In memoriam of a Turd Bucket

“Dogs die. But dogs live, too. Right up until they die, they live. They live brave, beautiful lives. They protect their families. And love us. And make our lives a little brighter. And they don't waste time being afraid of tomorrow.” ~Dan Gemeinhart, The Honest Truth

When I met the dog who would become my loveable Turd in 2013, he was wandering my apartment complex. At the time, he was all legs and ears, a gangly and skinny pup, but sweet as could be, although a bit clumsy.

He belonged to a neighbor who'd leave him loose for days on end. He'd become a bit of a trash dog, living under the building and making friends of everyone.

Luna liked him, which was my primary concern, as she didn't always take to other dogs. He'd take walks with us around the neighborhood. He didn't know a stranger and would dart in any open door.

One of my first memories of him includes getting a text from a neighbor friend one evening. It was something like "this dog is on my bed." I was so confused -- come to find out, he'd come home from work, opened the door, and the dog ran in and made himself at home. My friend was not thrilled.

It wasn't long after he appeared before I asked around about taking him. When I made the decision, he was mine less than 4 hours later. He was technically part of the family before Jim was, actually, although we were dating at the time. But he was a daddy's boy from the start until the day Jim died.

At night, Bucket would lay in the recliner beside him, curled up as tiny as could be. Eventually, he got too big and moved to the footrest, where there was a constant dip -- that was Bucket's spot.

My parents joked we should have named him Chet after the baby reindeer in The Santa Clause 2, because he was such a silly, goofy, clumsy boy. 

But Bucket earned his name the hard way. I left him loose for a quick trip out, only to come home and find him gone. He'd found a barely cracked second-story window, worked through the screen, and jumped out. We think the bushes below broke his fall, because he was fine. He wound up at my neighbor's apartment next door.

After that, he was always crated as a pup when loose! And, Jim was determined to name him Turd Bucket.

Bucket just fit him -- a unique name for the unique dog he was. 

When we moved to our house, Bucket learned he loved having a window to stare out. He'd stretch his 45-pound body across the back of the sofa like a cat and keep surveillance on the neighborhood. Between him and Spaz, with a little help from my dad's dog, they ripped a space in the curtain that was just perfect for him to keep watch. I ended up cutting a "Bucket window" so they wouldn't get tangled. Even when he couldn't climb up there, he'd sit on the couch and stare over the back.

He rarely barked unless Luna did first. Then he was happy to provide her backup. Always down to be his sister's support!

But, the dog loved to "sing." Every month, when the weather sirens were tested, Bucket would join in with that howl of his. He also loved when you sang too. (Sometimes, I wondered if my actual singing was just horrible because he got to where he'd start up any time I was trying to really sing!)

A few years ago, I did a DNA test on him and found out he was part Husky. Then it made sense. Among other things, he was also part Lab and Border Collie, which I think explains that tendency to sit and watch. Sometimes when we sat outside to enjoy the sun, I'd notice him watching the planes go overhead.

Bucket tolerated his brother [cat] Spaz, who enjoyed chasing him and stealing the food from the bowl.

But he loved all people and wanted to be friends with all the neighborhood wildlife. He'd whine if someone passed without getting to meet them.

One February morning in 2023, Bucket woke me up by throwing up blood. It terrified us all. That's when he was diagnosed with Immune-Mediated Thrombocytopenia. It's a nasty disease that occurs in dogs when their platelets drop out for no reason. Sometimes, it can be caused by poisons, such as acetaminophen. But in his case, it was a crappy fluke.

Then, a week later, we lost Jim.

Some don't believe dogs can grieve. But they definitely do. My dogs were allowed to come to the funeral home and see him before we had services. We let them visit and sniff. I firmly believe they understood.

Overnight, he went from Daddy's boy to Momma's shadow. He would never let me be out of sight for more than a few minutes. If I was in the bathroom "too long," I'd glance up to see his head poking around the door frame.

Actually, since the door didn't close quite right, he would sometimes surprise visitors the same way! Whoops.

With his disease, Bucket started taking more meds and seeing more doctors than ever. But he never lost that sweet nature. He never met a stranger and was always a curious but goofy guy.

Through the loss of Jim in 2023, then of Luna in 2024, Bucket has been my best companion. Almost anytime I could take him somewhere, he went -- his favorites were Tractor Supply and Lowe's because they had the best treats. In fact, we went in TS so often for him to socialize that he figured out exactly where they kept the treats and would immediately stop at the front counter. If you didn't pay attention, he'd try to go back and help them find the bag!

He loved his human sister M and would get so excited when I said I was going to get her. Or the times he got to come with, he was barely containable. 

Although I think Kristen might have been his favorite -- she'd always been a favorite. I've always joked (mostly) he loved her more than me.

Really, he loved everyone. Although he wasn't sure about little kids sometimes. Or the vet.

When he had gotten a little naughty in the last year, he'd had to go back to the crate. I was worried how it would go, but Bucket took to it like a champ. He was so much smarter than most realized, just a little goofy.

He really was my bestest Bucket boy. The last two years, the last six months, would have been so much harder without his love.

"If love alone could have kept you here, you would have lived forever." ~David Ellsworth

And last night, I had to say goodbye to him unexpectedly. We rushed to the emergency vet, but it was too late. The disease, I assume, had simply been too hard on his body.

The house seems so absent now. I don't hear the tinging of dog tags or the clacking of nails. There's no peeking around the bathroom door looking for me, no shadow in the hall as he walks by. The warmth of his lap cuddles is no more.

There's no happy toe tippy taps while I prepare dinner. Or excited tail wags to go for a ride to all his favorite stores or to see his favorite people.

The floor is free of snoozing dog on a pillow and there no snoring to be heard.

Bucket's absence is almost overwhelming.

But I realize, he is free now. Free of the medicine, the frequent blood work, the regular vet visits, and of any pain. My heart hurts, but his is free.

I don't know if it's theologically accurate to say dogs go to heaven. I like to think they do -- it provides some small solace in the loss.

And if they do, I know Bucket was the happiest boy as he ran to his daddy last night. And I'm sure Jim was there waiting with open arms, ready to sing with him. I'm sure he's already been lazy dog wrestling with Luna and enjoyed watching the birds flying overhead. Maybe he even gave a cuddle to Spaz. He's probably found a good spot to sit and just watch everything by now. Or he curled up beside his dad in a comfy chair.

I'll miss you so much, my super duper Bucket boy. You were my one-of-a-kind Turd. I'll miss our cuddles. Thanks for loving us all so freely and reminding me daily what unconditional love looked like. You made every day a good one -- even when it wasn't -- with your happiest of smiles, your fluffy tail, and your tappy toes. I love you, my bestest boy.