She arrived to our home, as many of them do, as an energetic, joy-filled being with a zest for life! I didn’t know then that this crazy-brained orange and white Brittany puppy, with a bone-shaped white spot on her forehead and an orange-heart patch on her chest would one day become an ambassador of love for many. But on this first day with us, as I walked her and her older brother on-leash around the neighborhood, I could not have fathomed that that would be her fate. As I was focusing on her canine brother, on my right, I suddenly heard chirping on my left where Tucker was strolling. I didn’t see anything at first glance, but then I freaked out when I saw little bird feet hanging out of my new pup’s mouth as she was crunching away happily. I knew that Brittany’s were bird hunters, I just never thought that they’d be bird eaters! But that is how young pups learn…by putting things in their mouths. I was working as a Director of Therapeutic Recreation and Volunteer Services at a long-term care center when Tuck came to live with us. I was fortunate to have a dog-loving administrator who allowed me to bring her to work so I could let her out in a timely manner. As it turned out, my boss also adopted a yellow lab who was about the same age as mine and she would bring her handsome pup into work and the two would have puppy play dates. It was so much fun to watch them interact and to socialize together. I felt so blessed to have this opportunity with her and I began to imagine her as a therapy dog one day.
A few years later, my long-term relationship with my partner, Mary, had ended and we shared custody of our beloved pup. Tucker finally matured into a dog who could be trusted around the elderly, and I began bringing her to work with me a few weeks every month. Initially, I used a gentle leader on her snout and attached it to a waist leash secured to me but when I saw her wiggle on up to one of my residents seated in her house dress in her wheel chair and begin trying to rub her gentle leader off by
sliding her nose and face on the inside of my resident’s thigh, I knew I had to
find an alternative device. I bought her a harness which accomplished my goal of keeping her from jumping up and invading the personal space of my residents.
Over the next four years or so, Tucker became a beloved member of my Volunteer team. She was adored and welcomed by our residents, family members, volunteers and staff. Our small facility felt like a family and Tuck was a member of it. Children’s groups would come and we would all visit out on the patio—my residents, the children and Tuck. The kids and residents all wanting to pet this furball on my leash and she happily obliged.
Dogs seem to have a sense of the nature of people and that was true of Tucker. There was a nurse from Africa, Vicky, who initially, upon seeing my lil’ redhead, made a wide berth so as to avoid her. I asked her, “Are you afraid of dogs?” “Yes”, she replied. “In my country the dogs run free and when I was a young girl I was attacked.” I told her I was sorry that that had happened to her and added that if she ever wanted to get over her fear of dogs, that Tuck was just the right one to help her. Tuck was kind, loving and intuitive. She seemed to put out a ‘Love me or Love me’ type of energy. No matter if it was a human or another canine, she always seemed to win them over. And this would be true of nurse, Vicky, as well. Over the years that Tuck came to do her work alongside me, Vicky slowly came to trust her. She witnessed how the residents’ eyes would light up upon seeing her and how they seemed to enjoy rubbing her head and back as she was at a perfect wheelchair height. Tucker’s little nubtail and back end would wiggle in excitement when she saw her friends. And I think, too, that she was pleased to have a purpose! Over time, Vicky would get closer as we walked down the halls to visit or recruit residents for one of my recreation programs. Then, one day, it happened. Vicky stopped us and asked if she could pet Tuck. If I had a set of dentures in my mouth, I surely would’ve spit them out of sheer surprise by the
request. Thankfully, I had my own set o fteeth, got down on one knee next to Tuck, asked her to sit, and allowed Vicky to pet her—which she tentatively did at first. Vicky smiled with a childlike delight and said gleefully, “She’s so soft!” Tuck seemed to enjoy the interaction just as much, and I was such a proud pup parent, watching my daughter helping to heal a deep wound of my colleague.
One day, a few years after Vicky initially saw Tuck from a distance, she called me over, with my pup in tow. She shared with me that her son in Indiana was thinking of getting a pup. She took out her cell phone and read to me their text thread. Vicky told him how great it was that he was going to adopt a pup and she asked him what breed of dog he was thinking of getting. She informed him that she, too, was contemplating adopting a small dog. His next response was, “Who is this and what have you done with my mother?” We laughed and I could see just how proud she was of herself for overcoming her fear of dogs.
Tuck had many friends and one was a German-born woman named, Anna. Anna was a small-framed woman who used a wheelchair with a lap tray fastened to it. She had dementia, and as the illness progressed, she began to speak in her native tongue more and more. On one particular day, Tuck and I arrived on the residents’ floor. Upon seeing Anna, Tuck wiggled on over to her as she was seated in her wheelchair in the living room. Anna loved dogs, and Tucker, but was sleeping at the time. Tuck, the ever-patient pup that she was, rested her head on Anna’s lap tray and I gently
rubbed Anna’s shoulders and back and quietly said her name. Anna awakened from her slumber, saw the white and orange pup with her head on her tray and started petting her with smiling
eyes and a lilt in her voice saying, “Das hund…das hund!”
Over the years, just the sight of Tucker, people would begin sharing stories of their dogs. Her presence was an easy way to break the ice with ‘strangers’ and friends alike. Every weekday morning that I had her, I would walk her, get ready for work and ask, “Do you want to go to work today?” There were only two times in over four years that she was a volunteer that she chose to stay home. Otherwise, she’d jump off my bed and bound excitedly down the stairs before I even had gathered all of my things for the day.
We had a nice balance in our day. She would attend our short, informational morning managerial meetings, happily greeting everyone and then would come up with me for any non-food related programs and help me escort the residents to the groups. She was attached to my waist by the leash and would walk alongside the residents on their right, being petted most of the way. Once all were gathered, she would lay in her frog-dog manner off leash in the closed room to the delight of the
residents. When she wasn’t with residents or visiting, she would be napping in my office while I did my
paperwork or would run around in the fenced in yard and play a bit.
I worked in long-term care for 28years, and during that time, I noticed how pups (and babies) seemed to elicit the same wonderful, joy-filled responses from my residents. In their own furry, four-legged way, they had the ability to decrease anxiety, relieve depressive symptoms, and connect a
person with dementia back to this reality—if even for a moment. Their silly antics would evoke giggles and grins, and at times, make a heart swell with so much love that it spilled out
their eyes, as it did with Anna.
It was a sunny day on July 10, 2014 when I was finishing a solo walk and getting ready to head inside the facility to serve lunch to the residents in one of our dining rooms. I received a call from Tuck’s other mother, Mary, who had her that week. Upon hearing her voice I knew something was wrong. I asked what it was. She said that she couldn’t find Tuck. She said that she was at a park walking her off leash, sat down on a bench to offer up a prayer, and when she opened her eyes, she was gone. I asked her where she was in the park and I asked her to go back to the bench because Tucker was a pup who
would usually stop and lay down if you paused for a bit. I told her that I needed to head in to start the beverage service for the residents and to please call me when she found her.
I kept my cell phone with me and proceeded down the long hallway to the dining room, praying all the way. Just as I began pouring beverages for my residents, I got the call. She had found Tuck lying in the tall grass near the bench and was carrying her limp body to
her car to take her to the vet. Her last words felt like an electric shock to my system, “I don’t know if she’s alive or not.” I hung up the phone, explained to my residents why I had to suddenly leave and as I sprinted down the hall to my administrator’s office, I heard several residents say, “Oh no! Not Tucker! Not Tucker Jo!!!”
I continued praying as I drove to the veterinarian’s office. I arrived and raced in. Mary was outside a closed room with tears streaming down her face. Seeing her, I knew….but I didn’t want to believe it! We went into the room together and I released some of the pain and sadness through tears and guttural sounds. This beautiful being of love and light had decided that that Thursday was a good day to transition—without pain—to just peacefully and without
warning—cross the rainbow bridge. We stayed in the room with her body, cried and hugged and didn’t want to leave.
When I arrived home I found myself sobbing uncontrollably, rocking in my leather recliner as I stared out at the maple tree with branches reaching toward the living room window I was
facing. All of a sudden, a bright red cardinal landed on a branch directly in front of me. It caught my attention, and for a moment, I stopped crying. What I felt and sensed was that it was Tucker. The bird started to caw…loudly. It wasn’t singing the lovely, melodious songs I’m familiar with cardinals warbling, but rather a scratchy ‘Cawing’ type of sound. It quieted me, and in it, I heard Tuck telling me, “I’m okay, mom. You don’t need to cry. All is okay.”
The crimson-colored bird sat on that branch for about 5 minutes as we gazed at each other. I was grateful for the message and told her how appreciative I was that she chose me to be one of her moms. I also thanked her for the many hearts and lives she touched and how proud I was of her!
I took the next day off from work as I was filled with grief. My former partner and I and her partner, Kristi, bought a white lily and met at the sight where Mary last saw Tuck. There, by the bench, in the tall grasses was the outline of Tucker Jo’s body…in her infamous frog-dog pose. It was the position where she always seemed most relaxed, and upon seeing this, gave us such a heart-hug knowing that she likely was not experiencing any type of distress when she departed. She was able to choose the time and place. She deserved that beautiful park to be her resting place. We planted the lily by the bench in her memory.
On Saturday, I went in to work. I was greeted by soooo many residents, staff and family members expressing their sympathy—some of whom were crying too. When
I came around a corner I noticed Tucker’s picture on several posters taped up
on doors all over the facility. Next to her likeness were the words, “In Loving Memory of One of Our Volunteers. Tucker Jo will be missed by all!” I was so moved by that kind gesture by my administrator, who loved her as well.
Seven months later I would leave the state of Minnesota with her nose prints still on the inside of the windows of my SUV and her paw prints etched indelibly on my heart.