Tucker. A Eulogy.

Most of my friends and family know that last weekend we euthanized our 12 year old Golden Retriever, Tucker.

One of my favorite pictures of our dear friend.

Much of me doesn't know what to say about it, as any words seem too small. But, when someone you love leaves this life, words may be the only thing we have to express our memories. I have legions of Tucker memories. He was a amazing soul.
Still, the Tucker we all loved for his smiles, and his sweet enthusiasm, his quiet obedience and his soft "grapes" scent was not always so perfect.
He was a gift from God, and from someone who for whatever reason, came to the decision to abandon him by tying the little puppy to the lamppost in front of my work place. For several years I had been telling all who were willing to listen, God included, that I wanted a Golden. When I arrived at work that early spring morning in 2004, I was greeted by the news that "Your Golden Retriever arrived in the night!" He was in the isolation unit, nose and eyes crusted over, draining awfulness. I suspect this sickness is what prompted the abandonment, so thank you, God, for viral disease with secondary bacterial infection?
He recovered quickly, and came to Cowfeathers, presented as a Father's Day gift for my Huz. It took a few years for Huz to appreciate the gift. For, Tucker was.... a difficult puppy.
I called him "Mother Tucker", not completely with affection.
Tucker was full of energy, and as if determined to prove his parentage, he worked hard to fulfill the "retriever" designation. He was always positive and sweet, coming to you when called. Except he could not arrive without a "gift". If called he would look up, and then dash about frantically, looking for something to retrieve. Anything nearby could fall victim. The nearest chicken, a log, previously planted flowers, eggs, and more than once, a helpless small child, dragged by their pant leg. It was hard to decide whether to praise the "coming", or scold the picking up of a chicken, or dragging of a child.  I tell you, the chickens and children did not enjoy their retrieval, although none were hurt. Even eggs were delivered a bit slobbery, but intact.
He was an incorrigible chewer of things. Often not things designed for chewing. The winter that Tucker was two, I recall sending the children down the lane to catch the bus, and not one had a back in their coat. The coats had been hung on low pegs for easy child access, but evidently that was also Tucker access. In exasperation, or desperation, I began giving him rawhides to chew- it seemed better than tying him back to the lamppost.
And, the pup loved mud. LOVED IT. And snow, and water, and grass. During his last week with us, he went outside and as I watched his old body, diminished by cancer, he purposefully went to the large snowdrift off our windmill hill, and flopped merrily in the snow, rolling and flailing until he was covered. The next day, he did the same in the snow-melted wet dirt.

Mudpuppy.

 Always up for assisting, even as a puppy, here helping Youngest water the raspberries.

And Tuck had some delightful quirks.

 He liked to sit in chairs. Here, after a mud roll, and subsequent bath, in an effort to not repeat the process, he is on a leash, attached to the chair to have a chance to dry. Or sit in the sun? He travelled in the car this way, with his rump seated, front legs on the car floor, he sat on the bottom stair, or on your lap...


And Tucker smiled. He looks a bit scared or vicious, but it is a smile, all the way. Every morning, I was greeted by a smile, sometimes, one sided, sometimes both.

As Tucker matured, his naughty habits diminished, and we were left with a practically perfect pooch. He was always trying to please, and that is a beautiful thing when training a dog.

 He helped Middlest and Youngest compete in Dog Obedience in 4-H, and even went to the Ohio State Fair with Youngest, patiently completing all the exercises, even while Youngest fiddled.

 He loved trips to my parent's house on the Chesapeake. He never dried off, prefering the water to the sun. He would paddle off after the sailboats or kayaks, and go where they went, leaving me worried he would get tired and drown.

Tucker was a great dog. 

In September, while Huz was scratching him under the chin, he noticed some thickness to his left lower jaw. This turned out to be a cancer, osteosarcoma, in the bone. 

That week, Huz took him to work, and 

Tuck had a CT Scan, and began a 5-day radiation treatment at the OSU College of Vet Med. He began to feel better after a few days of treatment, more lively, more involved than he had been for a while. After radiation therapy with Huz, he came with me to work to begin chemotherapy. He had 5 rounds of chemo, and did remarkably well. The cancer he had was terribly aggressive, and I hoped he would make it through Christmas, feeling good. 

When I gave him his last round of chemo, the tumor was once again visibly growing, and we were on borrowed time.  Still, he was bringing us his toys, and playful, and dear. 

But it was getting harder for him, and last Saturday, eating was painful. The tumor had grown to where it was hard for him to open his mouth. That was as close to miserable as we wanted him to get, so we had a few last cuddles and said our goodbyes.

Which, despite everything, he enjoyed.
Huz and I took him to my work on a Saturday evening. Tucker had always loved to accompany me to work, making his rounds, greeting and smiling at everyone, then settling under my desk for the duration. He wagged his tail and still greeted the small staff that was there for evening treatments. My longtime collegue, Henery, placed a catheter in his leg through her own tears, and we all told Tucker he was loved as he relaxed into death.
I miss him. Of course. I feel so blessed to have had his friendship, to have had his life entwined with mine.
Some girls have all the luck.