I thought the big news would be about tax-deductible donations for The Casual English Bible.®
That’s not the big news anymore. It’s just a footnote.*
The big news is sad.
Christmastime makes it saddest of all.
Goodbye Tucker
I have a daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons, ages 9 and 7, living three miles away.
On Friday, they had to send their 12-year-old border collie to the Creator.
I think only people who have loved and lost their pets know how devastating this is, especially for children. For those who have never had a pet to love and take care of, you’ll have to trust us when we tell you that sending a pet to God—making that decision and carrying through with it—is for many of us the absolute worst moment of our life.
Tougher than losing a younger brother. Harder than watching a dad take his last breath. We didn’t kill little brother or Dad. But we chose the moment for our pet. We end the painful life of our dog, perhaps the most loving and forgiving creature God ever made, angels included.
Tucker’s last hour
The vet would arrive at 4:30 on Friday afternoon.
I was there at 3 o’clock to take pictures of Tucker’s last hour with the family.
Tucker wasn’t just their dog. When Tucker’s family went out of town. He was my dog. He rested behind me as I worked at my desk. He slept in bed with me, alongside whichever other dog we had at the time, Buddy or Maizey.
I stepped into the house with my camera. Normally Tucker would charge at me, jump and lick my face. The family frowned on that but tolerated it with me because I welcomed Tucker’s loving and excited greeting.
But today, Tucker was on the floor, carrying a huge tumor inside him. His back legs were nearly useless.
He saw me, and from across the room he struggled, trying to get up. I told him to stay and that I’d come to him.
I sat on the floor with him and he licked my tears.
I said, “You just love me for my salt.”
Stairs become impossible
Stairs become impossibleMy son-in-law arrived home from work. He went to Tucker and loved him, then walked up the stairs to change from his work clothes. Tucker managed to follow him to the staircase, but he knew he couldn’t climb them anymore. He just stood there, looking up.
I snapped the picture and wiped my eyes.
For an hour I took pictures the family wanted me to take. But as inconspicuously as I could, I took the hard pictures, too. Faces, one at a time, breaking, fighting for composure, and breaking again.
I sat the camera on my thigh, flipped out the monitor so I could see where the lens was pointed. I held the autofocus button and snapped the pictures in silent mode. No noise from the camera. No distractions. Just Tucker and those who love him.
I captured the pain as best I could. Some images are too personal and too wrenching for Tucker’s family to see in public right now. But I got permission to let you see seven-year-old Evan in the arms of his mom. I’ve hidden her face. But I’m telling you if you see the boy, you can imagine the mother.
By 4 o’clock it was time for me to leave and take the boys home with me for a while—if they would go.
What a moment of wailing grief and utter devastation, with tiny hands covering sobbing faces. One child lay face down on the floor at the foot of Tucker, who was laying in his bed by the fireplace that warmed the room.
It’s time to go
The moment came. I said, “We have to go.”
Seven-year-old Evan spoke through choking sobs,
“Mom, what about Tucker’s Christmas presents? What about his stocking?”
Tucker’s stocking hung on the mantle above the fireplace, alongside stockings belonging to the rest of the family.
Evan said,
“Mom, can we keep his stocking and pretend he’s still here?”
Older brother Owen sat on the coffee table near Tucker, trying to decide if he would go or stay.
I said, “Owen, I’m the only one in this room who has been through something like this, and I’ve been through it twice. Owen, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It still makes me cry to think about what happened to my dogs. It would be even harder for you because you’re younger and your senses are sharper. You’d feel it more.”
Both boys, crying, walked with me to my car.
As we drove away, I spoke to break into their tears. “It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. You’re going to remember this all your life. Losing my dogs was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.”
Back to Grandpa and Mammie’s house, tensions eased. My wife made a run to Jersey Mike’s for sandwiches. The boys picked the place. It’s a favorite.
Evan sat beside me eating. He stopped, looked up at me and said,
“Would you write a song about Tucker?”
I said, “It took me months to be able to write a song about Buddy.”
Evan said,
“Please, would you write a song about Tucker?”
I didn’t know what to say.
A day later, his mom asked me, “Would you make a video about Tucker? I know you’re busy. We’ll pay you.”
I said, “Tucker was my dog, too.”
So, people, I’ve got my work cut out for me. l've got a lot of stuff to do for The Casual English Bible®. But I can’t do much of it right now. Understand?
I’ve got a song to write, a video to make, and tears upon tears to cry.
If you've got a soul, you can't write a song about a gone dog without losing it. You just can't.
