A farewell of sorts

The death of a pet is hard, particularly for me and Scott who tend to take it something akin to the loss of a family member. It seems that in seven years together, we've had our fair share of dog deaths - three now.

I think that's because our dogs tend to live very 'dogged' lives. Here on the creek, they run, swim, chase deer and rabbits and literally BOUND through the fields - for acres and acres squared. It's basically dog heaven.



That life comes with its risks, however. There are other animals, man-made dangers, disease, natural hazards. We don't know which was responsible for Tucker. Maybe it was just her time.

Like it was 'just time' for Nozzle the Dalmatian. That dog has legacy. The entire neighborhood fell in love with her. There wasn't a sole living on our street who hadn't had the opportunity to walk with Nozzle or to throw her a stick. Tucker was just the pesky puppy hanging from the end of it. When she died, we received condolences in the mail from neighbors we'd never met.

I think Nozzle was about 11 years old they day I threw a stick for her off the end of the dock. It was one stick of a dozen that day, one day out of hundreds. She leapt from the dock. Retrieved the stick. Swam back to shore. Lay down in the shade. And died. Just like that.

That's how I want to leave this world, metaphorically speaking: Leaping from the dock.



It wasn't long before we adopted Duncan. Tucker was so depressed about Nozzle that it was depressing just to be near her.

When we brought the new puppy home, Tucker transformed overnight into the Sage One, and Duncan became the pesky puppy hanging from the end of the stick.

Not many people know this, but Tucker was supposed to be named Misty. She was named by the little boy who saved her from being drowned as a puppy. Animal shelter legend has it that she originally belonged to dog fighters in Leadville, Colo. This boy overheard a classmate say that his dad was going to drown some puppies because they weren't good fighting dogs. The boy managed to save two of them and brought them to the pound.



Tucker had blue eyes, a white stripe down her nose and was small enough to fit in the palms of your hands the day I brought her home. I had to arm wrestle a college kid and a hunter for her, but ultimately the shelter gave her to me, probably because I had previously rescued a pigeon-toed dog.

I, in turn, gave the dog to Scott for his birthday. We had to rename her, however, because Scott said that Misty is a stripper name. Tucker was far more fitting.

(Side note about the pigeon toed dog: my roommate at the time cruelly suggested that I name him, P.T. and, despite my protests, the name stuck. His legs, on the other hand, straightened out. He climbed more than a half-dozen 14,000-foot peaks before he died).



Tucker disappeared from the house a week ago Thursday. We looked everywhere, called everyone we could think to call. Watched and waited. Wondered whether to hope or morn.
A neighbor down the creek found her yesterday. A skeleton along his shore, wearing an orange collar. The crabs had cleaned her.

We brought her home and buried her on the hill next to Nozzle, under the old holly tree. Our neighbor came over and watched the little ones while we held a short funeral. We said a few words about her and cried some.

On the way back up to the house it started to rain and Justin said to me: "It's everybody crying."

I started to correct him, to say that the rain is supposed to be God crying, but then I decided that I liked his way better. It's everybody crying.

I like to think that Tucker died doing what she loved - chasing deer and rabbits, swimming, yipping with joy the whole way.

That's how she would want to be remembered.

"Tucker" 2001-2008