About eight or nine years ago, we watched my friend Dustin’s black lab for a long weekend. We had a golden retriever named Tucker that liked other dogs, so we were happy to watch Dustin’s dog (I forget his name). I’m so glad we did because his company gave us a story that perfectly describes Tucker and his lesson that serves me every day.
On that Saturday afternoon the two dogs were in our backyard enjoying the sun. Apparently, there was a disturbance to the west of our house because Dustin’s dog sprinted to the edge of our deck, pointed his snout in parallel with his spine, stuck out chest, and barked the most masculine and perfect bark one has ever heard. This dog was a specimen of perfection.
Well, as I’m watching this display of amazing pedigree, Tucker realizes what’s happening and runs up the stairs of the deck. He trips over the top step, rolls and stumbles his way to Dustin’s dog, and starts barking like one of the Bupkis dogs in A Christmas Story. Oh yeah, he also had a vine wrapped around his body, with a stem sticking up over his right ear. That was our Tucker, and I’ll never forget that scene.
About two years ago, we adopted a second dog, Bella. She was bred to be a show dog, but ended up being too short, so she got let go and we adopted her. Like Dustin’s dog, she is perfect (unless you show dogs and need them to be a certain height). She walks immediately to my left. She might be the sweetest and most affectionate pet I’ve ever had. She’s beautiful. You name it, she has it, and we love her. In fact, as I’m typing, she is at my feet. I hesitate to type this next statement because I don’t want to imply that we don’t love Bella – we absolutely do. However, she’s not Tucker.
Tucker was imperfect and seemed to celebrate it. If he were human, we’d describe him as being comfortable in his own skin. He had a personality. He was well-trained and behaved for us, but every now and then there’d be a missing loaf of bread and a plastic wrapper torn to pieces. He knew when he was going to the vet and never went into any room without me – no matter how many treats they offered him, he knew something was up. Toward the end, when he couldn’t walk anymore, I’d put him in a wagon and walk him around the neighborhood. He’d sit up tall in the wagon and look around like a prince being carried through a village. He was awesome.
As you’ve probably determined by now, Tucker taught me that our unique personalities are our greatest assets. We impact other people and organizations with our transparency and by celebrating who we are – warts and all. My wife and I will talk about Tucker until we die. We’ve both had, currently have, and will have better dogs; but I don’t think any will impact our lives like he did.
This past New Year’s Eve, we had to put Tucker down. I stayed with him until the end. The doctor explained that he may not know that I’m there because of the seizures he was having. I stayed anyway. At the very end, he had another fit while lying on the table. I grabbed him and held him. He calmed right away. He knew I was there. Then he left us. Even at the end, he was himself – his imperfectly awesome self.
