by Kathy Pippig

    My fingers move over the silky brow.
    He had parvo as a pup, and as a result, he has aged beyond his 7
years and much of the fur under my fingertips is gray.  He blinks slowly
in enjoyment as I run my hand over his shoulder and down his flank.
Lying next to him on the floor is one of his favorite balls, somewhat
damp from a recent game of fetch.
    I talk to him in soft tones and he wags his tail, licks his chops
and gives me a little grin.  I look over at the Christmas tree and
remember his first holiday season, the last year I put up a fresh-cut
    In his puppy exuberance, he gleefully removed all the decorations
he could reach with his teeth or wag off with his tail. He tipped the
tree over, spilling the water from the basin and soaking the tree-skirt.
He tore into his first present, happier to be shredding wrapping paper
to bits than playing with the stuffed bear, still half-in the box.
I laughed at his antics and he barked back in his puppy voice.
    During his first year, we attended dog obedience courses.  He wasn't
too keen on the idea, but he was a trooper.  He did well in class and
made us both proud.  However, when he was done, he let me know promptly
by either lying down at the end of his leash, refusing to budge, or by
gathering up his leash in his mouth and prancing away.  He was always
a happy boy, and he made me happy.
    Through the years there have been rough patches.  Once, after
we had come home from a wonderful camping trip he was involved in a
nasty accident.  At first, we didn't know how extensive the injury
was because he was covered in mud and only after quickly and carefully
rinsing him off did we discover the wound near his shoulder leaving an
alarming amount of muscle and tissue exposed.  My husband and I rushed
him to the emergency vet hospital and my heart nearly broke when we
got him just inside the doorway and a look of extreme anguish crossed
his face as he bent down, grabbed his leash in his mouth and tried to
pull us back through the doors, away from that place.  I nearly cried,
coaxing him gently to let us get him into the exam room.
    Then, last year I was diagnosed with cancer, a second time for me,
just before the holidays.  A month of radiation, was followed by over
six months of chemo.  When I wanted to back away and run from that place
that had become my diagnosis, there were many sweet moments when Tucker
would cajole me into his happy, loving world.
    Such simple persuasion -- that is the wonder and joy of a canine
    He has been the best role model.  Dogs do not ponder the length of
their existence here on this planet.  They do not bemoan their overall
shorter-than-human lifespan.  Tucker does not let things he cannot
change worry him, much, with the exception of changing my mind to get
me to throw him another round of fetch.
    In the broader view of priorities, he puts his heart on what is
life to him -- love, the giving of, and if given, the getting of. And
he will always be better at giving.  I can only aspire to be as good at
it as he is.  But it is my honor, to try and try more...
    So, now, as a carol plays from the radio in the kitchen and I gaze
down at Tucker and see the reflection of our Christmas tree's lights
in his eyes, I thank the Creator for the gift of Tucker -- his love,
the lessons he teaches me, his comfortable friendship.
    As I caress his face he extends his forearm and lays his paw across
my wrist.  He sighs contentedly and my heart melts with gratitude for
this excellent being.

                  -- Kathy Pippig <kathy.pippig atyahoo.com>

Kathy is the local animal news writer for the Examiner.com, as well
as contributing stories and articles for other magazines, ezines,
and newspapers.  She is the author of five published books, including
one about her personal experience with cancer.  She is an advocate for
animal rescue and adoption.

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