Like many Christmas presents, my dog Tucker came in a box.
A few years ago in Denver, three tiny newborn puppies, just hours old, were stuffed in a cardboard container like some old shoes and dumped off in front of an animal shelter without explanation — no note detailing what had caused the dog-dumper to lose his humanity, no apology for yanking the puppies away from their mother or for visiting tragedy on the first person to open the box.
And a tragedy it was surely slated to be. For even if the tiny creatures survived the hours they spent huddled in that carton, shelter workers simply don’t have the resources to bottle-feed and care for newborns around the clock for the weeks they would need, not with the daily flow of lost and abandoned animals straining the system. Under nearly all circumstances, the puppies would have to be euthanized. But my daughter, Georgia, then in her late 20s, stepped in.
She runs an animal rescue organization, Life is Better Rescue, with a unique mission: Georgia finds shelter pets who are scheduled for euthanasia, and rehabilitates them and finds them homes. Sometimes the animals need months of therapy and re-socialization, sometimes they need surgery or other medical attention, and, in the case of the puppies in the box, sometimes they need a mommy.
Georgia happened to know of a lactating German shepherd who had just weaned her pups the day before. Now, I’m not sure how she explained it to that poor mother dog, but somehow she convinced the shepherd that the tiny newborns were hers — product, perhaps, of a wild and forgotten weekend. Wearily, the shepherd settled down for several more weeks of nursing. One of the puppies was eventually named Tucker. My daughter said he would be “ideal” for me to adopt.
I was still grieving the loss of my Labrador, though it had been years. I told my daughter I wasn’t ready for a new dog just yet. She didn’t listen and flew the puppy out to Los Angeles.
I reluctantly met Georgia and Tucker at the airport and by the time we got home was referring to him as “my dog.”
He was only six weeks old. My carpet was not pleased. A few weeks later, I got married and Tucker was the ring bearer, which meant that the proceedings came to a halt while the groomsmen chased a puppy under people’s chairs and across the altar.
And then it was Christmas. We had long before arranged to spend it with my new wife’s family because they had young children, but they also had cats. What would happen? Was our dog a ferocious feline-hunter?
Tucker was astounded that the cats weren’t as glad to see him as he was to see them. When he tried to engage them in play, they raised their claws — it was as if the cats came to a wrestling match with knives. Eventually, he hit on the best way to deal with them: “There are no cats. I see no cats.”
He saw the children, though. He played and played with them; he helped them open and destroy their presents; he slept on their beds. Of all the wonderful gifts the kids received that year, nothing made as much of an impact on them as their time with Tucker.
The lesson wasn’t lost on my new brother-in-law, a self-declared “cat (not dog) person.” Within a few months, their family had a new dog.
That’s what Tucker does — he brings so much joy with him he can even improve the most joyous day of the year, and in the process, another dog was rescued.
W. Bruce Cameron is a best-selling author. His latest novel, “The Dogs of Christmas,” was inspired by Tucker’s story.