A Dudley Do-over

A little over a year ago in the uber sterile operating room of what used to be Animal Trustees of Austin (ATA), I stood over the anesthesia-limp body of my dog, Dudley Do-Right. The surgeon had prepped him for an emergency exploratory surgery, but she quickly discovered when she opened him up that a tumor had wrapped itself around Dudley’s colon, and the removal would mean a painful and uncertain recovery. He was 13 years old.

Mare and I, right there, made the decision to let him go.

 

I cried so hard I thought I’d hyperventilate.

Dudley was our first puppy; I brought him home at five weeks old from a friend at work. He chose me. As co-workers passed this little dachshund-Scottish terrier mix puppy from arm to arm, he shook with nerves. But when he came to me, he nuzzled his little cold wet nose against my neck, immediately stopped shaking, and closed his eyes.

“Oh, he’s yours,” a co-worker said.

I decided to take him home for a trial run, warning Mare in a voicemail that I’d made an executive decision on behalf of our family. She came home to find this little bitty puppy in a huge box. Mare looked down into the big box to see two sad brown eyes staring back at her.
 

Dudley as a puppy. 

“Damn," Mare said. "He’s cute.”

And just like that, he became part of our family. I repeated often, “You’re my baby boy. You’ll always be my baby boy.”

Dudley “Do-Right, Except When He Don’t” went on many Central Texas camping trips, a road and hiking trip to North Carolina, countless visits to dog parks, and thousands of walks in the neighborhood. He wasn’t an on-your-lap dog. He preferred to lay his head on your lap. And he didn't like to be held much, unless he was riding in the car or very tired. There was a special way he liked me to hold him when we were seated together—whenever he was in my arms.

Sleepy Dudley.

But mostly, he was a next-to-you dog. As long as he had a part of his body against ours, Dudley was happy.

He was also at times a grouchy, odd boy. He’d grumble and moan like an old man so often that I began calling him my “My Old Man.” He aged gracefully and faithfully, and he rarely complained unless there was a thunderstorm. He shivered hours before we heard the first rumble. We bought thundershirts and gave him anti-anxiety meds during spring rains, but mostly, we just had to ride out the storm with him and get through it the best we could.

When Dudley started having diarrhea issues in the fall, we took him to the vet, who suggested we try foods that would help him have healthy poops. Instead, he became constipated. One night he was in obvious discomfort, and Mare and I tag-teamed staying up to try to comfort him until the vet office opened. I remember feeling hopeful every time he went out the doggie door that night, hoping that he would poop. He never did. Instead, he dug a hole by one of the autumn sage shrubs and laid down in the cool dirt.

It's like he’s digging his own grave, I thought. But I pushed it out of my mind.

A few hours later, we learned that he, in fact, knew that he was dying.

I wasn’t ready to let go of my Old Man and Baby Boy. I cried so hard for days, and then I shut down. Feeling the sadness was unbearable, so I didn’t. I knew that no matter how many dogs Mare and I fostered, I’d never have another dog like Dudley.

Enter Tucker Trucker

Though Mare no longer worked at ATA, she maintained contact with her canine rescue friends, and one day, Suzy Swingle reached out for someone to take in a 13-year-old dachshund-mix. “Tucker” was being surrendered informally by a woman struggling with multiple life-altering issues. She had to move in with family, but Tucker couldn’t come with her. Instead of sending Tucker to a rescue, where an old dog could very well sit for a long time in a cage, Suzy decided to pitch him to her friends on social media.

 

Mare nudged me one night, pointing to her phone. She showed me a blurry picture of a portly old dog in front of a food bowl and said, “Wanna?”

 Twenty-pound Tucker.

 

“Sure,” I said, without feeling. “Why not?”

 

Suzy brought Tucker over the next day. She carried him from her car to our backyard and warned us that he didn’t like to be picked up—that he seemed to be in pain but she wasn’t sure why.

His former owner had him since he was a puppy, and we all thought it would take time for him to adjust to our home and pack.
 

Nope.

He trotted around our backyard, said hello to our cat, and ignored our three dogs. His first time on our couch, he rolled on his back and growled in ecstasy. It was a pretty uneventful meet and greet, so Tucker stayed.

We started to call him Tucker Trucker because of his hefty frame (we likened him to a keg with legs), but after a while the name faded because we began feeding him quality, carefully measured food (no more table scraps for you, buddy!) and Mare took him for daily walks with our pack. He didn’t have his own collar, so Mare grabbed Dudley’s old collar that sat on his box of ashes on the living room bookshelf.
 

Tucker bore the white eyes of an old dog, a sweet spirit, a misshapen head, and a swollen mouth. He seemed to like his new pack, but he didn’t like to be touched near the mouth.  Mare eventually took a peek at his teeth, and she discovered why he was in so much pain: His teeth were caked with plaque; many were obviously rotten. Tucker’s breath was indeed atrocious. If he gave you a lick, a stinky bacterial scent stayed on your face. You had to wash it off with soap and water.

 

Tucker's mouth was pretty swollen.

A trip to our veterinarian confirmed Mare’s suspicion: Multiple teeth needed to be extracted. It would cost an estimated $1,300. That’s a hefty cost for a dog we were only fostering, so we asked for GoFundMe help, and our loving friends generously pitched in. (It ended up costing about $1,600.)
 

I remember the day I took Tucker to the vet’s office for his dental surgery: His breath was so strong, I repeatedly gagged. I had to roll the car windows all the way down because his breath stunk up my vehicle.

And at the end of the day, Tucker groggily waddled out to me in the waiting room of the vet's office—less 15 teeth. He had only one incisor left up front and two small teeth in the back. He gummed me with affectionate, “thank you” love while the vet explained the surgery and aftercare regimen. I stared into his old, whitened eyes, and I knew we’d be keeping him.

Little by slowly, Tucker began to remind me more and more of Dudley.

Once Tucker understood that he was welcome on the couch without invitation, he’d climb up and lay his rump right next to my thigh—just like Dudley.
 

At night, he’d crawl under the bed covers and rest his head on my thigh—just like Dudley.

Tucker likes to rest his head on me, just like Dudley.

Soon, Tucker started walking around the house, grumping and moaning like an old man—just like Dudley.

Sometimes he trotted through the house with a purpose—just like Dudley.

He'd bark annoyingly from our living room window at passersby—just like Dudley.

Was it because he was wearing Dudley’s collar? Or was it because my Old Man was spiritually saying hello? I don’t know.

All I do know is that today, on a cold Texas day, Tucker is moping around the house, going to Mare at her easel, then to me at my word processor, then back to Mare, wondering when one of us will sit down on the couch and watch football so that he can cuddle with his pack—just like Dudley.
 

So on the week before Christmas, though no dog will ever replace Dudley, I feel like I got the best holiday gift from my beloved friend: A Dudley do-over.

Thanks, Old Man. Merry Christmas to you, too.