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.