TUCK

 TUCK

by Walter E. Paul

When we first met outside the railroad yard office door one morning, I sensed something unusual about him. He was a large dog, obviously a mongrel. His shaggy black and white coat of wavy fur was soiled with smoke and cinders. His bushy tail swung slowly from side to side. His eyes met mine in a frank, steady gaze. When I spoke to him a long dripping tongue lolled out between flabby lips, his head cocked to one side, his drooping ears lifted slightly and his tail swung a bit faster, but he took no liberties. There was no exuberant leaping up on me, no slavish fawning at my feet, just the leisurely swinging of his tail and that steady eye to eye gaze of friendly overture.

I unlocked the office door and entered. He followed sedately. I removed my hat and coat, hung them on a nail and seated myself at my desk. He immediately walked under the desk and lay down, a shoulder pressing gently against my foot. That was all. When I spoke to him his tail thumped the bare wooden floor once or twice and pressure against my foot increased momentarily.

Soon Al, watchman at the power house on the other side of the tracks entered.

“Al, whose dog is this under my desk?” I asked.

Al stooped and looked under. “Oh that mutt? He’s mine. You want him?”

Now our family has had poor luck with pets. Some Imp of Satan seems bent on bringing them to an untimely and often violent end. Our first dog was too wild to tame and ran and barked all day every day until we finally in disgust removed his collar and chain and let him go, where to we never knew and cared little. Our pet turtle went on a sulk until we placed him on the lakeshore and watched him plunge in and scramble frantically to deep water, apparently happy to be shut of us. We had two defunct cats planted under our raspberry bushes. Another cat just disappeared. And so it went. Kenneth, our 16 year old son had from time to time thrown out broad hints about wanting a dog, setting forth arguments calculated to break down parental opposition.

When Al went out the door he called back, “Come on Sport.” The dog at my feet obediently rose, slowly and listlessly followed Al back to the power house. An hour later I crossed the tracks to the power house. The dog was lying on the cement floor under the boiler. Al, seated nearby, was eating his lunch.

“Al,” I said, “did you mean what you said about that dog?"

“Sure,” he replied, “I don’t care for him.”

“How old is he? “Oh, five, six years. Take him if you want him.”

“I’ll let you know shortly,” I said.

Calling Ken on the phone I asked, “Ken, do you want a dog?”

“Sure thing,” he replied, “have you got one?”

“One you can have if you want,” I said, “shake a leg and get over here on your bike.”

“Be right over Dad.”

Soon Ken arrived. “There he is” I said pointing under the boiler, “but don’t take him unless you really like him.”

Ken kneeled on the floor beside the dog and talked quietly to him a bit, running his fingers through the thick wavy fur, patting the large well shaped head, and rumpling the long ears. As the boy and dog studied each other I witnessed a bond of friendship welding between them in a flame of mutual understanding.

Presently I asked, “Well, how about it, do you want him?”

“He’ll be all right after he’s had a bath,” Ken replied.

After a little more petting and quiet talk Ken rose saying “Come on boy.” and started for his bike the dog following without a moments hesitation or backward glance toward his former master. Ken mounted his bike and rode slowly out of the yard, the dog close behind.

Six hours later, my day’s work done, I reached home to find the family in a state of mixed but well suppressed emotions. Ken and the dog sat side by side on the back steps evidently in mutual contemplation of some grave problem. Mom was at her sewing machine. Noting her lack of greeting and the speed at which her foot was driving the machine, I refrained from speech other than a polite and timid “Hello.” Alice and Fran were in their room keeping a newly acquired kitten away from possible violence by the new dog.

“Mom,” I ventured later as she commenced peeling spuds for dinner, “what do you think of the dog?”

“You know very well what I think,” she replied, her eyes snapping. “I would like to have a dog for Ken’s sake but how in the world can we feed it and keep it out of trouble with the neighbors? Tell me that!”

My slow wit having no plausible reply handy, I discreetly changed the subject.

 At the dinner table that evening everybody including Mom cast surreptious glances at the dog sitting nearby, but all refrained from inquiring into his future. Ken finished his meal, excused himself and retired to the front room. The girls went to their room. Mom and I dallied at the table avoiding each others glances. The dog sat quietly on the floor between us.

Ken, unable to bear the suspense longer finally blurted out.

“Well, Dad, how about it, do we keep the dog or not?”

“Ken,” I replied, “that depends on your ma. She is the one who will have to feed him.”

Immediately the dog looked at Mom and commenced to pant, his long red tongue lolling out dripped copiously on the linoleum. His tail began slowly sweeping the floor from side to side.

“I don’t see how we can do it,” Mom said, “here in town is no place to keep a dog, and it will cost a lot to feed him.”

As the dog continued looking her straight in the eye, pant and wag his tail, I noted a faint smile spreading slowly over her face. Tears sparkled in her eyes as she returned his gaze then added,- “He does seem like an awfully nice dog.”

“It’s all right Ken,” I spoke up, “you may keep the dog. Your Ma is trying hard not to smile. That means she will fight like a bobcat before parting with him.”

Immediately the dog got up, walked slowly to Ken, flopped down by his feet, crossed his paws, rested his chin on them and went to sleep.

“What shall we do with the kitten?” wailed Alice, “that big brute will kill it.”

“And we will have to give them both names,” chimed in Fran.

 Alice’s problem was soon solved. Taking both dog and kitten into the back yard we placed the kitten in the grass where it cowered in spitting fright as the dog, licking his chops, made short impulsive jumps toward it, dodging just in time to save a slash on the nose by a swing of the kitten’s paw. Ken held the dog firmly by the collar telling him firmly, “No, no, boy, be careful.” The dog then sat and watched the kitten, making playful passes at it with a paw much to the kitten’s disgust.

 When Fran renewed her queries about names for the pair some one suggested “Nip” for the cat, and “Tuck” for the dog. So it stuck for the rest of their lives,- “Nip” and “Tuck.”

Tuck’s friendship for Nip progressed much faster than Nip’s for Tuck. For several days Nip met all friendly overtures with an arched back and an angry hiss. If that was not enough a savage swing to Tuck’s nose would stop him. In time however Nip became more tolerant and began showing signs of friendship, occasionally rushing in to take a roguish bite in some vulnerable spot then spring back nimbly away from the playful  snap of Tuck’s jaws  to duck under some convenient shelter. Finally Nip lost his fear completely and would deliberately jump on Tuck’s back, or grab his leg and allow Tuck to roll him on the floor chewing him playfully with much growling and snapping of slobbery jaws. Once when Tuck was nagging Nip to play, Nip sat in stolid indifference making no response. In desperation Tuck sneaked up quietly from behind, put a paw on Nip’s tail close to his body so he could not get up, then with the other paw cuffed his head from side to side appearing to smile with pleasure at the cat’s loud yowls of protest.

We never learned Tuck’s age. He certainly must have been well along in his dog’s life when we got him as he never cared to play by himself, chew a stick or dig in the dirt like a young dog, although he dearly loved to romp with some member of the family and to have us rough him around, gently box his ears, or grab him by the throat pretending to strangle him. He loved going for hikes, or just to sit and watch passing traffic in front of our house.

After he had been with us a few weeks he commenced watching for my return from work each day. If I sat down without first playing with him he would come, put a paw on my knee and look expectantly into my face. If I ignored him he would take my hand in his jaws and gently squeeze it, or bite my shoe, or annoy me in other ways until I got up and took him for a short hike, or rough housed with him a bit. One day I sat down in my easy chair, picked up a paper and started to read.  Tuck came and sat at my feet panting furiously. Ignoring him I opened the paper and started to read, then bang! Down came one of his paws crushing the paper into my lap. I scolded him mildly, smoothed out the paper and continued to read. He then reached over and took hold of the surplus roll of flesh just above my belt squeezed gently and held on until I put the paper down saying, “All right Tuck, let’s go for a hike.” He promptly released me and went into a frenzy of joy.

Tuck was a peaceable dog. He never started a fight unless other dogs trespassed on his home grounds. There seemed to be something about him that other town dogs did not like. For weeks he had to battle furiously with every dog he met. They all picked on him. I witnessed several of these battles. They were savage while they lasted, the agressor always leaving the battle ground with his tail between his legs and crying his misery to high heaven while Tuck continued about his business with canine cusswords rumbling deep in his throat.

Something happened to him one day. He came home with one foot cut and bleeding and a bruise on one side of his head. He nursed his foot with generous applications of saliva, but the bruise on his head swelled, growing larger day by day until it was the size of a walnut nearly closing one eye. He lost appetite and walked slowly about the house sleeping much of the time. One day I came home from work to find him stretched on the sitting room floor. As I entered and spoke to him, the good eye opened and his tail lifted a little off the floor and fell, just once. Soon Ken came in, knelt beside Tuck and spoke quietly to him but got very little response.

“Ken,” I said, “it looks like Tuck is going to leave us.”

“Yes Dad,” he replied soberly, “I guess so.”

After a bit with Ken’s coaxing Tuck got to his feet and staggered to the kitchen, took a drink of water then walked slowly out the back door. Soon Ken called to me,- “Dad! Dad! look out the window see what Tuck is doing.” On a vacant lot across the street was Tuck down on his knees vigorously rubbing the swollen side of his head on the grass. On examination we found the swelling had opened and was discharging freely. He continued rubbing his head on the grass at intervals as his strength would permit until suppertime when he ate his first hearty meal in a week. His recovery was rapid. Tending his injured head entirely himself the swelling rapidly disappeared and soon he was picking friendly scraps with Nip again.

Occasionally a train going through town would have a locomotive with a peculiar sounding whistle that had a strange effect on Tuck. The sound may have hurt his ears, or it might have stirred in his brain some faint echo of a forgotten past. Whenever he heard it, day or night, he would lift his muzzle toward the sky and give out a long mournful wail audible for blocks.

One summer Sunday Tuck sneaked down the alley and met us at church where he stationed himself just outside the open door awaiting our exit. While the congregation was solemnly bowed in hushed and worshipful mood listening to the Reverend in prayer, a train passing through town gave forth a weird blast of its whistle. Instantly Tuck lifted up his voice in a long winded howl of protest while muffled chuckles of illy subdued mirth rippled through the sanctuary.

With advancing age Tuck’s eyesight and hearing began to fail, causing him no end of trouble in keeping track of his friends when down town or on hikes. Often he would terrify strangers who thought they were being attacked, when he ran up to identify them by smell, loudly sniffing as he ran his nose over their outer clothing. He would then rush on to the next person he could dimly see until he found the one he wanted. Reluctantly we gave him to friends living in a smaller town where he lived out his allotted span in peace and quiet.

When we finally heard of his passing we just wondered a little bit if in some kind of a canine after world he might still be enjoying hikes, rolling on the grass, or perhaps, just for the fun of it, roughing up some co-operative cat with a provocative tail to pull and nice soft fur to bite into.