The Trouble with Tuck: Chapters 1–3

My mother was in the kitchen at the time and heard him scramble on the slick linoleum, trying to get traction with his paws, and as she turned, she saw him plunge bodily through the screen door, ripping a gaping hole in the wire mesh.

Putting fingers to her hair was a familiar gesture when calamity occurred.

I said, “Maybe he was dreaming?”
Mother scoffed, “Helen!”

Tuck was sitting innocently on his powerful haunches in the grass, that dignified lionlike head pointed skyward.

Tuck was sitting innocently on his powerful haunches in the grass, that dignified lionlike head pointed skyward.

He seemed to be sniffing the air as if to make certain the squabbling cats had departed.

Offhand, I said, “No.”
But there was something, now that I thought about it.

I glanced into the acacia trees at the back of our deep lot.

Doves often roosted up there, cooing in the day hours, and then they’d drop down to the yard and peck around.

Tuck had always chased them, in rousing good fun and fair game, never catching one.

They’d fly up and scatter, terrified of the bounding dog with the deep-throated bark.

However, a while back, maybe three months earlier, the doves had suddenly turned defiant, I’d noticed.

They’d begun to parade brazenly across the backyard.

She was reading on the chaise lounge in the backyard shade, trying to keep cool.

My mother made one of her distinctive “hmh” sounds, which always indicated she’d think about the subject for a while.

He was by the garage door, sprawled out asleep on the concrete, which was in cooling shadows.

I whistled for him, and he rose up, stretched lazily and luxuriously, then meandered into the house, probably thinking it was mealtime.

This time, when I called, though, my handsome thoroughbred dog headed for the back door and ran headlong into the tall chair, spilling it with a clatter.

I heard Mother’s dismayed voice from the kitchen. “Oh, no.”

High winds and early fall rain had chased the smog out of the Los Angeles basin, I remember, leaving the city unusually bright and clear.

About four-thirty, my father eased to a halt within a few feet of the garage and climbed out, elaborately carrying something light gold in color.

Seven weeks old, just weaned from proud Maid Marian, who’d won more than a dozen national show ribbons, the pup was a squirming fat sausage of creamy yellow Labrador.

At that moment, I was just content to cuddle the pup and give reverent thanks to my parents, whatever their reason or the occasion.

I’m smiling and kneeling between Tuck and another dog, Lady Daisy, a serene German shepherd.

Back then, girls did not wear jeans very often, and there was no way to hide my spindly legs.

Truly, there were moments when I gazed into the mirror at my wide mouth and brick-red hair, not that fine auburn stuff my mother had on her head, and wondered where I had come from.

As if describing royalty, my father said, “The pup has papers, Helen. That means his bloodlines are recorded by the kennel association. You can breed him someday, if you’d like. Maybe have champion stock, the same as his mother.”

“See that pinkish tinge on his nose, just at the end. It could go away. Maybe not. If he has pink on his nose when he’s older—it’s called a Dudley nose—you’ll never be able to show him. His nose has to be pure black to compete.”

Pulling the kennel papers from his coat pocket, displaying them, my father said, “His sire is named Gold Mack, and his mother is Maid Marian Golden Girl. I’ve met her, and I saw a picture of Gold Mack. He’s a beaut. Very big and husky. Between the two of them, you should have a great dog.”

He should have a noble name of some kind, I believed.

Maid Marian certainly had an aristocratic family ring to it.

Having accomplished their mission, the bestowing of an animal upon me for reasons unknown, my mother and father went on into the house, but I stayed outside for almost an hour, playing with the pup in the damp grass.

I often got exasperated with Luke, and he with me.

By bedtime, the new canine member of the Ogden clan was officially christened Friar Tuck Golden Boy, after my mother pointed out that I didn’t need to call him Friar unless I wanted to. Tuck, we all agreed, was a suitable and noble name, without getting fancy.

Luke dropped down on his hands and knees, tussled the pup for a few minutes, and then went on into the house to take a shower.