I thought I was doing it right this time. I wasn’t making a decision born of the fear of facing a dogless home, like I did when I adopted Lilah and Jasper only three weeks after Rosie died, knowing that Pasha’s days were numbered. I wasn’t making a decision based on a shooting star and an impossible dream like I did when I went looking for—and found—Tucker. This time I was thoughtful. I thought about what size of dog I wanted: small enough that I could carry them in an emergency. What type of personality I was looking for; someone with a little more pep in their step would get my current two moving a little more. What age range: while I knew older dogs needed homes, my entire house is filled with senior pets—or those getting close to senior—and I wanted someone younger who could potentially still be around when my elders are no longer with me. I researched the rescue groups I might adopt through. I only searched for pups from organizations that had good reputations, that I knew I could count on, that wouldn’t just let any dog go with any person, that fostered dogs, and therefore knew enough about them to ensure they are placed well. This time I asked questions. I was so hurt by Tucker’s loss that I was hoping to add someone to the family who would be with me a long time. Health was extremely important to me, so I wanted to know what the dog’s life was like before she came to me, what the foster situation was like. I probably wouldn’t know if the mother had appropriate prenatal care (which can set up a dog—or a human or cat for that matter—for a more healthy life), or who the father was, but the more I knew about a dog’s early history, the better. Most important, I was looking for a dog that was good with cats. That was not negotiable. So by the time I began to fall in love with Halley, I had asked all the right questions, got answers I liked, met her twice, observed her with other dogs, and thought, “She’s the one.” As I mentioned in my previous post, she needed to get along with Lilah and Jasper; if they didn’t approve, the new puppy wouldn’t be a good fit for us, and the potential adoption would end right there. As for the cats, even if Halley was good with kitties—there was one in her foster home, whom I was told she ignored—I figured my four felines would take some time to get used to a new member of the family. I prepared for some sleepless nights during house training. I knew there would be accidents. I was told she was good in her crate, but I figured there would be some adjustments. I could tell she was really smart, and according to her foster Leslie here in New Jersey, she was a bit of an escape artist. I also knew that puppies can be chewers, and figured there might be some damage to the house from chewing or other misbehavior. But. I had no clue, and was completely unprepared for the upheaval, chaos, challenges, illnesses, and emotional maelstrom that came with my personal comet, my Halley. During our first meeting, at her foster home, Halley threw up. At first I chalked it up to the ordeal she had just been through, traveling by van in a small crate all the way from Texas; she had only arrived the day before. She had also just been to the vet only a few hours before I met her, where she received two immunizations. Plus, she was running around the yard like a nut. Still, when I came home from that visit, I stripped down to my undies in the garage, Purelled my hands, threw my clothes directly into the wash, and went straight into the shower. I didn’t know what Halley had—if anything— but I didn’t want to bring it into my home. She had come from a foster in Texas, and before that, a home we knew nothing about. She was also on a transport with other rescued dogs pulled from high-kill shelters; who knew what she had been exposed to along the way. When she had diarrhea the next morning, Leslie took her straight to the vet, where they thought her symptoms might be due to a reaction to one of her immunizations—more likely the leptospirosis. The vet prescribed metronidazole and told Leslie to feed the puppy chicken and rice, continuing with the medication until she had at least two solid poops. My mistake—and it was a whopper—was not insisting that Halley be at that stage—cured, off the medication, with a solid digestive system and the ability to eat different foods and treats—before I brought her home. To be transparent here, I wanted Halley. I really wanted her. And having applied for several other dogs only to have someone else be approved for their adoption, I didn’t want to jeopardize this one. I was afraid of being a pain in the rear, having already asked a zillion questions, visited her twice (on my own and then again with Brian), requested my dogs’ approval (meaning Leslie agreed to drive Halley down to my house for their introduction) and pushed off the adoption by a couple of days because I was hoping to make sure she was healthy. Her veterinary records showed she had all required immunizations. She was up to date, her stool had been tested for worms and parasites twice. I was happy that she hadn’t been spayed yet, but instead came with a connection to a state spay / neuter program that offered the surgery with approved vets for only $20. Recent studies have shown that dogs are healthier if spay and neuter surgery is performed after six months. This was all good. When Halley arrived at our house, Lilah and Jasper approved. We brought her inside where I had gated off the kitchen. She sniffed at Echo—my daughter’s cat whom I was cat sitting that day—and wagged. Both were cool with each other. Then I introduced Halley to her crate; she walked in, wagging her tail. I didn’t close the door, just let her hang out. It all went downhill from there. She saw one of the cats when she was in the crate—I think it was Elsa Clair, though I couldn’t be sure—and had a puppy meltdown, digging and biting at the bars, crying, barking, yapping and making a sound that my daughter Melanie said sounded like a baby Nazgûl (for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Lord of The Rings books or movies, those are the ringwraiths, servants of the evil Lord Sauron, whose screams would make the stoutest hearts shrivel). VIDEO OF SOUND The cat ran away, terrified. When another cat—this time I think it was Calvin—showed up a short time later, and was seen again through the bars of the crate as he walked through the dining room, we had a repeat performance of Baby Nazgûl. That night—and for days after, we had to feed the dogs outside of the house on the deck, because none of the cats would come into the kitchen. I didn’t blame them. Later I brought Halley up to our bedroom and showed her her nighttime crate. It was a duplicate of the one in the dining room, and I had placed it right next to my side of the bed. Halley walked into the crate, looked through the bars and… Baby Nazgûl. Apparently she believed that crates magically caused cats to appear. I had to come up with plan B, and dug up a portable pop-up crate (I keep two of them in my Go Bag for emergencies in case I need to quickly contain my cats). This became Halley’s bed, but since it was flimsy, I spent the next four nights lying on the floor next to her, with my arm slipped through the zippered opening. This kept her calm, and prevented her from digging or chewing through the material. That first night, Halley woke us up at 2:00 AM with explosive diarrhea. I took her outside while Brian cleaned up the mess. Luckily it was contained to the blankets so could still use the pop-up crate when I came back. Mind you, I had brought her to our vet for a checkup that afternoon, where she was pronounced healthy. They had suggested I bring in a stool sample, even though she had already been dewormed, and had her poop checked by two vets within the past couple weeks—once in Texas and again in New Jersey. The next morning, since I couldn’t use crates to control Halley and keep the cats safe, I resorted to baby gates, restricting the puppy to our dining room. The first time a cat walked by, she went nuts. Baby Nazgûl again. And she jumped the gate. I put blankets over the gates so she couldn’t see the cats. Apparently Baby Nazgûl could hear them. And still jump the gates. I double stacked gates—one on top of the other—on one entrance to the dining room, and put chairs backed up against the other, effectively extending the height by about a foot. I covered everything with blankets. Apparently Baby Nazgûl can climb when motivated. In an instant. Right over the gates. I gave up on the gates and tethered Halley to me. I put her on a six-foot leash, and she had to go with me everywhere. Which sometimes she didn’t want to do. So in addition to Baby Nazgûl, I discovered that Halley was also really good at passive resistance. As in, I’m not moving and you’ll have to pick me up if you want to go upstairs. Or to the bathroom. Or want to eat. I made sure to give her her metronidazole, and was careful to feed her chicken and rice, knowing that a sensitive digestive system could get even more screwed up if I took her off that diet too soon. Every day I examined my pup’s poop like a mystic reading tea leaves, pleading with the gods of dogs to deliver me two solid poops in a row. When my prayers and supplications were answered—nine days after Halley came to live with us—I brought a fecal sample into my veterinarian, noting that I also saw she had tapeworm. (Leslie had warned me that one of the other pups had tapeworm too, so it wasn’t a surprise.) At least the treatment for that was easy: just one pill. During those nine days, I watched as Baby Nazgûl came out when Halley met my neighbor’s Yorkie for the first time. And then again when she met a pibble in the local pet store. And then when she tried catch a chipmunk running along our fence. And when she was on one side of our sliding glass door and I was on the other. I Googled “puppy temper tantrum”—the only way I could think to describe her behavior—which was how I found out about barrier frustration. My puppy wasn’t a ringwraith; it’s just that she didn’t like to be thwarted. Imagine a two-year-old human who wants cake for dinner and is told she can’t have it. Meltdown. Let’s review: I had a puppy who is sick and on a restricted diet—and was bored with chicken and rice, making it hard to train her with no food other than chicken allowed as training treats. She throws temper tantrums when she doesn’t get her way. I can’t tell if she wants to eat the cats or play with them, as she throws a tantrum every time she sees one. I can’t use crates because she turns into a baby ringwraith. Gates do not contain her. She is tethered to me. My cats hide during the day. This was not working. And then I find out from our vet that Halley’s fecal sample showed an active Giardia infection—yet another parasite. One that is spread so easily that my other dogs were very likely to get it so everyone needed to be treated. That’ll be $228 for medication for all three of the dogs. Five days of mixing powder into everyone’s food. At least they ate it willingly. At this point, I am trying everything. I brought in a trainer—Anne Macaulay from On Good Behavior—who I’ve worked with in the past. She came for a private in-home consultation to help me assess whether Halley’s problem is a cat thing or a frustration thing. The fact that she was fostered with cats is helpful here, and Halley’s early interaction with Echo indicated she could be fine with them. Anne said she thought Halley could be okay, but she’d be a lot of work, and of course there are no guarantees. As a way to help assess her issues, I also brought Halley to a puppy play event through My Dog’s Got Class and saw first-hand that she’s fine off leash with all the other pups. The trainer there told me she is well socialized. This was good news. I signed Halley up for Camp Bow Wow—doggy day care—and she passed the interview, getting along perfectly with all the other dogs. Also good news. But she still can’t stand being thwarted. And if she’s on a leash, and meets another dog on a leash, I can see her building toward becoming a leash reactive dog. Right now she just wants to play, but I’ve read enough to know that her behavior has to change, because it can become aggressive. I tried to take Halley and the other dogs for our daily walk. Walks are a great way to bond with a dog, to practice tolerance of other leashed dogs, and to burn off energy through exercise. The first time we attempted a walk, though, when a car sped by, Halley froze and then added a new performance to her repertoire—the dancing freakout. This time,Baby Nazgûl left the building and in her place was a scared puppy. Something about cars frightens her. Now I added getting her used to traffic to my list of things to help her with. And I can’t use an easy walk in the neighborhood as a tool for training. On Yom Kippur, I brought Halley in for a half day at Camp Bow Wow—I couldn’t leave her alone in the house as she still wasn’t crate trained. I arranged for Maria, their on-site trainer, to work with her while she was there, to focus on the barrier frustration. I also signed Halley up for obedience classes with My Dog’s Got Class. And I brought her there for doggy daycare on a day when I needed to attend meetings, and paid extra for a “Mind Your Manners” session for trainers to work on her issues. In the meantime, every encounter with the cats resulted in a meltdown. By now, though, I had begun to feed Halley real food and to give her high-value rewards. These rewards were nothing more than chopped up FreshPet and other high-quality dog food, which I was able to feed her because I now realized that her digestive issues were caused by the undiagnosed Giardia, which, based on the cyst count, she probably had since she was in Texas. Thus, she got very little food at mealtimes—mostly for practice and exposure to our meal time routine, to ensure there’s no resource guarding, and so she has additional opportunities to deal with her barrier frustration, as she must sit and wait before I release her to eat just like the other dogs. Every day I tried something new: Feeding her morsel by morsel in the laundry room as a training exercise while we feed the cats, so she can see them and be rewarded for calmness. This required elaborate planning and execution, and worked as long as I talk Brian through the feeding process. Feeding her morsel by morsel in the kitchen with the cats across the room. This was a step up from the laundry room, and it worked until Halley lost control. After that, the cats wouldn’t come for dinner. They didn’t feel safe. I think we were on Plan Q by then. Reintroducing her to her crate in our bedroom only. This worked, but we needed to cover it with a blanket because at first Halley wouldn’t settle down unless it was dark. Keeping her on a 30-foot-leash at all times in our fenced-in yard because the ill-behaved yappy neighbor dogs on one side of our house torment her and bring out Baby Nazgûl, and the Yorkie on the other side—while usually leashed and in control—causes Halley to run back and forth by the fence in frustration. The chipmunks in the garden elicit the same reaction. This behavior reinforces her barrier issues; it’s actually fun for her. Making a cat room out of Melanie’s old room. It was going to be my new office, but I outfitted it with our cat tree and a chair and a rug and hidey places, and sealed it off with a gate that features a small cat door. I noticed that Halley seemed to leap over gates to get out of something, but not to get in. Elsa Clair and Calvin discovered the room on their own, but Dawn seemed to think the safest place is under the couch in our family room, and Halley knows she’s there. I brought Dawn up to the cat room once and sat with her, and so did Melanie, but the cat insists on spending her days under the couch. Feeding Halley morsel by morsel in the family room, near the couch under which Dawn is hiding, so that the puppy can be rewarded for controlling herself near a cat. I’m so sorry, Dawn, but you didn’t want to go upstairs to the cat room. Playing fetch and tug with Halley. Anne suggested fetch as a way to burn off some energy, bond with Halley, and direct her inner hunter. We throw stuffed animals, balls, squeaky toys, flying discs, whatever she’ll chase. It took her a while to figure out that if she brings it back, I’ll throw it again, but she did eventually get that, and is becoming more consistent. But wait! There’s more. In preparation for her spay surgery, the vet did standard bloodwork, where we found out Halley has antibodies to both Lyme disease and anaplasmosis. She’s showing no clinical signs for either, but Lyme can be tricky so we’re treating her for that. Tucker had tested positive for anaplasma antibodies all his life, and never showed symptoms. Nearly every day I cry. I want to love this dog, but I’m holding back. She’s everything I thought I wanted: smart, fun, playful, affectionate. But I don’t know whether she can live with us. I can’t put the cats at risk. And Agnes, my Depression, tells me that I am stupid. Why did I think I could handle a puppy at this stage in my life, she asks me. And then she points out that the cats are miserable, and probably will hate me forever. She laughs and chides me, noting that I have a blog called Life with Dogs and Cats and I can’t get a new puppy—who is supposedly good with cats—to integrate with my current feline crew. This has been my life for the past month. It’s why I have posted almost nothing on social media about Halley. There is little joy, because I fear I will have to give her up. Yet. I haven’t stopped trying. Where are we today? We have made some progress. Halley knows Sit, Stay, Down. She sleeps quietly through the night in her crate in my bedroom. She can stay in that same crate for about 15 minutes with a Kong during the day. We’re working on extending that. Until she can be left alone for longer periods in her crate in my bedroom, I am essentially trapped at home—unless I take her to dog friendly stores (I’ve been to every pet shop within a few miles of my house) or she goes to puppy camp or daycare, both expensive propositions. We practice dealing with frustration all day. Plus she has to deal with leashed dogs on either side of her during during obedience class. It’s a huge challenge for her, but I saw some improvement even from the first to the second class. To help with her fear of traffic, I stand at the end of our driveway and she gets treats each time a car goes by. Anne suggested I bring her to parking lots for more exposure. We’ve started going to Starbucks, where I can get a coffee and sit outside with her as she learns that she can be safe with me when there are cars around. For the past few nights, Halley has been able to sleep in our family room—actually sleep!!!—even though Dawn was under the couch only a few feet away. The puppy whines a bit at first, but settles down. Anne had suggested that I reward her when she self regulates; if she looks at me when she’s frustrated that she can’t get to a cat, I give her a treat. If she comes up to me, even better: more treats. We’re training her to a mat, which I’m learning is a great way for dogs to learn self control, to have a spot to go to where they feel safe and can decompress. I’m going through the same process with Lilah and Jasper, as I think it will help everyone. Halley walks beautifully on a leash. She matches my pace. She sits when I stop. She learns everything so fast. It took her less than a week to figure out how to ring a bell if she wants to go potty. She’s pretty consistent with it, and of course quickly figured out that she can ask to go outside any time she’s bored. I let her do that for now. It’s good for her to have some part of her life she can control. We haven’t had an accident in almost 2 weeks. Baby Nazgûl is showing up less often. Halley is still working on controlling her tantrums, but they are happening less and less, and are quieter, shorter, and less violent. As for the cats, we stopped sharing meal times, and we now feed the dogs and cats separately. This causes much less stress for everyone. Until I can get Halley to stay quietly in a crate by herself for more than 15 minutes, Brian has to hang out with her and the other dogs—either outside on the deck or in our bedroom—while I feed the kitties. I think this now allows the kitties to feel safer, while everyone is getting used to Halley’s presence. I am starting to catch glimpses of them peeking around corners, or from behind doors when Halley is around. They’re getting used to her, and I try to keep Halley calm when any of the feline crew are around, providing treats whether she sees the cats or not. Every night, after Halley settles down in her crate, I sneak downstairs to spend about an hour with the cats. I think they forgive me. They purr, crawl into my lap, and complain to me about our resident ringwraith. With all of that, I still don’t know if Halley will be able to stay with us. I still don’t know if we’ll get to a moment where she and the cats can live together—if not in harmony, then at least without violent discord. It crushes me to think that I might have to give her up—but I will if I think the cats are at risk. I’m putting so much effort in to making this work, and my emotions are all over the map at any given moment. Yay! Halley didn’t whine when she caught a glimpse of Athena. Oh no! The cats’ first response when they see me is to run—because they equate me with Baby Nazgûl. However, as Brian reminded me, all this work I’m putting in to train her, to make sure she’s healthy, to increase her frustration tolerance, and to arrange for her spay, will make her more adoptable if it comes to that. But to be honest, that’s little solace if I have to go through another goodbye. The other day, I mentioned to Brian another thing I was trying to help integrate Halley into our family. We’re way past Plan Z by now. He said, “I hope you’re right.” I laughed. I told him I’ve been wrong so many times in the past month that I’ve lost count. That I have failed over and over and over again. This whole process has made so clear to me how important failure is to progress: That didn’t work? Try this instead. Still not working? Try another thing. Change it. Try again. Tweak it. Try again. Ad infinitum. Maybe, eventually, with the right combination of training and patience, I’ll succeed. Despite what Agnes tells me. I love Halley. I want to love her more. I think she’s very special. I believe she’s what my heart needs. But I won’t put my cats at risk. For now, they are not. A couple weeks ago, Leslie texted me to ask how things were going, and I told her I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to keep her. She called me and I wept on the phone with her. Like any good rescue organization, Big Dog Rescue Project said they’d take Halley back, find her a good home, and I could even help choose her next family. I reached out to a friend of mine who has no cats and is a wonderful dog mom, to see if she might take Halley if this doesn’t work. The thought tears me apart. But I have to do what is right for my current family. But I think we’re making progress. I hope we’re making progress. And I’m trying to shut out Agnes, because she is a known liar. My wish is that one day, I’ll look back and think it was all worth it. And maybe others can learn from my experience. For the past three days, Calvin has been leaving me gifts again. This, more than anything, gives me hope that this whole thing might work out. Until then, I’m going to keep failing and trying again. And I’m going to love my puppy. The post I Didn’t Expect Baby Nazgûl: Our first month with a new puppy appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats.
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My heart was broken this past August. I was gutted by Tucker‘s death. He was my heart dog, one very special soul whom I will miss until I depart this earth. I have been grieving for him since his diagnosis back in March. With my sweet terrier gone, there was a dog-shaped hole in my life. And while I can never replace Tucker—nor any of the other animals I’ve lived with—I feel his absence loudly and viscerally. As do the rest of my family. Lilah and Jasper often sit in Tucker’s favorite spot in the back yard. And while Lilah doesn’t look for him as often as did the first few weeks, both she and Jasper seem so much more subdued these days. Three out of my four cats probably don’t care, but Calvin misses his buddy. He comes into my bedroom and wanders around, wondering where his Tucker is and why he’s not on the bed. So, it’s not surprising, really, that I did some window shopping on Petfinder.com and AdoptAPet.com. I wasn’t really intending to “buy.” But in my free moments, instead of scrolling through Facebook or mindlessly turning virtual cards over in the solitaire app on my iPhone, I would hop onto one of those adoption sites, and sort for a dog that was small or medium in size, good with other dogs and cats, and that was a puppy, young, or an adult. I half-heartedly applied for a few. At first, it was just to see if I could do it, if I could fill out the application and not collapse into a ball of sobbing heartbreak. Then, I began to be invested in a couple dogs that seemed like a good fit. One was a supposedly bonded pair of a male Border Collie and female Chihuahua mix. I thought it’s like buy one, get a half of one for free—and I know that two dogs are harder to place than just one. Besides, I have a habit of adopting pets in twos: Lilah and Jasper, Dawn and Athena, Calvin and Elsa Clair. But the rescue organization split the pair, aftering deciding they weren’t really bonded, and adopted out the Border Collie. And while they offered me the Chihuahua, I didn’t think she’d be what I thought Lilah and Jasper needed. I applied for a beagle / corgi mix from a different agency. She was adorable. Never heard back. Even though I’m a sucker for a scruffy face, I was not looking for a terrier. My first terrier, Rosie, died of cancer when she was four. Tucker died of cancer when he was eight. Too. Damn. Young. I was not going to do that again. But, as I kept applying, I realized I wanted a dog who could bring some joy into our lives. I was drawn to breeds and breed mixes that are known for that. Lilah is part Border Collie; I thought maybe another dog something like her, but with less of her fears, would be fun. I also wanted a smaller dog. I hated the fact that I couldn’t carry Tucker by myself. At 63 pounds, he was too heavy. When he wasn’t feeling well and needed to be carried, I had to turn to someone else to help, and I felt horrible that I couldn’t do that one thing for him. I worry about that with my 74-pound princess moosehound, Jasper. A posting from the Big Dog Rescue Project for a Border Collie / terrier mix caught my interest. Her foster name was “Bessie” and she looked like a Border Collie, with long black and white fur—and just a touch of scruff. I applied for her, and when I hadn’t heard back in a while, I wrote her off. That’s when I began to realize that you had to be fast—first in line to get the dog you really wanted. And I wasn’t sure about what dog I really wanted, and if I really wanted a dog, and if now was a good time to adopt a dog and if there would ever be a good time to adopt a dog, and maybe I should accept the quiet, somber, less complicated life my husband and I were leading and not even bother looking. Then I received an email from Leslie from the Big Dog Rescue Project. Bessie had been adopted, she wrote, but her siblings Lynda and Miss Piggy were still available if I was interested. They were friendly and affectionate and according to the foster in Texas, they were good with cats, having ignored her kitty. Leslie sent pictures. That week I wasn’t feeling well. I grind my teeth at night when I’m stressed, and the cumulative stress of the past several months—including my grief—combined to not only break a temporary cap, but someone I managed to bite my tongue so hard in my sleep that the dentist thought it looked like what happens when people almost bite through their tongues in a car accident. It was exceptionally painful, and I could barely eat or to talk. Words that begin with T or J (like Jasper) nearly made me cry. I looked at the pictures Leslie sent and thought, nope. Piggy looked like a lab. She was going to be too big. And Lynda? (Strange name for a puppy, am I right?) She looked like a terrier. And I did not want to go down that path again. So I replied to Leslie, telling her I wasn’t feeling well and it wasn’t the right time, and Brian and I were in the middle of things (It’s VNA Rummage sale time again!) and I just didn’t think it would work out. I told her what I was looking for in a dog in case she encountered one like I was looking for—not just the physical characteristics but a dog who would bring a bouyancy, a playful spark of life, to our home. But as for Bessie’s two sisters, I don’t think now is the right time. Thanks! That night, I couldn’t get Lynda out of my mind. Because, you see, she looked like so many of my past and present dogs all rolled up into one: Twinkle, the beagle / poodle mix of my childhood; Rosie, my first terrier, Tucker (that face, that beard, those eyes), and Lilah. By morning, I was a mess. Then I looked on Facebook, where Leslie had posted more pictures of the puppy. I wrote Leslie, telling her that I couldn’t sleep with thinking about the puppy, and maybe I do need to meet her after all, and here are pictures of the dogs she reminds me of. And when can I see her? The rest is, as they say, history. Or her story. At Leslie’s house that day—to no surprise—I fell in love with “Lynda.” (First thing Leslie’s husband said to me when I came to meet the puppy was, “You gotta change her name.”) Leslie told me that when she read my description of what I was looking for in a dog, she thought “Lynda” would be perfect. We set up a time where Brian could meet the puppy the following Monday—and of course I went along. By the end of that visit, both my husband and I were head over paws. We arranged with Leslie to bring “Lynda”—yes, we were changing her name—to our home. If Lilah and Jasper were good with her, the puppy would stay; she’d join our family. I knew the cats would take time; even if Temporarily Lynda was good with another cat, I know my kitties would take some time getting used to her. I have no pictures or videos of those first moments between Lilah and Jasper and our new puppy; I was too focused on making sure it went well. Priorities. And of course it did. Both Lilah and Jasper had some explaining to do about whose house it was, and what the rules were (don’t jump), and the little one pleasantly agreed by showing some sweet belly. All was good. Leslie spent some time with us, as I asked her about the dog’s health, and what she knew about her background. I wondered if whoever adopted the other two puppies would be amenable to getting together; I’ve never been able to do that with my previous dogs, and I thought it would be fun. I signed some papers. Then Leslie gave the puppy a pet and a kiss. And she left. And the puppy was ours. I felt like her name should somehow reflect at least some of the dogs she reminded me of. Think Twinkle, Twinkle little star (our beagle / poodle). My sweet Tucker was portended by a comet, and Lilah means “night” in Hebrew. In my mind, our newest family member should relate to something celestial, like stars or planets or constellations. So let me introduce Halley—after Halley’s Comet. (I’ll admit I had to look up to confirm the pronunciation. Halley rhymes with “alley” not “daily.”) More will come about her first days here and how everyone is acclimating to the puppy comet’s arrival. (Hint: the cats haven’t signed off on it yet, but we’re making progress.) In the meantime, get ready for some capital C Cute.
The post Three, Again appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. On a cold February night in 2011, I was driving down Route 287, on my way home from a speaking engagement. I was tired, but glad it was over, and I was anticipating the welcome I’d get from Lilah and Jasper—and maybe even Dawn and Athena. That’s when I saw the most amazing shooting star; it flew across almost a third of the sky right in front of me—and ended in a brilliant burst of sparks. I was alone in the car; there was nobody to share it with, and I saw no mention of it in the news the next day. It was so ephemeral and special that I thought if I shared the moment, it would disappear, washed away by the disbelief of others. So I kept my meteor to myself. That night I had a dream about a dog, a pup really, who swam across a small lake in front of my house toward me. He swam as if he knew me, eyes locked on mine, with a purposeful stroke and a canine grin of joy. He seemed to be some kind of hound with spots all over his body, including his round puppy belly, which he let me rub while he wiggled into a corner of my couch, settling in within the surreal timeline of dreams. A feeling of completion expanded within me, like a missing piece coming back, a wholeness. This dog was meant to be mine. The dream was so powerful, so vivid and real that the next day, I thought maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe there was someone out there for me and I just had to find him. So I went to Petfinder.com, looking for that round hound belly with the spots. Not there. Then I tried Adoptapet.com—and just when I was thinking it was all incredibly silly, I saw a face that made my heart skip a beat. I gasped and my heart started pounding. It was him. I knew it. He wasn’t a hound, and he didn’t look exactly like the dog in my dream but he did have an awesome belly, and he felt like that dog. I sent an email inquiry, and of course, they responded with a “fill out the application, then we’ll talk” message. Which, of course, I did. Filled that application out right then and there. I didn’t care that I was at work. I didn’t ask my family, didn’t talk to my husband. (Though I sent him an email afterwards, in which I told him what I had done.) The entry said that the dog was good with other dogs and cats. I wanted to meet him and find out if what I saw in the picture would be true in person. At that point, I thought he was in New Jersey or Pennsylvania, but “Jack” as he was then called, was pulled from a kill shelter in South Carolina. And that’s where he was being fostered. A few emails later, I asked if the rescue organization had all the information they needed from me, and the response came back: “I have no problem if you adopt him.” So, while I thought I was arranging a meet and greet, the rescue group assumed it was a pick him up and take him home. Still, I felt like I needed to keep going with the process. Many emails and a few weeks later, after “Jack” recovered from his neuter surgery, he was on his way to New Jersey. Though he arrived on a Friday, we couldn’t pick him up until the next day. I was told by the agency that he would be spending the night in a horse barn. First thing Saturday, my husband and I and my two kids hopped into our minivan and drove to our appointed meeting spot. The woman who set up the adoption didn’t want us to go to the farm, and didn’t want to meet in a park, so instead we agreed on a Chili’s parking lot in Flemington. I was to bring $250 in cash. It felt like a drug deal, and I told my family that if things looked or felt weird, we’d get back in the car and drive home without the dog. But I think we all fell in love the minute a sweet scruffy dog leapt out of a minivan, and greeted each of us individually with a snuggle, a kiss, a wag. The woman said, “I love it when they pick their families.” At home, we introduced the dog to Lilah and Jasper, and they got along instantly. As a family, we discussed names, and someone—I think it was Corinne—suggested “Tucker.” Why Tucker? “Because he looks like a Tucker.” And we all agreed that he did, indeed look like a Tucker. A few days later, I was rubbing his sweet terrier belly, and there were the spots. The ones I dreamed of. It was in the stars; Tucker was meant to be mine. He was the stuff of dreams. From day one, Tucker adored Jasper. He idolized him, snuggling up next to him, watching his every move, emulating him. Jasper wasn’t quite sure what to do about this adulation; he was more used to Lilah’s quiet company. But nobody could resist our insistent terrier—not even our comfort hound. As for Tucker, all things were better with Jasper. When Tucker heard or smelled or saw a barkable something in our woods—usually deer or fox—he would start to run, and then there would be that brief moment, where he suddenly stop, turn and look back to see if Jasper was coming with him. If Jasper wasn’t interested, you could see Tucker’s focus melt away; if Jasper wasn’t in on it, it wouldn’t be half as much fun. But if Tucker saw Jasper was on the move too, they would both charge toward our fence, barking and howling and generally carrying on in their canine way. At the fence, Tucker would put his front paws on one of the split rails, standing on his hind legs so he could get a better view of whatever or whoever was out there. In his excitement, he’d jump and pull at the deer fencing, sometimes ripping it. But always, always, keeping an eye on Jasper: his best friend was barking, too. That made it so much better. Tucker leaned on Jasper. Quite literally. Often, in the evenings, Tucker would climb up on the couch and tuck himself in next to Jasper. He’d lay his head on Jasper’s body and sigh contentedly. I can’t say Jasper loved that; it made him hot. But Jasper would always stay for a little while, with Tucker resting on top of him, before he slid himself gently out from under his brother and relaxed on the cool comfort of the floor. Tucker didn’t just use Jasper as a pillow. Lilah often served the same purpose. Usually it’s because there was something in the backyard that needed to be barked at and discussed, and the two smaller dogs would leap onto the bench in the family room for a better view out our picture window. Jasper, who’s just a little too large to be comfortable on the bench, would stand next to it and look out. Eventually, the barkable would fly or scurry or run away, and Lilah would lie down, followed by Tucker, who would curl up next to her, and rest his head on her back. Sweet motherly Lilah would stay there until Tucker left. Lilah always looked out for Tucker. From his early days with us, Tucker loved to play ball. He lived to play ball. His world revolved around those beloved orbs.
Tucker dog playing ball, catching in slow motion
We had inside balls and outside balls. The inside ones were soft, squishy and squeaky—at first. Tucker loved the squeak—almost as much as the chase. It didn’t take long, however for him to desqueakify an indoor ball. Every once in a while, the ball would land or roll near Lilah. This posed a conundrum for our ball-obsessed terrier. When the ball got close to Lilah, she would growl at Tucker if, in his attempt to retrieve it, he came too close to her. This was Lilah’s Border Collie sense of humor at work; she didn’t really care about his ball, but she knew that Tucker respected her. So if she growled, he’d back off, and then lie down a careful distance away from her and sigh sadly. Lilah would feign nonchalance, stretch, or sometimes pick up the ball and toss it herself. After a few minutes, she’d relent, obviously feeling sorry for Tucker, who by then would be crying softly to himself. Lilah would walk away from the ball, knowing that Tucker would pounce on it the minute she put enough distance between her and his beloved. Indoor ball playing usually took place when we were in the family room, watching TV or just hanging out. Tucker would toss the ball into a selected person’s lap, take a few steps back, and wait for them to toss it from the family room into the kitchen. Yes, it was slobbery. But BALL! If you didn’t act quickly, he would come back, pick the ball up and toss it again. Maybe the recipient didn’t see it, so it was best to remind them. Eventually, we taught him to put his ball in a dog bowl we kept in the family room—specifically for this purpose.
My dog Tucker gets a new squeaky ball and he's squeakin' happy about it.
Over time, Tucker would bring us stuffed animal toys to throw, and he’d chase after them as well. Then he’d chew on them, or lay his head upon on them. They could get pretty soggy; one year I bought three fuzzy pumpkin squeak toys that were on sale after Halloween. My original intention was one for each dog, but they became Tucker’s. And they became slobberized. So I washed them—often—because they were Tucker’s favorites: a cross between a ball and a furry toy. It didn’t get too much better than that for my terrier.
My dog Tucker loves to play with his plush squeaky pumpkin toy.
Sometimes there was conversation among the dogs over who had ownership rights to a specific stuffed toy. Tucker nearly always won—mostly because Jasper would give up easily, in the face of Tucker’s terrier tenacity. The only time he “lost” was when wily Lilah would grab another toy and toss it around the room as if it were the Best Toy Ever. Tucker would drop his current favorite and try to take Lilah’s, who would put up a half-hearted fight for show and then drop it. Tucker would march around triumphantly while Lilah grabbed the original toy. Tucker was played, but he really didn’t mind. He had a toy! And someone was going to throw it! He loved those plush toys; I kept a large pile of them in baskets—one in the family room, one in my office. Perhaps inspired by Lilah, Tucker especially enjoyed furry toys with whiskers, like a lion or an otter. Lilah and Tucker would gently chew on the plastic whiskers, like they were flossing their teeth, never destroying or biting through the little bits. When I came home after being out of the house, Tucker would grab one of those toys and meet me at the door or the gate. His mouth full of stuffed animal, whines emanating from behind the fluff, his whole body wagging with delight, he would try to bounce and snuggle me at the same time, following me—along with the other dogs—into the family room, where he would finally put the toy down to put two paws and half his body in my lap and kiss me all over.
When my dogs greet me at the door, my dog Tucker would often welcome me with whatever toy was at hand (er... paw). Sometimes it would be a cat toy.
Tucker would bring the toys with him all over the house; I’d find them in every room, like a Tucker calling card. He’d grab one when I went outside to scare away chaseable creatures, and as I walked across the deck, I’d see him in the window, an emu or a monkey hanging out of his mouth, or placed next to him, as he watched me walk the yard. Sometimes, if a dog toy wasn’t at hand (or mouth?) he’d grab a cat toy, a tiny furry mouse or squirrel, and run with that instead. Sometimes he’d use one of the toys as a pillow, and it was beyond cute. Tucker was the instigator. He loved to play, and was always the one to get Jasper and Lilah up and running. They rarely started the games, but they always enjoyed them. He’d bark or jump or bow—and the fun would begin. Usually, Tucker would engage with Jasper, and then Lilah would join in.
My dogs Tucker, Jasper and Lilah play a merry game of chase in our yard.
After a few minutes, Jasper would run to me, like a child on a playground running to the safety of home base. He was done; it was just too much excitement for our comfort hound. Then Lilah would have Tucker’s full attention, and that’s when she turned on her inner Border Collie. With just a stare or a twitch of her body, Lilah could get Tucker running literal circles around the yard, or up and over the deck and back down again. Lilah would stand in the yard and wait for her brother to come around again, and then she’d jump, and he’d go zooming across the yard for another circuit. Then, just as quickly as it began, the romp would end, and everyone would trot over to the water bowl for a communal drink, tails wagging, tongues hanging, and smiles on their doggy faces.
My 3 dogs Lilah, Jasper, and Tucker play in the snow
Outside was ball territory. We had special outside balls that were sturdier than the inside ones, though they did offer the requisite squeakability. It took a bit longer for Tucker’s desqueakification of an outside ball, but it was inevitable. Tucker often wanted to bring an outside ball inside. Usually I had to remind him of the rules, and he would comply, often with a sad wag. I would promise him that we could play ball inside, and that his outside ball would still be there the next time we went out.
Tucker the dog would really like to bring his muddy ball in the house.
A ball was good for more than just throwing. There was also squeaking. And squeaking. Not to mention squeaking. But one of Tucker’s favorite things to do when he wasn’t squeaking or actively fetching was to put the ball in something. An empty bucket. A pile of leaves. Some fallen branches. And then the fun was to get the ball out of wherever he put it.
One of my dog Tucker's favorite things to do was to put his ball in something and then try to get it out. With a lot of squeaking along the way. Here he put it in some fallen branches.
Inside, it might be a basket, or a bag. He used to love the crinkle tunnel that the cats ran through. Tucker would drop his ball in one of the holes, then stick his head in the hole to get it out. Many times, he would get stuck in the tunnel and he’d lift his head up and swing it around, swishing the cat tunnel left and right until he extricated himself—with the ball firmly grasped in his mouth. In our yard, the ball was never far from Tucker and Tucker was never far from the ball. Once he started playing, a ball was either in his mouth, by his side, in a thing, in the air, or given to me to throw. If something needed to be barked at, he found a way to bark with the ball in his mouth, creating a peculiar and laughable echoey woof. When he lost track of the ball’s location—usually because he started running before he saw where the ball was headed when I threw it—he would sniff in expanding circles, searching the yard for his beloved toy. Sometimes he would look back at me, asking for help. I would play a warmer / colder game with him, telling him “Yes, Yes,” when he got nearer, and “No, not there,” when he veered away. Like the Canadian Mounties, Tucker always got his ball. Tucker was nearly unstoppable when it came to playing ball. His tongue would be hanging down to his knees, he’d be panting and huffing like an old-fashioned steam locomotive, and he’d want one more throw. And another. And another. He could quit anytime, but maybe after this last throw. I would tell him to go lie down, to take a break. And he’d do it, grudgingly. For only a few minutes. Then, he’d be back. Ball in mouth. Huge grin on his face. Squeaking it if there were any squeak left. Throw it, he’d tell me with his big brown eyes. Throw it now. Throw it.
My dog Tucker's favorite thing in the world is to play ball. I use a special scoop (kind of like a jai alai cesta) that he's learned to put the ball in so I can throw it.
I did. I threw his ball so many times. Never enough. When I had surgery for tennis elbow (I think it was dog ball elbow), I learned to throw with my left arm. I eventually needed surgery in that arm too. I bought a ball thrower —a curved plastic implement that looks like a jai alai cesta, a long, curved scoop used to catch and throw the ball in that game. It took Tucker mere minutes to learn how to put his ball in the scoop, and it made it easier for me to throw his ball far into our yard. Ball was central to Tucker’s existence; I have so many stories where Ball is one of the main characters. Like the time the ball fell into the doggy pool and Tucker had to figure out how to get it out, without getting wet.
Tucker the dog hates getting his face wet. What will he do when his favorite toy lands in the kiddie pool?
Then the time a lucky (or more likely unlucky from Tucker’s point of view) throw of mine managed to get caught in the branches of our tree, and the poor dog couldn’t find it, and then it snowed.. Brian had to knock it out of the branches.
When his human accidentally throws his favorite ball in the tree, my dog Tucker has to get help to get it down.
Once, a young boy came to a family reunion we held at our house—a child who was afraid of dogs. I showed him how to throw the ball for Tucker. He’d throw, Tucker would bring it back. He’d throw. Tucker would bring it back. Dog’s weren’t scary anymore. I took pictures that day and sent them to the boy’s family. For years afterward, he talked about Tucker. Tucker had that way. Of reaching anybody. And everybody. Even the cats. Dawn and Elsa Clair ignored him for the most part. But Athena and Calvin were different stories. When Tucker first came to live with us, he figured out the Cats Rule rule pretty quickly. Just like Lilah and Jasper, he found out that felines—while seemingly chaseable—were sharp and pointy and off limits. So he learned to steer clear of them. But when he had ball on the brain, Tucker wasn’t as careful. And sometimes, in the heat of the chase, he’d get a little too close to Athena. So she’d hiss at thim. Swat him. Once she even stole his ball. True story. Sometimes, Athena would play games with Tucker, where she’d sit on the coffee table in the family room, knowing that Tucker would have to run by her when he chased his beloved ball. Which he did. And then, she’d hiss. And swat. Then the poor dog would get so conflicted: he wanted to play ball, but there was Athena. Right there. He’d have to pass by her. Of course, we would shoo Athena off the table. She’d still eyeball kitty curses at Tucker. He was oblivious. But cautious. However, if Athena sauntered into our bedroom, Tucker would army crawl under our bed. It later became a habit of his—even if there were no cats nearby—nearly every morning before he got sick, there would be a moment when he crawled under the bed, waiting there until he could tell from the activity in the room that I was heading downstairs. Then he’d scramble out from under the bed, give a shake, lean into a comfortable stretch, offer a yawn, and then trot off after his brother and sister. Eventually, Athena and Tucker reached an understanding. Tucker did his best to respect her space. And Athena stopped the hiss / swat activity. And I would catch them sniffing each other. Lying next to each other. Looking at each other. Liking each other. When we adopted two more cats—Calvin and Elsa Clair—Tucker was a little unnerved. More pointy creatures to torture him? But Calvin took a liking to Tucker. And waged a friendship campaign of getting closer and closer to Tucker, then rubbing Tucker, then lying down next to him.
My cat Calvin loves my dog Tucker. He rubs him, lies next to him. And I think the feeling is mutual.
If Tucky and Calvin were in my bedroom, Tucker would leap to the bed, and the instant Calvin saw him start that leap, Calvin would jump up too, and they’d both land on my bed at the same time. Calvin seemed to know when Tucker wasn’t well, and he’d spend more time with him. He was especially concerned and caring when Tucker had to wear the dreaded cone of shame—which made Tucker miserable. Calvin would gently put his head inside the cone and groom him. Those two had a very special relationship.
As for a coned Tucker, one might imagine that it would be hard to play ball with a cone on. But Tucker found a way. Because nothing stopped a determined Tucker. And unfortunately he wore that cone too often—because nothing stopped a determined Tucker. And so he’d develop a lick granuloma after constantly licking his legs, or tear a nail or otherwise hurt himself while in pursuit of something—deer, squirrel, chipmunk, groundhog, fox—because he was such a pure and intent terrier that he wouldn’t even notice he was hurt. Not much bothered Tucker. Except wetness. He didn’t like rain. Or getting his feet wet. He may have learned that from Jasper, who wouldn’t walk on wet grass unless it was an emergency, thank you very much. When it rained, Tucker would ask to go outside, and then he’d take a few steps out, and look back at me as if to say, “Could you please turn it off?” If the rain wasn’t too hard, he’d begrudgingly go outside to do his business. But he’d be right back as soon as he was done. During torrential downpours (which can last hours, if not days, during hurricane season), I’d walk outside and hold an umbrella over him. I know he appreciated it.
My dog Tucker does not like to be wet. He does not like to go outside in the rain. So I have to bring an umbrella.
Once back inside, a very wet, and very sad Tucker (along with Lilah and Jasper) would have to be dried off with towels. And Tucky didn’t like that any better. In mud season, we’d have to wipe his paws as well, sometimes dipping them in water (the horror!), but he tolerated it, knowing he’d get “treats for the feets.” His scruffy, wirey, terrier fur was like Velcro. Everything stuck to it, and when he ran through the yard, his muddy paws were an art form: a dynamic sculpture of mud and fur and feet. Same thing with snow: it stuck all over Tucker. On the other paw, snow—even though it was wet—was an awesome thing for Tucker. He loved running through the snow. Unfortunately, it was hard to play ball in the snow, because the ball often got lost, but he’d always find it. He’d chase snowballs and sticks in the winter. Sticks were great because they wouldn’t sink in the white stuff, and they were fun to gnaw on. If the snow was deep, he’d barrel his way through it with his chest, or bounce and leap across untouched expanses. Other times, he’d just follow in Jasper’s footsteps, letting his brother break through. Sometimes’s he’d just follow me. Tucker was everyone’s friend. He loved every visitor. And if he met you once, you were his best friend, and he’d remember you and offer a You’re back! I missed you! greeting complete with generous wags, cries, sniffs and paw bangs. Repairmen were his besties. The UPS guy. The mail carrier. Someone selling windows or signatures for petitions. Our remodeling contractor became his friend for life. He was happy to help in any way a terrier can, like when our house became a movie set for Corinne’s senior thesis film, and even though Jasper had a starring role in the film, Tucker was everyone’s furry production assistant. And friend. Tucker was silly. He loved to roll around on his back on the carpet, just because he could. He would make these goofy and adorable moany noises. I’d always try to catch him rolling around, but rarely was able to; he’d most often stop in mid-roll if caught in the act.
Tucker loved to roll around on the floor, just because he could. This short video is a good example of life with Tucker. Watch it to the end for all the feels.
He’d stay upside down, with a sweet inverted grin on his face, his muzzle flaps hanging down a paw or two in the air. He would sleep like that, too, paws up, legs stretched, silly grin. It always made me smile. Particularly in the morning, when I would wake up and look over at Tucker, all sprawled out and content. I used to joke that he would be excellent at competitive sleeping, and made up names for his positions, like Upside Down Double Paw Flop with a Half Twist or Parallel Double Stretchy Paw With Bunched Feet. Tucker also rolled around outside in the grass. Sometimes it was just to feel the earth beneath him, and he made it look so satisfying that I wanted to roll around with him. Sometimes it was because there was something really stinky that he wanted to anoint himself with: Eau de Dead Worm, for example. Unfortunately, the latter would inevitably lead to a bath, which was a Very Sad Time for Tucker. His eyes asked me what did he ever do to deserve such a punishment. But once dried off, he’d run through the yard, rubbing himself on towels I laid out for that very purpose. Then he’d go in the house and rub himself on the couch.
My dog Tucker dries himself off by rubbing my couch and ottoman.
Tucker was also very, very smart. When motivated, he learned fast. And he was easy to motivate, with food, or with a promise of playtime. That’s why it took him mere minutes to learn to use our jai alai ball-throwing scoop. And why he was the first to figure out how to ring the bell to go outside. Next to our back door, and then our gate, was a tamborine-like set of bells attached to a crocheted rope. If any of the dogs wanted to go outside, they learned to bang the bells with their paw or head. Tucker figured it out first, and he rang the bell a lot. Even when he didn’t really have to go outside to attend to business, he wanted to go outside. It was his favorite place to be. So he rang the bell. And I’d take him out. He rang it so often that Lilah and Jasper rarely had to, because he always seem to ring it first. Some family members were annoyed by his seemingly constant bell-ringing. But I wasn’t. Not really. Even before Tucker got sick, I would think to myself that there would come a time when I would give anything for him to ring that bell again and again. Like now. Tucker was amusing. He was playful. He brought an effervescent spark of joy to our home. Some nights after dinner, after he rang the bell to go outside, and came back in, or as we were getting ready to head upstairs to bed, he’d make a nest in our couch. He’d dig in a corner, tossing blankets and pillows and cushions until he was satisfied with the result. Then he’d curl up in a Tucker ball within his idea of a perfect bed. I was rarely able to catch him in the process of making his nest, but I tried; one night it took three attempts for him to craft the optimal sleeping arrangement.
My dog Tucker likes to make a nest in our couch, digging and rearranging pillows, cushions and blankets until it's just right.
Because Tucker was such a terrier, and was so silly, it was easy for many people to overlook his tender side, his caring side. He was the most empathetic dog I’ve ever known. He could always tell when I was sad or hurt or upset or depressed. He was the first to seek me out if I cried—for any reason. If he wasn’t already near me, he’d appear suddenly, paw at me, and lean into me. Tucker could also be serious, calm, and focused. When he was a puppy, we brought him to doggy day care at Camp Bow Wow. There, the staff fell in love with him, observing how good he was with all the other dogs. They used him to “interview” new campers, because he was so easygoing with other pups; they called him “the gentleman” because of his comportment. Tucker also earned his Canine Good Citizen certification, which involved weeks of classes and training, and a test to see if the dog had good manners and could ignore distractions like other dogs or food, and could behave with a groomer or if he was left alone for awhile. I had planned the certification as a first step toward him becoming a therapy dog; I always thought he’d be perfect for it because of his innate empathy. Tucker gave of himself so freely. His specialty was what we called the “Tucker hug.” He would put his paws on someone’s lap, and lean his solid body against their chest, gently placing his head alongside their neck. It was the perfect position for a human to hug him back, to hold onto his warm body, and to feel him snuggle into you. Tucker would give this hugs to anyone who asked, or anyone he felt needed them. Family members and friends of course. But also people he had just met. And vet techs. His oncologists.
My dog Tucker shows his love by giving what we call Tucker Hugs. They're the most amazing thing.
A friend was visiting from Britain, during her year abroad. Tucker hugged her when she was sick, when she needed dental surgery, when she found out her own dog back home had died. He knew. Tucker always knew. As much as Tucker gave love, he also needed love. He craved attention—whether it was ball playing or toy throwing or just plain snuggling and petting. He would often weasel his way into a group if he thought the other dogs were being loved and he wasn’t getting his fair share. If you petted him and stopped, he’d paw at you: more. Stop again. Paw. More. Always more. Sometimes, he’d be a little lazy about it. He’d just barely move his foot, and it spoke with the same power as The Paw. Mostly because of the look that accompanied it.
When my dog Tucker wants more love, he lets me know by tapping me with his paw. Sometimes the movement is subtle, sometimes not so much. But it's all about the love.
Tucker’s eyes spoke volumes. He was so expressive: joy, love, anticipation, hope, happiness, sadness, caring, curiosity—all came through his eyes. You can see those eyes in the first pictures I ever saw of Tucker, the ones that made my heart skip, the ones that made me know he was meant for me. When he combined those expressive eyes with a cocked head, I would fall in love all over again. His tilty head got me every time. It was addictive; I always wanted more. I would say, “Do you want to go outside?” just to see that tilt, those eyes. And then I’d take him outside, because I could not deny my terrier.
My dog Tucker would cock his head when I talked to him, and it was so cute, I would do whatever he wanted.
Tucker was hope, embodied. He loved to chase the squirrels, chipmunks, birds and groundhogs that would find their way into our yard. He was successful only a few times, and we learned to scare the critters away before we let the hounds out. But he always hoped he would get that chipmunk in the hosta, that squirrel in the maple, that groundhog under the shed. He hoped I’d throw his ball again. (I did.) Or I’d give him people food. (I didn’t, until he got sick, then I gave him anything he wanted.) Or I’d take him and the other dogs for a walk. (I did that as much as I could.) Or I would pet him. Again. And Again. And Again. (I did that, a lot.) Tucker was my muse. My friend. My pal. My shadow. My companion. He followed me from room to room. Even if he was asleep, he would somehow notice when I went upstairs. Within minutes, he’d be in my office with me. Once he arrived, the other dogs would follow. On the best days, I’d have all three dogs in my office, plus two cats: Elsa Clair on my desk or the window shelf, Calvin in the cat bed in the bookcase. The dogs would arrange themselves on the dog beds, usually with Tucker in the biggest one, and Jasper scrunched in the smaller one. Tucker’s personality took up a lot of space. I loved having them there. Whenever I needed a break, I get up and turn around, and snuggle a dog. Tucker would also provide entertainment, twisting himself into a sleeping dog pretzel, with paws in all directions, or spilling out of the dog bed, with his head over the edge, and a smile on his face. Or just curled up into a huggable ball of pure canine contentment. After he got sick, I would tell him I’d be right back, that he didn’t have to drag himself upstairs, that if he just waited a few minutes, I’d be there. Sometimes he’d wait. Usually he didn’t. As long as I can remember, I wanted a dog to sleep with me in my bed—and Tucker happily obliged. But unfortunately, he was all restlessness and feet, and my husband couldn’t get a good night’s sleep when Tucker was in the bed. Every night, Tucker would jump up on the bed, and I’d have to coax him off with a treat when Brian joined me. Eventually, Tucker learned to just leave when Brian came. But on the very few days when my husband traveled, I invited Tucker to stay, and it was as glorious and wonderful for me as it was for Tucker. Sometimes Jasper joined us for a little while. When she was younger, Lilah would sometimes leap up, too. They would eventually leave. But Tucker would stay the whole night; I could mush my toes under his heavy body, and fall asleep feeling like I was exactly where I wanted to be. I took hundreds of pictures and videos of Tucker. Probably thousands if I counted them. Even before he got sick, I felt like I wanted to capture everything about him, my heart dog. I was so afraid I’d forget something. The sound of his bark. The feel of his fur. The heft of his body. The smell of his breath. The look in his eyes. The joy of his being. Tucker was part of my life for only eight years. Like a shooting star, he was here, and now he’s gone. All that’s left are my memories of the brightness he brought to my existence. And the only place I will ever see him again is in my dreams. The post Remembering Tucker appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Tucker is gone. The only thing I will say about his passing is that I made sure he didn’t suffer, and he left this world from one of his favorite places in our yard where he could see and smell and hear the sounds of life around him and in our the woods. I cradled his head in my lap, telling him what a good dog he was and that I loved him deeply. Brian was next to him, touching him. Jasper and Lilah were right there as well. I’d rather write about his life, and I will, when I can get the words to flow instead of—or in spite of—the tears. Last night, Lilah kept looking for him, asking to go outside, looking around the yard, and then coming inside and wandering the house. Back outside, she’d refuse to come in, as if she were waiting for him. Lilah, I am waiting for him, too. Jasper slept fitfully last night. This morning, as I sobbed while curled up in Tucker’s bed, trying in vain to inhale his scent, howling my anguish, Jasper cried at me, wagging his tail and offering a play bow. He looked around our bedroom, as if he wanted to give me a toy to make me feel better. Thank you Jasper. You are a sweet and caring dog. And Calvin—who was Tucker’s feline buddy—kept visiting me during the day yesterday, settling himself in my lap, reaching out with a comforting paw, and offering the solace of purrs. Calvin, you were a wonderful friend to Tucker, and a kind and empathetic cat. I am broken. Gutted. Bereft. There is a Tucker-shaped hole in my heart, in my home, in my life. I don’t know how to navigate this life without. Without my sidekick, my buddy, my full-of-life terrier, my friend. Without special Tucker hugs, offered freely and appreciated by anyone who he gave them to. Without his voice, telling me about the deer, the fox, the UPS guy. Without throwing a ball or a toy again and again, and having it brought back to me with joy and slobber. Without that sweet goofy, upside-down grin as he stretched in his bed. Without his nightly rearrangement of our couch or sofa, as he made a nest. Without being able to snuggle his warm, solid, furry body and whispering words of love into his silky ears. Without that rubbable belly, that silly grin, those adorable eyes, that ever-wagging tail, those ear tufts blowing in the wind. Without the dog who always knew when I was sad or hurt or upset, and would be the first to come and comfort me. Without petting his body in all the places—soft and scruffy—and the touch from his paw if I stopped, as he asked for more. I wanted more. More time with Tucker. He brought a effervescent brightness to my life. Perhaps he put all his living into the eight short years I knew him. Now, a light has now gone out, and I am plunged into darkness. The post Tucker is Gone appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. “The play’s the thing.” — Calvin T. Katz, The Most Interesting Cat In The World. Stay comfy, my friends. You may also like:
The post I Don’t Always Play With Toys #MostInterestingCatInTheWorld appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Today’s haiku is by Elsa Clair. Of all my cats, Elsa Clair is the most flexible, the most bendable, the most positionable. She can actually weave herself like a thread through the stair balusters, over and under and over again. She can twist herself into awkward shapes while still looking comfortable. And she often looks at the world from unique purr-spectives—upside down being a favorite. She does all this as if it is the most natural thing in the world, looking at me as if to say, “You’d be doing this do if you could.” She’s right. I can’t even begin to tilt my head back like she does, or I’d get instant vertigo. So instead, I get vicarious pleasure by watching my cat twist her way through life, with a devil-may-care attitude and a flick of her tail. Do your pets find themselves in weird positions? You may also like:
The post Haiku by Cat: Pondering appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Tucker adores Jasper. He loved him from the moment he met his older brother. Jasper, on the other paw, thinks that Tucker can be a bit of a pest, as he says in the text above. Often Tucker steals Jasper’s toys. Yet Jasper lets him have them, with just the slightest fight, so Tucker can enjoy the taking. When we’re outside, if Tucker sees a deer, he’ll start running, but then stop and look back to see if Jasper will follow. If his older brother doesn’t join in, it’s not as much fun. Jasper nearly always runs and barks alongside him. If Tucker doesn’t come back in the house along with the other two dogs, Jasper will stand by the back door waiting until his brother comes inside. And when Tucker lays on him, Jasper—who gets hot very easily—will stay there as long as he can bear. Only then, he’ll slide out from under Tucker—slowly, gently, so as not to disturb him. If asked, Jasper would probably tell you that his brother is a pest. But he loves him. And he has been extra tolerant now that Tucker is fighting cancer. And he ain’t heavy. Not really. He’s his brother. Note: Jasper’s last line in the text comes from a song by the same name, originally sung by The Hollies. Another version I remember is by Neil Diamond. Both versions make me cry. Every time. What do your pets do that get you right in the feels? You may also like:
The post Text from Dog: He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. “Quote goes here.” — Calvin T. Katz, The Most Interesting Cat In The World. Stay comfy, my friends. You may also like:
The post I Don’t Always Sit on The Stairs #MostInterestingCatInTheWorld appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Today’s haiku is by Tucker. I’m sure my dogs wonder why I would, for no discernable reason—and way too often according to their calculations—herd a loud and obnoxious monster around the house. No matter where Lilah, Jasper, or Tucker go, I always seem to follow them with the screeching sucking beast. The cats don’t like the noisy scary thing either. Except for Athena. She watches me vacuum, and I’m pretty sure she’s judging me. But when you live with four cats and three dogs, pet fur tumbleweeds blow across floors and clump under tables. The fur piles in drifts in the corners of our rooms, and lurks under tables, chairs, and bookcases. It is ubiquitous. No matter that I sweep the floors every night. It’s not enough; I swear the balls of fur reproduce when I’m not looking. Thus it’s a constant battle against the invasion of the fur—and the vacuum is the best weapon I have at my disposal to do battle against the onslaught. Even if my pets think it sucks. What do your pets think of the vacuum cleaner? You may also like:
The post Haiku by Dog: Finished appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. It’s among the most closely guarded secrets among felines, one that humans across the ages have questions and discussed, pondered and opined, and have never figured out: Why do cats like to sit on things? If I put something down, or leave an item unguarded for a second, if it is in the slightest bit sit-on-able, a cat will end up on it. For example, these are some of the items my cats have sat on (or in):
What’s the attraction? Perhaps it’s the equivalent of humans claiming ownership, though instead of planting flags, they just plant their butts. Or maybe it’s their way of getting attention. Or they’re just curious. Or they’re just messing with our minds. Anyone else have a theory? What strange things have your cats sat upon? You may also like:
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