Tucker
March 29, 1994 – December 6, 2005
Except for six weeks, those dates bookend our lives together, and today — March 29, 2017 — he’s now been gone almost as long as he was here.
From the age of six weeks, and for slightly more than eleven and one-half years, he was my four-legged soulmate and tireless companion. At first he was able to nestle in the palm of my one hand and would tuck himself (thus his name) into the space between my neck and shoulder. He filled that space, and the space left vacant by two sons no longer small. Eventually, Tucker would tip the scales at just under ten pounds, but his weight was no measure of the love that he embodied and shared freely with others.
On December 6th, 2005, everything changed.
Dear Members of the Lovett Community, both present and past:
There’s a reason for the saying “Good things come in small packages.”
He was small, but he made an enormous difference — not just in my life, but I think also in the lives of many who live and have lived, work and have worked, at Lovett College. With sadness and a sense of loss that I’m unable to reshape into words, I must tell you that Tucker died this morning, Tuesday, December 6.
For all but three months of his eleven and one-half years, Lovett College was his home, and as you know, also his place of employment, where he could be found seated, stretched, or sprawled just a paw’s length away from Kelly, our College Coordinator. All these years, he welcomed students, guests, and visitors, but also knew when to show his teeth and ward off the occasional passerby of questionable character. All these years, day in and day out, rain or shine, hurricane watch or warning, he nurtured the grounds close to us with all his little body could produce, and on days he surely counted as his good fortune, after meals in the Commons he would help clean the floor.
Through all these years, he showed great patience, never tiring of being an object of affection for so many students who came to visit and play with him in Kelly’s office. After all this time, he still barked at the sound of footsteps approaching or passing by our apartment, as if every day were his first.
All this time, and all these years. And now, suddenly, it’s all painfully different.
Your truly,
Rick
Many, many people replied to that email — an indication of the lives Tucker had touched. For myself, and for Kelly, I compiled pictures, videos, and text and made a short movie. It ended with something I had found online and edited to suit my own needs, to express how I felt and, I suspect, as Tucker would have felt as well. So I let him do the talking:
Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for acts of kindness. Know that your patience and understanding will teach me the things you would have me do. Speak to me often, for there is no music sweeter than your voice, and I’ll keep time with the wag of my tail. I ask only this: give me water when I thirst and food when I hunger, so that I may stay healthy, to play with you and do your bidding, to walk by your side, to stand at your ready, willing and eager to follow you, to protect you from harm, to the end of my days. And should that end come too soon, should my health fail me, despite your best care, then please take me gently in your arms, and I will leave you knowing, with the last breath I draw, that my fate was ever safest in your hands. (This words are based on “A Dog’s Prayer,” by Beth Harris, but written mostly by … my Dad.)
Tucker died in my arms that Tuesday morning in December 2005, nestled between my neck and shoulders like when he was a pup. I held him there and whispered, “It’s time to go home now. I’ll see you later. You wait for me there, little guy.” I felt the shudder of his frail body as he took his last breath, the final beat of his tiny heart, a heart in sync with mine, and I wailed. I howled a single word — “Tucker” — and I wept for all I was worth, for all that Tucker was worth to me.
After all this time, and all these years, there’s simply no forgetting.
