Dear Tucker

Dear Tucker,

It's been two weeks since you crossed the rainbow bridge. I still can't believe you're gone. The urn with your ashes sits next to me on the desk, allowing me to pretend you're still hanging out with me while I work. It brings me some comfort, but it's not the same. When you died, you left a golden retriever-shaped hole in my heart.

The house is quieter without you in it. It's strange not having you wake me up at six in the morning every day. I find myself checking the water bowl frequently before remembering I don't need to refill it as often. The cat doesn't drink nearly as much as you did. I think she misses you too.

Even during this mourning process, I can't help but be impressed. The average golden lives to be eleven years old and you made it to fifteen. And even when you were nearing the end, you were still the sweet, attention-seeking dog I met six years ago.

I remember meeting you for the first time. It was 2015. Your human, my now stepmother, came over for dinner one night. My dad looked out the window as she got out of her car.

"Oh, she brought Tucker!" he said.

"Who's Tucker?" I asked. Before he could answer, the door opened and you came barreling through, tail wagging and with that classic golden retriever smile on your face. You immediately ran over to me and begged for attention. All it took was one look in your puppy dog eyes and you had me wrapped around your big furry paw.

I knew right away that you were special. If I ever (god forbid) stopped petting you, you would nudge my hand until I resumed. I've never seen a dog do that before, and I thought it was the sweetest thing. That was one of the many things that earned you a special spot in my heart.

In 2017, when my mental health took a downward spiral, you were my rock. The only thing that got me through the intensive outpatient therapy was knowing I'd get to see you afterward. Every day, once the four hours of exhausting exposure therapy were over, I'd hop in my car and head straight to your house.

You were the best therapist I could've asked for. On particularly difficult days, I would wrap my arms around you, bury my face in your fur, and pour out my sorrows. And you would listen. You comforted me in a way only a dog could.

I remember how you would destroy the house in fits of separation anxiety. Your human had to put you on doggy Prozac. Maybe that was what made you such a good therapist. You understood what I was going through. You were anxious too.

Despite how hard that time in my life was, that was when we had the most fun. I loved taking you to the dog park. I was a dog person and you were a "people dog", so it was the perfect place for us. I would pet all the dogs I could, and you would run up to any human that looked in your general direction. But no matter who else was giving you attention, you always came back to me. I didn't even have to call you. You just knew I was your person.

Then your human married my dad and I officially became one of your humans. But that was only a formality. We both know I was yours the day we met.

You were nine years old when I first met you, so I knew our time would be limited. I tried not to think about it. You were my heart dog. You were going to live forever. You just had to. But I knew that wasn't realistic. I knew that at some point, like all angels, you would have to return to heaven.

I have a confession: I used to hope that you would die while I was in New York. That way I would have an excuse not to have to be there with you. I didn't think that I would be able to handle seeing you pass away. But as fate would have it, I was there when your health suddenly took a turn for the worse and we had to make that difficult decision.

I originally planned to say goodbye to you that morning and then run away to my mom's house to take refuge in the paws of her neighbors' dogs. But then I thought about how you were always there for me. It was my turn to be there for you. So I promised you that I would stay with you till the end.

And I did.

I remember seeing you take your last breath. You were in the comfort of your own home, surrounded by your family. We couldn't have asked for a better, more peaceful goodbye. But the pain was still there. Like I said earlier, you left me with a golden retriever-shaped hole in my heart.

Fortunately, that wasn't the only thing you left.

You also left six years' worth of memories. Six years worth of walks, dog park trips, and cuddles. All those times your fur dried my tears and stuck to literally everything I owned. Every smile, bark, and sniff. My heart will heal, but those moments left a permanent paw print on my soul that will never fade.

Every dog owner says that their dog is the best in the world, but you, sir, really earned that title. Enjoy digging through heaven's garbage cans, buddy. Until we meet again.

Love,

Your Andrea