by Tucker’s Memorial Video:
Tucker, my fur buddy, it is with deep sorrow that I write this after your passing. Often called “Big Red” or “boy-o”, you became part of the Moore Dynasty in December, 2011 – nearly 15 years ago. You were a tiny ball of fur then. You weighed less than Heidi Bitey and she let you know it. That state of affairs would not last long. Unlike Coco, Maggie, and a series of other lesser animals, you were not cowered by her domineering personality. Your cups of spunk and energy ran over and the house quickly became yours.
Officially, you were Jacob’s puppy and he had full charge of you in those early months. I deliberately avoided bonding with you – I already had a dog of my own. But even 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 don’t remember that – with one exception: the time it fell to me to evict you onto the the porch after yet 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 as dogs sometimes do and Jacob left for college. In a matter of days, you and I adopted each other. We became best buddies, something that would never change in the 14 years that followed. In fact, I became one of those annoying dog people who can’t stop talking about their dog’s antics. At the same time, I didn’t understand what people saw in their own pets. They were lesser animals who couldn’t measure up to you in any way. Until your very last morning with us, you were my Superdog and I loved you. What times we had!
A Miniature Australian (American) Shepherd, you were very smart and equally athletic. Never bound by gravity, you were able to make every jump easily. Couches and chair were a casual bound, the tall front porch barely more difficult. I didn’t exactly teach you, but as a disc golf fanatic, I would throw discs off the porch at my practice basket and after a while you started to chase them. We had fun doing this “the regular way”, but the good times started for you when you finally trained me to throw rollers along the ground instead of 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 ferocity of your pursuit couldn’t fully be captured on film (by me). This video, as amazing as it is, shows only the least of your abilities.
At a young age, you learned something few other dogs ever do: to ask to be let out of the house – every time. Countless times I would be peacefully at rest, at work, or working out when your singular scratch would emanate from the front door. SCREECH! Hearing this, I would exclaim, “Ah, the Little Prince beckons!”, pop to my feet, and hurry to the door to let you do whatever important canine business you had to take care of.
In those days, we were both young and strong and we ran together quite often. Many times I tried to lock you up, only to hear you running me down from behind after a half-mile or so. Soon I quit trying to leave you behind. Four miles would take us from Skillet Bend to the Y at John Rice and back. I would run it in 32-34 minutes while you scampered along, occasionally diving offroad to explore this field or that ditch. This route was safe enough for you, 121 being a modestly-populated country road. Now I wonder how I could let you, the dog I loved, run off-leash.
But I couldn’t bear to tie you up – you loved to run so much. I also figured there was a good chance you would kill yourself chasing the UPS truck down the rugged caliche path that passed for a road in those days. Every passing vehicle kicked up a massive dust cloud and the deliveryman’s oversized van most of all. Left unsupervised (as you were five days a week), you would sprint off the porch, tear across the 60 yards to the road, and chase his truck like hell! Compared to that, having you run by my side was safe enough.
In fact, there was only one moment of minor “danger” and it didn’t involve a vehicle. Ranging ahead of me – I was only good for 8-minute miles – 3 or 4 (I can’t recall) Irish Setters had you triangulated in the catty-corner neighbor’s pasture when I caught up to you. Neither bright nor fierce, the bird dogs were nonetheless working as a team to hem you in. But when you saw me, you showed these lesser dogs your heels, easily broke away, and we never had trouble with them again.
We also went to the school track often. Here, you would lope along in the grass 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 even for a Superdog, whereas a man can struggle on. At other times, you would 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. A friendly dog, you only ever met one person you didn’t like – the big guy who regularly walked the track with us. For reasons unknown, you hated him with a red-hot fury. After a nipping incident, we had to time our runs around his schedule. Naturally, I trusted you and put the guy on my enemies list without knowing his name.
Aussies are known for their energy, their running and jumping abilities, and their wiggly-wiggly nubs. You had all of these traits in spades! While you never had the “zoomies” exactly, your Aussie attributes were on full display when one of your people came to see you after an absence. At the time, our friend Skip spent most Friday evenings camped out in front of our television. The enthusiasm with which you greeted him could only be described as legend – wait for it – dary. Wiggling at both ends, panting and whining with delight, 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 truly a sight to behold.
Later, when Skip went off the rails and our relationship came to an end, you were still there for me, as loyal as ever. It would not be unfair to say that, outside of my family unit, you were the best friend I’ve had in over a decade. How alike we were! We both 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. I wonder if that tension was part of our relationship, if a reciprocal caginess drew us together and made our relationship that much more meaningful.
In addition to being 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. The UPS man had to be chased away, along with the many other interlopers. This included the deer population, which was large and growing. I often saw you sprinting 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 terror. When I jerked the door open, I saw you bounding back to the house just ahead of a tall, rangy, very pissed off doe. The humiliation! The deer got back at you in another way, but as I said, that’s for later on.
In addition to rolling discs for you at home, I was very much into the sport of disc golf itself. I regularly drove you to Research Park to go around with me. Due to your vocal anxiety during 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 out your special disk whenever you wanted and watching you give chase. Other players often remarked (stating the obvious) what an amazing dog you were. At times you would venture off on your own, usually late in the round when the sun was up and the lure of the pond shared by 9 and 16 became too much to resist. I had to pull both you and your chase disc out of the water on many occasions. This necessitated a bath at home before you could be allowed inside. Despite the chastisements and the hosing downs I gave you, you never felt any shame that I could detect.
One day, while I was throwing hole 5, you snuck back to the pond at 4 (something you normally didn’t do so soon) and I lost track of you. I remember a sense of dread creeping over me as I called and scanned the mostly flat course for you. You were nowhere to be found. Heart racing, I decided to retrace my steps and spotted you in the water 100 yards away, struggling to get to shore due to a thick infestation of 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 when requests to stud you out began to roll in. You, of course, did your part in outstanding fashion, siring seven pups in two separate litters. Because we wanted puppies of our own, we chose not to take one as part of your fee. Instead, we bought Dagny as your bride, venturing to Waxahachie (or near enough) just ahead of a major winter storm to fetch her for you. Sadly, as good of a dog as Miss Dags is, no issue emerged from your doggie union.
In a way, Dagny broke your world. Right away I noticed that you would no longer to play the same games. Formerly, I would 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 refused to chase the ball anymore. She even altered the rules of disc chasing. No match for your speed and agility, she was nonetheless determined to get in the game and, when she reached your height, chasing discs became a two-way activity. You would fly ahead, chase the disc down, and she would catch up and steal it from you. Then she would bring it back for me to throw again. Our alone time was limited to the disc golf course and the track now (because Dags does not travel well).
With two beautiful Aussies to protect from stranger-danger, I set up an electric wire/collar system to keep the two of you “in the yard”, curtailing your freedom even more. You still had 10 acres to run in, but the front gate was off-limits, as Dagny quickly discovered. You, though, were made of tougher stuff and could shake off the shock any time you really wanted to. Still, you stayed on our property more often and (I believe) stopped chasing the UPS truck down the dusty dirt road.
10 acres is still a lot of room in which a dog can make mischief. For example, the deer still had to be chased – and possibly brought down. How it happened remains a mystery, but one day I returned home to the sight of a bloody, well-gnawed deer haunch lying in the middle of the driveway. Later that night, the remains disappeared and your mouths needed to be washed clean. Those are the indisputable facts. Then came the horror. Overnight, you and Dagny both suffered truly massive attacks of exploding diarrhea. Huge, reeking puddles of the stuff were expelled all over the living room and kitchen. This was the incident I hinted at earlier, the only time your house-training failed.
Another of your many jobs was to master the family cats. There were an ever-varying assortment and number of the felines on the property. Pip, Scampers, Mixie, Chopstick, and Eggroll were permanent residents, along with many other transients. As a rule, you did not harass the cats. Inside and out, you generally let them be – except in the evening. After guarding the house all day (with a little help from Dags), when your people came home, you would frisk about the car, leaping and jumping to welcome us. I would get out of Lucinda, look at you, and yell, “Scatter ’em, Tuck!” Then you would spring after the cats and herd them to and fro as they tried to dash away, spitting and hissing in fear like the cowards they are, while I laughed at their panicked retreats.
Because of this, I was often accused of taking your side in everything, blaming the cats for their many transgressions (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 drastic measures needed to be taken. There were, after all, 11 acres to defend. Many fell beasts roamed loose in the forest. Another disputed point was your alleged smell. Cruel pejoratives such as “stinky”, “reeking”, and “trash dog” were leveled against you. Even if these things had been true, I would have defended you to the end. To me, you smelled like courage and loyalty, and I declared it often. 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. Suddenly, you were confined to a tiny backyard. There was no more chasing of deer or rolling discs from the porch. Such frivolity was now hard-won. Play time had to be directed and scheduled. I hated the effect this had on you even as Monica and I enjoyed the change for ourselves. Life is full of such contradictions, but you couldn’t have understood the reasons for the change.
We still went to the disc golf park together, but it wasn’t long before I saw it was becoming too much for you. After chasing the disc as fast and furious as ever for a few 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 snaps you took at it while in motion. Then came the day when you nearly broke your leg chasing the disc over a tree root. You were as graceful as ever, but not as resilient. After that, you limped often. At the sound of a keychain, your ears would perk up and you would rush to the door, as eager as ever, only to be told you had to stay home. I only wanted to keep you from getting hurt. But I wish I could go back and take with me, even if only to walk slowly by my side. The truth is that I knew you too well, Big Red: You could no more stop chasing the disc than to stop breathing.
It was miserable for many, but COVID was a boon for us. Working from home gave me a more flexible schedule and we spent every day together. We took long walks with Dagny along the streets and sidewalks and through the parks of the city. We visited places we would otherwise not have seen. You knew the sound of your harness being readied and could hear it from across the house. Each evening, you would dash to the door with your ears up and your eyes bright with excitement. It was time to go for a walk!
We had a great time during the year and a half of pandemic. We explored new home builds under construction, walked every street in a two-mile radius, played in the green spaces nearby, and generally roamed wherever we wanted. On occasion, I would let you off-leash in the wild areas so you could run free like a puppy again. Dagny too, although she eventually spoiled that game by running away. After a frantic search, a not-so-near neighbor told us he’d seen a black dog dragging a leash, “Thataway.” We hurried home to find that Dags had been there for 30 minutes, waiting for us. Except for the dearth of quality entertainment, those were happy days that I wish had never ended.
Suddenly, five years have passed in the blink of an eye. We both got older – at different rates – and started to limp and ache on old bones. I ran fewer miles and slower, while you could no longer run at all after the first mad dash out the door. Perhaps if I worked less I could have given you more exercise and 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. Cycling is an antidote to a life spent caged in an office, chained to a desk. I needed movement out of doors to keep my sanity. You would have understood this instinctively, of course, but probably not consciously, as smart as you were. But there was one good thing about living in the city: I worked close to home. I was able to come home to eat lunch with you and Dagny nearly every day and I would give you the snackies you deserved (for guarding the house so well) and the pets you needed.
Such was the pattern of the last years of our life together. You were as constant a companion as ever, even as your hearing dimmed (causing you to Super Bark louder than ever for a time, until you went deaf and fell silent), your eyesight faltered, your ability to jump onto the chair with me diminished, and your once-proud Aussie canter slowed to a hobble. Your loyalty never faltered and 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 at the end of another long day.
I could tell 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 at the sight of me. You would wait patiently for me to deliver the much-needed pets along your jaw, ears, and throat that seemed to take away the pain. Most of your life, you were indifferent to dog food, preferring what was on my plate – and scones in particular. It made me glad when Monica eventually found a soft food you liked. Every morning and night I would mix meals for you and Dagny. Finally, in your old age, you were eager to eat from your bowl, even when I was hiding your joint pills in it.
The hardest part is this: In spite of your age and the aches and pains, you were doing reasonably well. You were mobile and able to use the new dog door, even if you didn’t like it. Some days, you would come frisking inside, tongue lolling out, as if no time had passed at all. As always, you had free run of the back yard 24×7. While it once was too tiny to contain you, now it seemed vast and mostly unexplored. Our days were winding down. Even I knew that. Still, I thought we had a few more months together, at least. I never dreamed that such a simple thing would bring our time to a premature end. For that, boy-o, I am so sorry. I can’t get the thought out of what happened of my head.
There is something about the sound of your dog’s (Super) bark when he welcomes you home and the tap-tap of his nails on the floor as he comes to check on you (again) that makes a man feel not so alone in the world. For 14 years you were my BIg Red, my velcro shadow, and I love you for it. It pains me to think I will never hear these sounds again, nor reach out to stroke your head or rub your throat or scratch your back as I’ve done so many times.
In closing, my sweet boy, you were The Superdog, the perfect combination of speed and agility, of courage and loyalty, of intelligence and charm. I was proud to be your master, proud that you chose me to be your person. There will never be another dog like you, not in all the ages.
Tucker’s Memorial Video:
