Our beloved dog Tater passed away on October 14. He was just 8 years old. His only indication of age was a bit of grey hair on his cheeks. He certainly was not slowing down, ……until he got sick.
Tater had been ill for about a month with what the veterinarian believed was either liver inflammation or liver cancer. He seemed to have lost his energy and was at times very sensitive to being touched. The medication that the vet prescribed helped some, and he had some good days and some bad days. But eventually, the good days became fewer and then disappeared altogether. I was out of town when my wife made the courageous decision to have Tater put to sleep. He was suffering from pain and had difficulty breathing. His appetite was gone. As difficult as that decision was, she knew it was time to let him go.
Tater’s life began with a little extra help. When he came into this world, his own mother would not nurse him. A Boston Terrier Rescue stepped in, and a surrogate mother took him in and nursed him. The representative from the Rescue told us they did not think Tater would make it, but thanks to their care and compassion, Tater got a chance at life. We were fortunate enough to become part of his story, and he became a very special part of ours. When we adopted him I knew his name was Tater. He just looked and acted the part and so it was.
Tater was more than a dog. He was a lover of people, a friend to everyone, and a beloved member of our family.
Tater was playful, affectionate, and always ready for a little fun or a chance to share some love. He found happiness in life’s simple pleasures: going for walks, taking naps, chew bones, wrestling with his best dog-friend, Anni, and, of course, eating. He especially loved treats and just about any people food we were willing to share. Eating was his passion for sure!
Tater wouldn’t hurt a thing. He was gentle, friendly, playful, and full of love for everyone he met. Perhaps, in some way, he understood how difficult his beginning in life had been. Maybe that’s why he appreciated the kindness he received and returned it so freely to everyone he encountered. Whatever the reason, Tater had a remarkable gift for loving people, perhaps reflecting the love and care that had been shown to him. He seemed to understand that life was meant to be enjoyed and love was meant to be shared.
What I will remember most about Tater is how he greeted us whenever we walked through the door. It didn’t matter if we had been away for just a few minutes, at work all day, or away on a short trip. The moment we walked through the door, Tater was there. His tail wagged furiously, and he jumped up to greet us, sometimes turning in circles. His excitement made it seem as though we had been gone for years. My wife took videos of him patiently looking out the front window waiting for me to return from a trip. We were his world, and he never let us forget it.
No matter what kind of day we had experienced, what troubles we carried home, or how we were feeling, Tater greeted us with the same enthusiasm and unconditional love. He didn’t care whether we had a good day or a bad one. He didn’t ask questions or expect anything in return. He was simply happy when we were home.
There is something extraordinary about a dog who loves you that way. His playful spirit brought laughter into our lives, and his loving nature brought comfort and joy. He had a way of making ordinary moments feel special simply by being there.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Tater was how much love he had to give, considering how much care he needed at the very beginning of his life. He was given a second chance, and he made the most of it. He filled our lives with friendship, laughter, playfulness, and the kind of unconditional love that only a dog can give.
Now that Tater is gone, the house seems a little quieter. Our walks, naps, mealtimes, and everyday routines will never quite be the same. Nobody follows me around the kitchen anymore, waiting patiently for a treat. The familiar pitter-patter of his little feet across the floor is gone, leaving a silence where his presence once filled our home.
I no longer see that familiar look in his dark eyes, the one that told me it was time for a walk. I miss feeling his warm body snuggled against me when I doze on the couch. I will miss the way he always followed me to the breakfast table, sat down, and stared at me patiently, waiting for his little morsel.
Sometimes, while he waited, he would close his eyes and begin to doze off, still sitting upright on his haunches. Slowly, his little feet would begin to slip out from under him until he would suddenly slip back into consciousness, as if reminding himself that he still had a job to do. It was such a simple, ordinary moment, but it was so uniquely Tater.
Those are the little things I will miss most. They were woven into the fabric of our everyday lives, and I never imagined how much I would miss them until they were gone. Anni has lost her wrestling partner, and we have lost a faithful companion who brought so much joy into our lives.
Tater and his Best Friend Anni
We will miss his playful antics, his wagging tail, his excitement, his love of people food, and the way he made every homecoming feel special. Most of all, we will miss the unconditional love he gave us so freely.
I had a dream the other night. Tater jumped into our bed and burrowed his way under the covers, just as he would often do on a cold night. In my dream, I sat up and began telling Tater how sorry I was for what had happened to him. I told him how sorry I was that I hadn’t been there when he passed away.
Then I heard a voice. The voice said, “I am OK… It’s going to be OK.”
I think we both smiled. In that moment, everything felt right. It was all good.
I know it was just a dream. Maybe my mind was simply giving me a chance to say and know the things I hadn’t been able to, and to find a little peace with his passing. But I like to think there was something more to it. I like to think that Tater somehow reached back from wherever he is to let us know that he is better now. That he is no longer suffering. That he is grateful for the life we shared, just as we are grateful for the time we had with him.
And perhaps, in his own way, he was telling me that I didn’t need to be sorry.
He was OK.
And it’s going to be OK.
Leave a Reply