Dear Tucker


Still as handsome as you ever were.

Still as handsome as you ever were.

I hope you’re feeling better, big dog!  You really scared us when you got so sick the other night. We thought you had hurt your back, like you did a few years ago, remember?  Dad called you inside, but you didn’t come. You didn’t even stand up.

Good dog, Tucker, good boy.   You always come when we call (unless you have gotten out of the fence to play Wolf King, of course.)  But that night, when we called you, “Tucky! Come, come inside!”, you only looked at us.

Finally we were able to lure you in with some cheese, but you moved so slowly, so painfully.

We thought it was your back.

We didn’t know.

It was a long night; you didn’t want us to touch you, and you wouldn’t eat anything. We had wrapped a pain pill in your favorite American Cheese coating, but you wouldn’t take it.

Good dog, Tucker.

When we finally got you to your vet in the morning, we were sure that she’d just do the usual acupuncture treatment and you’d be good as new.

We didn’t know.

But she did. She took one look at you, splayed out on the floor, panting.  She shook her head, and that’s when I started to get scared.

It was a long day, with a lot of long and scary words in it. “Splenectomy”, “hemangiosarcoma”, “chemotherapy”, “metastasize”.  Emergency.

Good boy, pup.  You’re a good dog.

You’ve been our boy for almost eleven years.  We picked you out of all the others in the pen that day, remember that? We picked you, or you picked us, coming to sit beside where I crouched, putting one little paw on my knee. You looked me right in the eye.  You didn’t jump up, or bite my fingers.  You looked at me, and you tilted your head and my heart melted and we brought you home.

Such a good dog.  Our good boy.

The surgery went well, they tell us.  You are out of the ICU.  We have to wait for pathology reports, but they’ve prepared us to hear bad news.

You’re such a good dog.

We miss you at home!  Miss Sadie misses you.  She has walked from room to room for two days now, looking for you in your usual resting spots.  She goes outside to the deck, then comes right back in. She stays by my side, whether to get comfort or to give it, I can’t say.

We need you home.  I don’t know what the future will hold for you, Tucky Pup.  All I know is that it is way too quiet here without our Mumblepuppy greeting us with a big “Helloooooooow” and grumbling as he settles on his bed.

Good boy.  Good dog.

Stay.

Please stay.

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25 thoughts on “Dear Tucker

  1. All of us who have or have had pets feel the pain/worry you and your husband, and even Sadie, are going through right now. Wish I had a magic wand I could lend you to make it all better. I hope Tucker can be kept pain free. Hang in there. This is just so sad.

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  2. I feel so bad. You’ve been in such a good place with Ellie and your new-found freedom to enjoy days at the beach and kayaking, and now this!
    I hope you get good news. But even if it’s bad, often they can keep a dog going (and feeling well) for a long time. My dog who died in August arrived from the rescue with cancer and lived almost four years. I know Tucker doesn’t want to leave you and Paul and Sadie, so he will fight hard.
    Sending love and prayers to all of you…

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    • Oh, I was just thinking of you on my very very long ride home tonight! Hoping that you were well, and thinking I should send you a quick note. Tuck is home, and doing much better than we feared so far. Only eating a tiny bit, but happy to be back here. Now the chore will be try to keep him relatively still for ten days while he heals! Ha. Thanks for the note on your dog with cancer; I think we just panic when we hear the word. This type of cancer (if in fact thats what it is) has a pretty short life expectancy, but we will take what we can get. You have another couple of aging pets to worry about, too, don’t you?

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      • Both my dogs are gone, and I have a very old black male kitty, Beau, with cancer and diabetes. I also have two other cats (a gray female, Sasha, and an orange male, Misha) who are fairly young — six and seven. They may outlive me!
        I’m sure Tucker is very happy to be home, and I know he will spend the rest of his life being deservedly pampered. They don’t really know about life expectancy. Beau was given a year to live in May of 2013, and he’s right here beside me.

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