The Thing About Dogs
Words and pictures by Michael Sweeney
A small sampling of photos from the many adventures Tucker enjoyed as a member of our family.
For the first time in 24 hours, there wasn’t something pacing around at my feet. “Where is Tucker?” I wonder aloud, and for the next few minutes, begin to grow anxious at the thought of losing my fiance’s dog at my bachelor party.
I begin walking around the campsite, calling out Tucker’s name, and some of my friends join in the search. I wonder aloud where he could have wandered off to. Did he head down toward the road, or get stuck in the scree field below? It doesn’t take long until someone calls out, “found him.”
Tucker, the fetch obsessed blue heeler, is sprawled in the cool dirt underneath my truck, tongue hanging from his open mouth. With so many capable-armed humans in attendance, Tucker has been playing fetch non stop since we arrived the day before. When one human grew weary of picking up his mud and slobber-caked tennis ball, he simply tried a new human. When he lost his tennis ball, he resorted to sticks. Finally, against all odds, Tucker was tuckered.
At this point in my relationship with my wife-to-be, most of my friends have experienced Tucker in some form or another. On a climbing trip in Indian Creek, where tennis balls end up a particular shade of red after a few minutes, Lee, Lacie, Nick and others grew accustomed to having a slobbery mess placed on their laps at regular intervals. Camping in Manti-La Sal National Forest one cold fall, Jason helped prevent a wildfire catastrophe when Tucker tried to play fetch with a burning stick he removed from the fire pit. On a canyoneering trip in the San Rafael Swell, Allison witnessed what happens to a dog that finds a mysterious hallucinogenic substance in the desert. It’s safe to say, among our friends, Tucker has a reputation.
Dogs, being dependent, unreasonable and oftentimes disgusting creatures, can make outdoor adventures more challenging, at times frustrating and generally dirtier. Take, for example, an overnight paddling trip taken on the Colorado River in southeast Utah circa 2017.
I had planned the paddling trip with my then-girlfriend Danielle and her friend Allison. I had been down this stretch of river several times, and had mapped out a leisurely two night float the three of us would take with Tucker and his sister, black lab Kannah in tow. I had reservations about how Kannah would behave in a canoe, as she prefers to be in the water rather than on it, but I thought Tucker would be content to ride in the canoe at my feet.
Not five minutes after pushing off from the put-in, Tucker made it abundantly clear he would not be content in my canoe. He jumped out of the boat and swam toward the shore. By the time I steered the gear-laden canoe into an eddy and pulled it onshore, we were a quarter mile downriver from where Tucker made his getaway. After several minutes of hiking upriver through muddy, horse fly infested tamarisk, I found Tucker, stuck on the underside of a driftwood log by the handle of his lifejacket, wagging his tail. He was happy to see me.
Some of my most cherished memories of Tucker were made on that trip. I can still see the appalled look on his face when he realized we were swimming down to our waiting canoe. I vividly remember sheltering from a torrential rainstorm that afternoon in a four man tent with three people and two sandy dogs, one of which happily cuddled his humans’ expensive down sleeping bags. The mental image of him riding class 3 rapids on his momma’s lap in a ducky made for two is still crystal clear. And of course I cherish the hours of fetch we played at the boat launch while the girls ran shuttle.
As Tucker grew older, the adventures changed for him. Camping, once an opportunity to play fetch for two or three days on end, became a quieter affair. This was not Tucker's choice, of course, but a choice his humans made for him to prevent him from hurting himself. This had to be communicated to all who camped with us, because once Tucker realized his humans wouldn't throw a stick, he tried to convince a different human to do it. Tucker was diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy in late 2021, a disease that affects the spinal cord, and causes slow paralysis of the hind legs. We had known for a long time that something wasn't right with Tucker, but actually hearing it from a veterinarian was soul crushing. Even more depressing was the realization Tucker would slowly lose the ability to do the thing he loved most.
Whether it was eventually coming to terms with a new reality after Danielle and I married and had children, or realizing his body wouldn't keep up with his mind, Tucker contented himself to an old dog's tricks. On camping trips during his last spring, summer and fall, Tucker could be found lazing about under our camper, always appropriately positioned for the temperature in the sun or shade, and always with a stick nearby. Oftentimes at home, I would find him laying in the only slice of sun peeking through the living room window, or even hiding out in my daughter's play tent or in her teepee. If I end up with any regrets when it's my time to go, they're sure to include the times I was impatient with Tucker, and the fact that I didn't take him everywhere with me in those final months. We said goodbye to Tucker in February of 2022, and even a year later, the loss is still a gaping wound that won't heal. I know this to be true: he died knowing his humans loved him fiercely.
Tucker's huge personality and reliable presence is missed around our house on a daily basis. When Danielle and I moved in together in 2016, he and Kannah became best friends; their bond transformed us from a couple to a family. I know when the weather turns warm and the camping trips begin, I'll find more ways to miss him and his antics. I'll reminisce with my wife about the time he proudly brought us a dead mouse, its tail swinging in the breeze, while we played cards around a cooler. I'll notice that my hand isn't dirtied from a slobbery ball. I'll forget that I don't have to check on him when I start the campfire, as he always ran away from the smoke. More than likely, I'll glance in the rear view mirror looking for his nose sticking out of the camper shell window.
Dogs enrich the experience of being outdoors, and our lives, with their unrelenting and infectious happiness. That’s the thing about dogs; they know how to find joy on any adventure. Whether he was chasing sticks from sunup to sundown, jumping from a canoe, lazing about in a patch of sunny dirt on a camping trip, cuddling with my daughter's pile of dirty clothes or laying on my wife's Chacos, Tucker managed to find happiness in the epic adventures and the mundane ones. As Tucker and I sat by the river’s edge watching the last sunset of our river trip in the summer of 2017, I thought to myself, “I’ll never take this dog on the river again.” Now, I would give anything to take Tucker on one more trip down the Colorado.
