Tucker 1994-2005

Tucker was one of the only two three-week-old German shepherd puppies that were left after the local Humane Society intercepted a couple of well-meaning kids who were going through the neighborhood giving them away. We bottle-fed them until they could lap the formula up on their own, and gave them shots and saline solution when they contracted the dread parvovirus. When it was time to let them go for adoption, I was not going to let go of the little guy who liked to nestle on my chest and give me puppy kisses (the latter habit he never gave up, and I never discouraged him).

I wanted to name him Studebaker but my then-wife didn't think naming him after an automobile was such a great idea. Naming him Tucker instead was my quiet rebellion, and it turns out the name fit better anyway. The parvo medicine saved their lives but stunted the puppies' growth, so Tuck was always a little guy for a German shepherd, usually a mere 50-60 pounds.

He's been feeling the effects of old age for a while, so when he started having trouble breathing Sunday night, I knew the trauma of packing him into the car for a trip to the vet would just speed the process and frighten him needlessly, so we just sat with him and kept him as comfortable as we could. He wasn't in pain; he's a whiny dog and he would have whined if he was really hurting. About three hours later he stretched out and gave up the ghost.

Lots to write about today, but it'll keep. I don't feel much like writing today; thanks for understanding.