by Tucker, my fur buddy, it is with deep sorrow that I write this after your passing. Often called “Big Red”, you became part of the Moore Dynasty nearly 15 years ago, in December, 2011. A tiny ball of fur, you weighed less than Heidi Bitey then and she let you know it. That state of affairs would not last long. Unlike Coco and a series of other lesser animals, you were not cowered by her domineering personality. You were full of spunk and energy – the house quickly became yours.
Initially, you were Jacob’s puppy and he had full charge of you in those early months. Watching from afar, I could see that you were full of personality and charm. Initially dubbed Sergeant Tucker, you were shamefully demoted to Private during your potty training days. Monica a.k.a Mom says you were a PITA to train, but I can’t say that I remember that – with one exception: the time I tossed you onto the the porch after another accident. That was the next-to-last time you ever did your business in the house, but we’ll get to that incident in due time.
In August, 2012, two major events happened: Heidi wandered off to die in that particularly canine way and Jacob left for college. In a matter of days, you and I adopted each other and we became best buddies, something that would never change in the 14 years that followed. Until your very last morning with us, you were my dog and I loved you. Oh, the times we had!
A Miniature Australian (American) Shepherd, you were very smart and equally athletic. I didn’t exactly teach you, but as a disc golf fanatic, I would throw discs off the front porch and after a while you started to chase them. We had good times doing this “the regular way”, but the fun really started for you when you were finally able to train me to throw rollers along the ground rather than airborne gliders. Famously, I posted a video of you to Youtube demonstrating your leap-from-the-porch-and-chase technique that, to this day, amazes everyone who sees it. With better videography, you could have been a Internet sensation. Alas, the intensity of your pursuit couldn’t fully be captured on film. This video, as glorious as it is, shows only the least of your abilities.
At a young age, you learned something no other dog I’ve heard of can do: ask to be let out of the house – every time. Many times I would be peacefully at rest, at work, or working out when a singular scratch would emanate from the front door. SCREECH! Hearing this, I would say aloud, “Ah, the Little Prince beckons!”, instantly pop to my feet, and walk to the door to let you do whatever important dog business you had to take care of.
We were both young(er) and strong(er) in those days and we would run together quite often. Four miles would take us from Skillet Bend to the Y at John Rice and back and I would run it in 32-34 minutes while you scampered along, occasionally diving offroad to explore this field or that ditch. This was relatively safe for you, 121 being a modestly-populated country road. Still, I look back and wonder how I could let you, the dog I loved, run off-leash.
Perhaps I had to, because you loved to run so much. Or it might have been that I figured you would kill yourself chasing the UPS truck down the caliche path we called our road in those days. Massive were the dust clouds a vehicle would conjure and the deliveryman most of all. Unsupervised all day, you would sprint off the porch, tear across the 60 yards to the road, and give chase like hell! After seeing that demonstration, having you run by my side seemed safe enough.
In fact, there was only ever one moment of danger and it didn’t involve a vehicle. Ranging ahead of me – I was only good for 8-minute miles – either 3 or 4 Irish Setters had you triangulated in the catty-corner neighbor’s pasture when I finally caught up to you. Not bright dogs, they were nonetheless clearly working as a team to hem you in. But when you saw me, you easily broke away from these lesser dogs and we never had any more trouble with them.
We also went to the school track often and you would lope along in the grass inside the first lane by my side as we went round and round. You would run as many laps as I would let you. Sometimes this was limited by the heat – Texas in the summer is too hot for a dog, whereas a man can struggle on. At other times, and this may humiliate you, you would start to cheat later in the run by dodging across the football field. But you would never quit. Cutting corners or not, you would have kept going until your little heart burst. I know this. A friendly dog, you only ever met one person you didn’t like – the big guy who regularly walked at the track with us. Him you hated with a red-hot fury and, after a nipping incident, we had to time our runs around his schedule. Naturally, I trusted you and put him on my enemies list.
Aussies are known for their energy, their running and jumping abilities, and their wiggly-wiggly nubs. You, of course, had all of these traits in spades! While you never had the “zoomies” exactly, the aforementioned attributes were displayed most intently when one of your people came back after an absence. At the time, we had a friend named Skip who spent most Friday evenings camped out in front of our television. The enthusiasm with which you greeted him could only be described as completely over the top. Wiggling at both ends, panting and whining with pleasure, you would leap on him and rub every inch of your wiry body and copper-colored hair all over him, balls and all! It was a joy and sight to behold, believe me.
When Skip later went off the rails and we drifted apart, you were there for me. It would not be unfair to say that, outside of my family, you were the only friend I’ve had in over a decade. How alike we were. We loved our people deeply and pined for them while they were away. Yet, as soon as one of them would approach, we would dodge away, only deigning to be touched at times and places of our choosing. A matched pair, man and dog. Intellectually I wonder if that tension, which existed between us as well, was part of our relationship, an essential caginess that drew me to you.
In addition to a companion, you were also a working dog. One of the many important jobs you had was guarding the property. This was a heavy responsibility since Monica and I were at work at least 10 hours a day. Necessarily the UPS man had to be chased, as were all other interlopers. This particularly included the deer population, which was large and growing. Often I would see you sprint into the underbrush in pursuit of Bambi, mom, and dad. You were both relentless and fearless as you drove them off, giving chase and barking, although there was one morning when I distinctly heard you yipe in fear and jerked open the door to see you bounding back to the house just ahead of a tall, rangy, very pissed off doe. How humiliating! The deer also caused you another humiliation, but as I said, that’s for later on.
In addition to rolling discs at home, I was very much into the sport of disc golf itself and I regularly drove you to Research Park to go around with me. Due to your dislike of car rides, this was stressful for both of us, but the game was worth it. I would let you run free (albeit dragging a leash) around the park, rolling you your special disk whenever you wanted and watching you give chase. A number of people remarked, stating the obvious, what an amazing dog you were. At times you would venture off on your own. Usually this was later in the round when the lure of the pond shared by 9 and 16 became too much to resist. I recall pulling both you and your chase disc out of the water on multiple occasions. Despite the chastisements and the hosing downs I gave you, you never felt any shame that I could detect.
On one particular day, while I was throwing 5, you snuck back to the pond at 4 (something you normally didn’t do so soon) and I lost track of you. Looking left and right, I remember a sense of dread creeping over me as I called and scanned the mostly flat course. You were nowhere to be found. Heart racing, eventually I decided to retrace my steps. I spotted you in the water 100 yards away, struggling to get to shore due to the infestation of water weeds along the edge. Just then, a group of young men from TAMU saw you, stopped their round, and dragged you out of the water. That was, I think, the first time I thought I might lose you.
Aussies being the tremendous dogs that they are – and you being a prime example of your breed – it was no surprise that requests to stud you out began to come in. You, of course, did your part in outstanding fashion, siring seven pups in two separate litters. We chose not to take a puppy as part of your fee; instead, we brought you Dagny as your bride by venturing to Waxahachie (or near enough) just ahead of a major winter storm to fetch her. Sadly, as good of a dog as Dags is, no puppies emerged from your doggie union, which lasted more than 12 years.
In a way, Dagny broke your world. I noticed right away that you no longer wanted to play the same games. For instance, I used to throw a tennis ball down the hallway and you would race to retrieve it, shredding the already threadbare carpet with your talons. Starting the day Dags came home, you would not chase the ball anymore. She also altered the rules of front porch disc chasing. No match for your speed and agility, she was nonetheless determined to get in the game. When she reached your height, disc chase became a two-way activity: You chased down the disc and she took it from you, bringing it back for me to throw again. Only on the disc golf course were you alone with me now (because Dags does not travel well).
Now with two beautiful Aussies to protect from stranger-danger, I implemented an electric wire/collar system intended to keep the two of you “in the yard”, curtailing your freedom that much more. There were 10 acres to run in, but the front gate was off-limits, as Dagny quickly discovered. You, sir, could shake off the shock any time you really wanted, the collar being less effective on you. In general, though, you stayed on our property more than before and (I believe) stopped chasing the UPS truck down the dusty dirt road as a result.
Being confined did not keep the two of you out of trouble completely. There were still deer to be chased – and possibly brought down. How remains a mystery, but one day I came home to the sight of a bloody, well-gnawed deer haunch lying on the driveway. Later that night, the remains disappeared and your mouths had to be cleaned. Those are the facts, along with one other: Overnight, both you and Dagny suffered genuinely massive exploding diarrhea attacks all over the living room and kitchen. Huge, reeking puddles of the stuff. This was the incident I referred to earlier, the only time your house-training failed.
Another one of your jobs was to master the family cats. There were an ever-varying assortment and number of the felines, seemingly populating every corner of the place. Pip, Scampers, Mixie, Chopstick, and Eggroll were permanent residents, along with many other transients. You generally did not chase or harass the cats. Inside and out, you let them be – except once per evening. After guarding the house all day (with some help from Dags), when your people came home, you would frisk about the car, leaping and jumping in welcome. Then, I would get out of Lucinda, look at you, and yell, “Scatter ’em, Tuck!” Hearing this, you would spring after the cats and herd them to and fro like the cowards they are while I laughed at their panicked retreats.
Because of this, I was oft accused of taking your side in everything, blaming the cats for the things they did (their foul business, stealing pork chops, etc.) and exonerating you on those rare occasions when you did something wrong. So be it. It was hardly your fault that you regularly demanded to go outside. There were, after all, 11 acres to defend and fell beasts roamed loose in the forest. Even if that weren’t true, I would have defended you to the end. I am a lucky man. I have a beautiful wife and three fine sons – everything a boy could want. Except, now, his best friend, his dog.
You were 8 years old when we changed your life forever by moving from the country property into the city. For the first time, you were confined to a small backyard. No more the chasing of deer or rolling discs from the porch any time of the day. Now play time had to be directed and scheduled. I hated the effect this had on you even as I enjoyed the change for Monica and myself. Life is full of such contradictions, created mainly by external pressures, as in our case.
We still went to the disc golf park together, but I could see that it was becoming too much for you. Chasing the disc as fast and furious as ever for the first several holes, you began to slow down and walk beside me, your special disc held proudly in your teeth, which often were bloodied from the fierce grabs you made while it was in flight. Then came the time when you nearly broke your leg chasing the disc over a tree root. You were as graceful as ever, but not as resilient. Limping afterward, your ears would still perk up at the sound of a keychain. Excited, you would rush to the door, as eager as ever, only to be told you had to stay home. I only wanted to protect you, but I wish I could go back and take with me, even if only to walk slowly by my side. But I knew you too well, Big Red: You could no more stop chasing the disc than to stop breathing.
COVID was a boon for us. Work, since it must be borne, is best done from home in the company of one’s spouse and animals. We took many long walks together with Dagny through the streets, sidewalks, and parks of the city. We visited many places we would otherwise not have seen. You knew the sound of your harness being unfolded and could hear it from across the house. Each night, you would dash to the door with your ears up and your eyes bright with excitement. It was time to go for a walk!
Pandemic or no, we had great times that year and a half. We explored new home builds under construction, walked every street in a two-mile radius, made our own parks in the drainage lands nearby, and roamed where we would. On occasion, I would let you off-leash in the green spaces where you could run like a puppy again. Eventually Dagny spoiled that game by running off. After searching for a frantic hour, a not-so-near neighbor told us he’d seen a dog dragging a leash “thataway”. We hurried home to find that Dags had been there for a half hour, waiting for us. Except for the dearth of quality entertainment, those were genuinely happy times that I wish had never ended.
Since then, five years have gone in the blink of an eye. We both got older, at different rates. We began to limp and ache more. I ran less and slower, while you could no longer run at all after a first mad dash out the door. Perhaps if I hadn’t spent so many hours at work I could have given you more leash time and the exercise would have made your life more enjoyable. When our running tapered off, I took up biking, a thing you could not do with me. In a way, I left you behind. But that was never my intention. I just needed time in the fresh air to clear my head. You were never far from my thoughts. Nearly every day I came home to eat lunch with you and Dagny, feed you the snackies you deserved (for guarding the house so well), and give you the pets we all needed.
That was the pattern of the last years of our life together. You were a constant in my life, even as your hearing dimmed (causing you to Super Bark louder than ever for a time, until you fell silent), your eyesight faltered, you lost the ability to jump onto the chair with me, and your once-proud walk slowed to a hobble. It never failed to lift my spirits to see your ears prick forward and your deep brown eyes shine when I walked through the door.
As I write this, I know your body was failing you. Trips to the vet and the slow recoveries afterward had become a regular occurrence. Still, your spirit was undaunted. Even as you slept longer and deeper, each time you woke your ears would perk attentively and you would wait for me to give you the much-needed pets along your jaw, ears, and chest that seemed to take away the pain. You were always indifferent to dog food, preferring what was on my plate – and scones in particular – to what we offered you. It makes me smile, though, to think that Monica found a soft food you liked very much. Every morning and night I would mix bowls of it for you and Dagny and for the first time, you were eager to eat from your bowl.
In spite of the age and the aches, you were doing reasonably well. You were mobile and able to use the new dog door, although the confused you at times and you didn’t like it. You had free run of the back yard 24×7. While it once seemed too tiny to contain you, now it was a vast wilderness, mostly unexplored. Despite all of that, I thought was had a few more months together, at least. I never dreamed that a simple omission on my part would bring our time to a (slightly) premature end. For that, boy-o, I am so deeply sorry. The little things count. I know I let you down. If I had even a ghost of a thought that this might happen, I would have made sure it did not.
There is something about the sound of your dog’s nails on the floor as he comes to check on you (again) that makes a person feel not so alone in the world. For 14 years you did that for me and I love you for it. It pains me to think I will never hear that sound again, nor reach to stroke your head or rub your throat or scratch your back. How lonely a man is without his dog, no matter all the riches he has elsewise.
In closing, my sweet boy, you were The Superdog, the perfect combination of speed and agility, of courage and loyalty, of intelligence and charm. There will never be another dog like you, not in all the ages.
Tucker’s Memorial Video:
