Tucker Gavette Lees Schorvette was put to rest June 20 at the VCA West Linn Animal Hospital surrounded by his family after struggling to fight a shutting down pancreas and complications from diabetes.
He was 12.
Tucker, a labradoodle born in the south Willamette Valley of Oregon, lived seven years in the Portland metro area before coming to Eugene for most of the final five years of his life. Originally meant as a companion for Elaine Lees and Ken Gavette after their two daughters — Elissa and Allie — left for college, Tucker quickly endeared himself to the whole family. His puppy and early adult years were marked by a boundless energy for chasing tennis balls, though as aged he settled into a more even-tempered friend who was quite content to spend hours napping with you on the couch, as long as you remembered to take him on a few walks and give him treats.
Though he would eat most anything (he was quite the dumpster diver), Tucker loved his Greenies, bananas and salmon. He would also perk up if he heard you making popcorn in the kitchen late at night.
The family asks that in remembrance you give your own pet a hug.
*****
I really didn’t know how to start this post. Everything seemed inadequate to convey how special Tucker has been to my life. To the lives of Elissa, Allie, Elaine and Ken. I don’t know if I will be able to ever fully express it, but for me this is the only way I know how to grieve. I need to write.
A quote from “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” popped into my feed recently that rang true, whether it be about humans or pets:
“You think the dead we love ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?”
For me the quote explains something I’ve been dealing with since it became clear two weeks ago that Tucker was dying. I’ll be sitting at our kitchen table and out of the corner of my eye I’ll see the spot where he liked to nap under the air conditioner. Or I’ll be on a run and realize Tucker and I had been on that exact sidewalk countless times.
Everything is so vivid. All those recollections keep the grief fresh. Just this morning I stared into the backyard of our duplex in Eugene. There was a patch of sun on part of the yard where he would plop down amidst the daisies and just snooze for a bit. It was as if he had just gotten up and moved from view because the vision was so real.
Elissa and I had just started dating in 2008 when her family got Tucker. Early that first summer my future mother-in-law asked that we go out to the breeder outside of Eugene to meet some labradoodle puppies and pick the one they would bring home. The only snapshot I remember from the trip was the joy of being greeted by tiny fuzzballs and picking out the puppy they would name, Tucker.
Through the next few years I liked to think of myself as Tucker’s fun uncle. Every time I visited Elissa, Tucker would bark in his deceivingly deep and loud tone and put his paws up on the window next to the door. You could barely get inside before he jumped you. I loved going to the Gavette-Lees household in Happy Valley. Everyone was so welcoming, and getting to play and roughhouse with the dog was the final treat.
I didn’t, though, truly think of him as my dog until five years ago. Elissa had just moved down to Eugene to live with me in a townhouse apartment that didn’t allow pets. That didn’t stop us from immediately saying yes to taking Tucker in when Elaine’s job became too busy for her to give him the attention he needed.
At the time I was working nights at The Register-Guard and Elissa worked 8 a.m.-5 p.m. It turned out to be the ideal schedule for Tucker, who was only by himself for two hours every day. He’d wake up with Elissa, get a brief walk and breakfast then come sleep with me until I woke up. Then we’d go explore the many paths and trails around town before I got ready for work.
About a year into this arrangement I moved on to a new job with the City of Eugene, which aligned my schedule with Elissa’s. This came as a bit of a shock I’m sure to Tucker. All of a sudden his chill mornings turned into 6:30 a.m. walks with me before we’d leave for work.
While the daily grind of waking up to walk the dog definitely felt like a burden at times, there were few moments when it was ever truly bad. Once we were out the door (rain or shine, snow, wind or below-freezing temperatures be damned) our morning walks were great times for me to catch up on podcasts, listen to books and just get fresh air. For a while I kept track of how many miles we did, and for a couple of years we averaged 3 miles a day just from our morning walks.
Up until the very end, leaving him in the morning was the hardest thing. While I showered he would typically go lay down on his bed in our room or on the rug right in front of the door. He would begrudgingly move when I started to open the door and he would move to his living room bed. Every day I would say something almost verbatim to the following line:
“Alright buddy, I’m headed out. Elissa will see you at lunch time. Love you, pal. See you after work.”
Me talking it out with him made it just a little bit easier to leave.
*****
On the Saturday morning before we took him to the vet, I stood in the kitchen at Elaine’s home in Lake Oswego. I knew I needed to eat but didn’t feel up to it. Half a banana sat on a cutting board, so I started peeling it. Tucker, even this near to the end, still found the energy to perk up when he heard me rustling around. He hadn’t eaten much of his breakfast, which was the last sign that he was failing.
During the height of our morning walk routine I would groggily get out of bed, Tucker jumping to his feet. I’d go to the bathroom, walk to the kitchen and drink a glass of water. While leaning up against the counter I’d cut up a banana and mindlessly eat it. One slice for me, one slice for Tucker.
That final morning I cried as we recreated those moments. He snarfed up the three slices I gave him — his last meal.
*****
I know at some point the swirl of memories and moments will die down and I’ll be able to travel down the sidewalk without every bush reminding me of him. But his last moments are still too fresh. I don’t want to forget how he would snort at you if you blew on his face or how he’d bark at any animal that came on the TV. I don’t want to forget how anxious he got while I watched sports or how he would literally sit in my lap during Seahawks games if I got too agitated.
I don’t want to forget his tennis ball obsession or the weird-as-hell habit of pooping literally on top of bushes.
Or how he would nestle himself between Elissa and the back of the couch to take a nap with her or how he cozied up between the two of us in his own sleeping bag when we went camping.
*****
I keep thinking about a dog I had when I was in fourth grade. His name was Shakespeare and he was this energetic beagle my mom got from the humane society. My Grandpa Ruben loved to hold him and howl, which Shakespeare would reciprocate. My grandma and mom both hated the racket, but my brother and I laughed every time. It was pure joy.
A year later when we moved in with my step-father out in the country, Shakespeare had to become an outside dog and live in a kennel next to the garage. The agreement was that every morning my brother and I would have to wake up early to walk him before school and then play with him and take care of him after.
That lasted a month or two before it became obvious we were neglecting him. It felt like too much of a burden to wake up early when it was cold outside. Thankfully my parents recognized this and we found Shakespeare a good home, but decades later, imagining Shakespeare cold, alone and penned up still makes me incredibly sad. He was too good of a dog for us to neglect him like that, but we were immature and not ready for that responsibility.
I think I’m fixated on that right now because a part of me desperately wants to know that the family we gave him to provided him with a great life. The way that the Gavette-Lees-Schorvette family provided Tucker with a rich, full life. That he also had people around him as he fell asleep for the final time, holding and petting him.
A few times this last week I’ve thought or asked, “Why do people have pets if you end up feeling like this?” Why do we knowingly commit ourselves to something that will end in such pain and grief?
It’s because the moments of companionship, love, joy and laughter outweigh even the heaviest sadness. Even while we all cried in the final hours of Tucker’s life, we all could still smile and laugh because we knew we’d remember the last 12 years for the rest of our lives, and we’re better because he was in our lives.
So long, pal. Thanks for the memories.
