The Trouble With Tuck the Trouble With Tuck

  Mrs. Pyle jumped into the water with all her clothes on and relieved Tuck of his unconscious burden—me.

  Slapping Steffie to jar her back to her senses, Mrs. Pyle sent her to the phone to call the fire department, while she gave me artificial respiration at poolside.

  The rescue squad and paramedics arrived a little later, but by that time I was breathing all right and coughing and puking all over the white tile. Meanwhile, Steff helped Tuck, the lifeguard, out of the pool. He'd been paddling around for almost ten minutes and must have been pretty tired.

  I spent the rest of the day and night in the hospital, while the doctors checked for concussion, which I had slightly, and any other damages. They were mostly to my ego. Of all the people involved, I was the least informed. After banging my head, I don't remember anything except waking up and puking.

  To the whole world, at least my world, I had proved once again that if there was a way to mess things up, I'd find it. Although there was concern and sympathy for me at the hospital, even from Stan and Luke when they visited, my yellow dog was the star of the entire affair, rightfully so.

  In fact, Tuck was now something of a recognized hero in the park and along the streets of the neighborhood. Professionally trained dogs did stunts like that, we were told, retrieving objects in dives of eight or ten feet, but Tuck was one who hadn't been trained and had made a rescue purely by instinct.

  Maybe it was silly to keep thanking him, but I did, with words and hugs. He surely understood the latter.

  Although the escape from drowning made me considerably more careful around diving boards and pools, or in the ocean at Malibu, where we sometimes went on weekends, Tuck's own life remained much the same, as ex-pected. He came and went as he pleased, staying mostly in our backyard but going off on personal adventures now and then. He continued to cheerfully chase the cats and doves if they trespassed on his property, remaining the barking guardian of all he surveyed.

  Summer, winter, spring, or fall, Tuck would take an early morning stroll by himself, trotting about the neighborhood, or he might go to the park, skillfully avoiding the traffic. Sometimes he'd visit Mr. Ishihara at Led-better's. All things together, he'd turned out to be one of the most independent dogs that ever lived.

  Yet he was so alert and intelligent that none of us ever really worried, even when he crossed streets that were heavily traveled. He was seldom away more than two hours.

  On many occasions, Tuck seemed human enough and smart enough to marry. I'd have taken him over most of the boys I knew at school.

  6

  So Tuck's three-plus years of puppyhood and adoles-cence had passed, filled with love and fun and a few moments of terror. The longer terror, the terror for Tuck, didn't come until 1956, when I was thirteen and living through that dreadful week when Tuck tore the back screen door and Mother and I knew he had eye trouble.

  Going to work or anywhere else, my father always beeped the car horn once when he departed, and twice when he arrived home. It was a little family ritual, so the sinful could stop sinning, he said.

  My father came home from Chicago early Friday evening of that dreadful week, beeped twice, and as usual we all went to greet him as he pulled luggage out of the car. Tuck beat us out and jumped up on him.

  “You didn't melt, after all,” my mother said, kissing him.

  The weather reports from Chicago said it had been over a hundred degrees for the whole week he'd been gone, along with high humidity. He should have melted.

  He hugged and kissed me and patted Luke on his crew-cut. Stan was now sixteen and dating already. That's where he was. Out with a fifteen-year-old brunette.

  Luke said, “Didn't even know you were gone, Pop.”

  Mother said, “Yeah, sure. In a pig's eye.”

  “You win that game?” Father asked Luke.

  “Got two homers.” Luke picked up the luggage.

  “Hey, wow,” said my father, impressed.

  What I wanted to talk about was Friar Tuck, not base-ball, but Mother always said to give Dad a little while to get his feet on the ground and unwind. This was a crisis, however.

  We all started back toward the house, my father with one arm close around my mother, and at the rear steps he stopped and motioned with his right foot at the hole in the screen. “What the devil happened here? Someone kick a hole in this?”

  My mother said, “I'll tell you later.”

  I pleaded, “Tell him now, Mother.”

  Looking over her shoulder at me, she shook her head. It was a not yet shake.

  My father went on up to their room to change clothes and begin “unwinding.” Fifteen minutes later, having showered, he was back in the kitchen, barefooted and in shorts, his hand wrapped around an icy drink.

  He sat down at the kitchen table where Luke was already sitting, his chin resting on the backs of his hands.

  I couldn't sit. I was too nervous.

  My mother was at the sink, peeling carrots.

  My father began to talk about what had happened in Chicago, how hot and humid it was there, who he met and what he did.

  I usually liked to hear it all. This time, I didn't want to hear anything and couldn't wait. Finally I blurted, “Daddy, I've got to talk to you.”

  He said, with annoyance, “Helen, you'll have plenty of time to talk this whole weekend. I'm not going away for another month. You shouldn't interrupt.”

  My mother turned from the sink. “Tony, we think there's something terribly wrong with Tuck.”

  My father glanced at Tuck, sprawled out on the linoleum, almost in the middle of the floor, lost in sleep. “With that hound?” he said. “He looks sensational. He jumped all over me tonight. Why, he almost knocked me down.”

  Mother said, “I know.”

  “You've got to be kidding,” my father said, frowning widely as if we were sounding false alarms. “He could chew on a tiger. Barbara, that dog can run the 100 in 5.2. There's nothing wrong with him.”

  “There is, too,” I said, hoping I wouldn't break down and bawl.

  Luke's chin was still on his hands. He gave his opinion, which wasn't asked for. “Helen, as usual, most of what is wrong is up in your head.”

  I didn't bother to answer him but gave him a dirty look.

  My mother again took a ladderback chair and placed it near the back door. Then she told me to go outside and call Tuck.

  It was a repeat performance of Monday, and predictably Tuck jumped up and rammed into the chair again, knocking it aside. He stood there, bewildered, knowing that he'd hit something.

  My father was now visibly startled. His mouth sagged. “When did all this happen? I was only gone a week.”

  “Helen and I think it's been going on for a long time. None of us noticed it.”

  “You mean he's been bumping into things.”

  “I'm sure he has,” I said.

  “It's probably worse with each week,” my mother said. “That hole in the door? Happened the day after you left. He went after some cats.”

  My father was now kneeling down by Tuck, looking at his eyes for a clue. That again.

  I said, “You know the doves? They perch up in the trees, and Tuck always barks at them.”

  My father nodded.

  “Daddy, they don't fly away anymore. They just perch up there and look down at him. Or they walk around as if he isn't there. The doves know something is wrong. He can't hurt them now. They know he's harmless.”

  I rushed over to my father, trying to hold back the flow of tears. But I was on the watery, choking edge of them almost every time I looked at Tuck now. God and every-one else just couldn't let him go blind.

  Mother said, “We've made an appointment with Dr. Tobin for tomorrow.”

  The night was still thick and warm, and after dinner my parents went out to the patio in back. It was directly beneath my room, and I could hear them talking. I wanted to hear them. I leaned out.

  My mother said, “It's incredible. He still leaves every single morn
ing and is gone for his usual hour or so. Crosses streets. Visits the park if he wants. Goes to the store to see Mr. Ishihara. He does exactly what he pleases.”

  “Including this last week?”

  “Including yesterday. He must be able to see some things. Make out images.”

  My father estimated, “He's going mainly on instinct, I bet.”

  “It's so dangerous,” Mother said.

  Yes, it was very dangerous. I knew more about his walks and where he went than they did. I'd seen him cross the boulevard, running swiftly to avoid cars, sometimes dodging between them.

  I got down on my bedroom floor beside Tuck to say, “You've always taken care of me, and I'll always take care of you.” That was a promise. “And if you can't see, then I'll be your eyes.” That was also a promise.

  His head was flat against the floor. He was awake, and his eyes were focused across the room. Or they were looking in that direction.

  If only he could talk.

  I hated to think about tomorrow. Dr. Tobin was always very kind and gentle with Tuck, but I was afraid he'd tell us some things we didn't want to hear.

  I fell asleep on the rug beside Tuck and was awakened a while later by my mother, though I didn't remember it in the morning.

  7

  Dr Douglas Tobin was a graduate of the University of California, at Davis, which had one of the finest veterinary schools anywhere. A very tall blond man with a high forehead, big hands, and bony wrists, he always wore a knee-length green medical smock. Even though they weren't human, he knew all his patients by name and seemed to be quite concerned about the health of each one. He'd taken care of Friar Tuck since the first week we'd had him.

  Aside from his annual shots, Tuck hadn't needed very much medical attention. He won most of his fights and seldom needed patching up. I do remember that somehow Tuck got a foxtail barb down in one ear his second summer and Dr. Tobin had to put him to sleep to take it out with instruments.

  Our appointment was for ten-thirty, and I gingerly led Tuck into one of the clinic's small examination rooms. In the center was a steel-topped table, about waist-high, and in one corner was a cabinet with instruments and medicines in it. A small steel sink was over there, too.

  In a moment, Dr. Tobin entered the room and said hello to us, as well as to Tuck, who was always jittery when he came to the clinic. He never failed to wet down the corner of the building before we entered, a nervous reaction.

  Dr. Tobin reached down and rubbed Tuck's head, saying to my mother at the same time, “You told me you thought there was some trouble with his eyes, but please tell me exactly what's been happening.”

  My mother said, “Tell him, Helen.”

  They'd never retreated from Tuck being my dog, my responsibility.

  I told the doctor everything that had happened, even about the doves.

  He listened intently and then said, “Okay, let's see what's going on here.”

  He lifted Tuck to the steel table, putting his forearms just behind the front legs and in front of the back legs, lifting him easily, though Tuck was quite heavy.

  I had no idea that veterinarians doing eye examinations used the same instruments that are used on humans, but Dr. Tobin peered into Tuck's eyes with an ophthalmoscope, the instrument that looks like a flashlight, with a cone on the end and a tiny light inside.

  Standing across the table from my parents, I tried not to show how frightened I was. Earlier that morning, I'd prayed for the first time in a long time. Now, my mouth was dry, my palms wet. I hoped it wouldn't take long.

  Tuck behaved very well and only tossed his head around two or three times, pulling away from the instrument. He didn't like it very much when the doctor lifted his eyelids.

  Finally, Dr. Tobin rested the ophthalmoscope and thoughtfully scanned my parents, something sad already written on his long face. Then he reluctantly looked over at me. “He has disintegration of both retinas, the part of the eye that receives images.”

  I didn't know what all that meant. My father did. He stated simply, “He's going blind.”

  We already knew it, I think, but my knees felt weak, nonetheless. I felt a crushing in my chest.

  Dr. Tobin was nodding. I'll never forget his blond head going up and down. It seemed to be in slow motion.

  I heard my mother ask distantly, “Can't you do something?” Her voice sounded to me as though it came through an echo chamber. I was in shock.

  Dr. Tobin answered, “I'm afraid not,” and that echoed too.

  “An operation, maybe? By a specialist?” my father said.

  I circled around the doctor to stand directly in front of Tuck. He had flattened out on the table, and his head was between his paws. He was like a small child, having no say in what would happen to him.

  I finally spoke. “Soon, he won't see at all, will he?”

  All three of them looked at me simultaneously. It was almost as if they'd forgotten I was even there.

  My father kept on talking. “We're willing to spend the money.”

  “Yes, we are,” my mother said.

  Dr. Tobin ignored them completely and said to me, “I want to read you something, Helen. I'll be back in a moment.” He left the examination room.

  I felt oddly separated from all of them, as if I were somewhere else but still listening to the talk. I began stroking Tuck's head and said, “It isn't his fault,” just in case they ever wanted to blame him.

  “No, Helen,” my mother said. “People, or animals, don't go around causing deafness or blindness. It's nobody's fault.”

  Maid Marian and Gold Mack shouldn't be blamed either, I thought.

  The door swung open again, and Dr. Tobin entered with a thick green book, placing it down on the steel table near Tuck. Leafing through it, he found the page he wanted and said, “Here it is, retinal atrophy.”

  He began to read, matter-of-factly, “In all instances, the symptoms follow a remarkable pattern of regularity. At first, the animals are shy and exhibit defective vision at night or in dimly lighted places …”

  I kept rubbing Tuck's head. He hadn't been shy, I didn't think.

  “… the animals bump into objects and move with caution. As loss of vision progresses…”

  Tuck had bumped into objects.

  I tried to listen carefully and to understand the terms.

  Dr. Tobin said some other things and then, finally, “… there is, to date, no known treatment that will slow the progress of retinal atrophy in canines or effect a cure.”

  That was really all there was to understand. Wasn't it? Tuck would soon be totally blind!

  Dr. Tobin closed the thick green book and reached across to put his strong hand on mine. “I'm sorry, Helen, but it isn't fair to Tuck unless you know exactly what this is all about. I didn't want you to hold out hope.”

  I said, “I wanted to know.” To help Tuck in some way, I had to know.

  “How much vision is still left?” my father asked.

  The doctor blew out a breath. This was hard for him too. After all, he'd treated Tuck for almost four years.

  “With animals, it's almost impossible to tell. Perhaps just faint images. He may be totally blind within six weeks. Then again, three months, six months. I can't say.”

  “What do we do?” my mother asked.

  Dr. Tobin swung his head toward her. “Keep him in the yard. Reassure him you're around. Talk to him a lot. Let him know you love him. Touch him often. He'll need that, your voice and a hand.”

  I finally broke down. The tears I'd fought so hard against poured out.

  Back in the station wagon, mopping my face, I felt destroyed. Tuck was behind me, standing in the luggage space, seemingly happy, his tail wagging, ready to go home. He had no idea what was happening to him, or why. Though he had to be aware that things were shadowy now, or worse, he was reacting as if his eyes were as good as mine. The wide smile was still on his happy face. If ever I would know what heartbreak was, I knew it then.

  Sniff
ling away, I heard my mother say, “I'm going back to pay Dr. Tobin.”

  My father had already started the car. “We always pay him later.”

  My mother measured her words, chipping them out. “Tony, we'll pay him now. Okay?”

  “Oh,” said my father, awakening to some other meaning. He turned off the engine and got out too.

  I wondered what kind of game they were playing.

  Suddenly I knew they were going back into the clinic to talk about Tuck, without me.

  Jumping out, I followed them, catching them at the door. I said, “No, you won't.”

  My mother turned back, her face somber. “I'm sorry, Helen. Yes, come on in with us. But you might not like what you hear.”

  Not tearful anymore, I insisted, “He can't be put to sleep.” That was what I was afraid they were going to talk about.

  Sounding as low as I was, my father said, “That's the last thing we'll ever do.”

  We went inside.

  8

  We found Dr. Tobin in the pen area of his clinic. Animal patients, large and small, were in their hospital “rooms.” We could hear barks, meows, and chirps. Pens lined each side of the concrete alley, which smelled of disinfectant.

  If Dr. Tobin was surprised that we'd come back, he didn't show it.

  My father suddenly seemed upset. “What the devil do we do now?” His voice was cutting.

  “To be very honest, not much,” said Dr. Tobin.

  My mother was also angry. “That's no answer,” she stormed.

  Dr. Tobin looked helplessly at her and then at me. “All right, I'll agree that's no answer. I'll give you one. I can put him away, right here. An injection this morning. Now.”

  I shouted, “No!”

  I'd run away with Tuck before I let them do that.

  Dr. Tobin went on talking, quietly and calmly. “Or you can give him to the university at Davis. They're working very hard on retinal atrophy.”

  Mother gasped. “Experiment with Tuck? Operate on him? Make him a medical guinea pig, then kill him?”

  “If that's how you want to say it,” the doctor answered, with a long, tolerant sigh.