seen an octopus. But just three hours later, I walked into Lowe’s—and there it was: a purple sparkly octopus Christmas decoration, sitting high up on a shelf near the store entrance, just waiting for me to notice.

OK, Hunter—I see you. And I definitely saw that second octopus not even ten minutes later: a giant decal staring back at me from the back passenger window of a hot pink Jeep in the Lowe’s parking lot. Subtle? Not even a little. Effective? Absolutely.

But the signs didn’t start there.

Less than 24 hours after we said goodbye to Hunter, I sat on our front porch steps—his favorite hangout for many years—and watched as a hummingbird hovered silently at our only remaining red lily, just inches from the spot where we used to sit together. It lingered there, heartbeats from me, long enough to know it wasn’t a fluke. It was him. Saying hi. Saying he’s still here.

And then, a few days later: a rainbow. Not a blink-and-you-miss-it one, the kind that stretches across the sky like a benediction.
The kind that confirms what your heart already knows: Hunter had made it across the Rainbow Bridge—and he wasn’t done looking out for me.

Over the next five days, I spotted six or seven more in the most unexpected places: IKEA, Hobby Lobby, in social media posts my followers were sending me, and from an out-of-state friend. Each one louder and more obvious than the last.

The final one? A bright orange stuffed octopus on the dashboard of the car behind us at a red light…as my husband and I drove to Toby’s meet-and-greet!

The message was crystal clear that this was no coincidence. This was Hunter’s plan.

How We Accidentally Brought Home Two Puppies

We pulled into PetSmart to meet Toby. That was the plan. Meet Toby. Fall in love. Bring Toby home.

Toby and his two brothers rolled into the store in a stroller the size of a small SUV, all wiggly limbs and tangled puppy chaos, climbing over each other in a full-blown cuddle pile of excitement. Their fosters, who just so happened to be past clients of mine (because of course), greeted us with a knowing smile and started lifting them out one by one. When it was Toby’s turn, he hesitated, creeping out a little unsure of the whole scene. But once he stepped into the enclosed training area and realized it was all play and no pressure, he loosened up, stretching those long legs and diving headfirst into a wrestling match with his brothers like he’d been waiting all day for it.

One puppy, then known as Cody, made his way calmly to my side and plopped right into my lap. That was Levi.

While Toby was bouncing between my husband and me with happy excitement, Levi sat quietly by my husband’s feet, head tilted, tail thumping lightly. And when I looked over at my husband, the doting expression on his face matched Levi’s perfectly.

In the meantime, I completed Toby’s adoption paperwork. We were about to take our new “family photo” when I looked back at Levi and my husband and hesitated. His foster mom had scooped Levi back up and was telling him he’d go home with them for a few more days when I turned to my husband and asked, “Are we insane if we take them both?”

He didn’t need to answer. The look on his face said it all.

We couldn’t separate them. These two had already been through too much: abandoned in rural West Virginia, stuck together for all seven months of their lives, a bonded duo if there ever was one.

And maybe—just maybe—those two stuffed octopuses I saw at Lowe’s the day I sent my application in? Turns out, one was for each of them.

Toby, Chief Happiness Officer

Toby takes his role seriously. He’s in charge of company morale, mandatory cuddle breaks, and enforcing a very strict “no one gets to be sad” policy. His real skill? Weaponized snuggles and drive-by face licks. If you ignore him, don’t worry. He’ll stare at you until you comply. He’s relentless in his pursuit of joy and devastatingly effective.

His key performance indicator? Number of humans rendered completely useless by overwhelming cuteness. Current count: 100%. (And rising.)

He’s comforting. My old soul in a puppy’s body, the heart of the team—and very possibly a reincarnated HR specialist in disguise.

Levi, the Chaos Coordinator

Levi, who we lovingly call our Sour Patch Kid, thrives on disorder like it’s a full-time job with benefits. Zoomies during Zoom calls? Done. Office supply relocation (read: stealing blankets and papers)? Consider it handled. Team-building? He prefers bitey-face brawls at 8 a.m. sharp.

His professional motto? “If it’s not broken, I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

He doesn’t ask for permission; he asks for more treats. He’s enforcing a company culture of feral energy, curiosity-fueled bedlam, and spontaneous fun. And honestly? It’s working.

Together, They’re Everything

Since welcoming Toby and Levi, our home has gotten louder, furrier, infinitely more joyful. significantly less yet more efficient at the same time—but also more whole.

They’ve taught me that grief and joy can coexist. That the heart expands in ways we can’t anticipate. That sometimes what starts as a one-dog plan turns into a two-dog miracle.

They’ve restructured our daily routines (and by that, I mean shredded them entirely), injected life back into quiet corners, and reminded us of something simple and sacred: that love never runs out, it just multiplies.

Toby and Levi aren’t just dogs. They’re signs. They’re soulmates. They’re the sequel Hunter sent me—and I’m so grateful he did. These wild boys didn’t replace Hunter. They were his parting gift, a reminder that healing can come in the form of wiggly bottoms and octopus signs. That sometimes the best plans are the ones you never saw coming. That happiness finds its way back, even when you’re not sure it will.

So here’s to Toby and Levi and a legacy of love that keeps growing…

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Want to meet the boys? Follow Bark & Gold Photography on Instagram and Facebook to see behind-the-scenes mayhem, snuggle sessions, and loads of “official” Bark & Gold portraits.