FURRY FRIENDS ARE FOREVER. There is something so very special about having a furry companion, and losing them to the circle of life is never easy. But the memories are a warm reminder of them, and last forever. (Photo via Unsplash)

It’s been over 30 years since I held Tucker, but the memories come easy. How surprisingly soft his tightly coiled white fur was. The chronic eye boogers and persistent tear stains despite daily face washings. The way he always smelled like perfumed dog shampoo. His coordinated attacks against my Pound Puppy slippers, who he thought were real, live dogs invading his territory. The way he acted like his own stuntman, sometimes log rolling down longer flights of stairs when momentum and gravity overtook his stubby legs.

At just five pounds, Tucker was a toy poodle who threw gender stereotypes to the wind. He’d return home after every grooming visit with a bow on each ear and freshly painted toenails. His rhinestone-studded, red velvet collar earned him the nickname “Rhinestone Mutt Dog,” a nod to Glen Campbell’s hit song.

Tucker’s lasting legacy is his bout with hypothermia, a story frequently recalled at holidays and get-togethers. One chaotic winter afternoon, Tucker was let out to do his business but no one let him back in. He spent several hours outside in dangerously frigid Wisconsin weather until one of us happened to glance out the window and notice him out on the edge of the yard. My parents rescued him and swaddled his tiny body in a flannel shirt. They rushed him to the vet, where he spent several days recovering.

At just five pounds, Tucker was a toy poodle who threw gender stereotypes to the wind. He'd return home after every grooming visit with a bow on each ear and freshly painted toenails. His rhinestone-studded, red velvet collar earned him the nickname "Rhinestone Mutt Dog," a nod to Glen Campbell's hit song.

That night, our house was a house filled with lamentations. Who let Tucker out was irrelevant. We all blamed ourselves for not realizing he was missing for so long. Being a child, I was convinced that if Tucker survived, he would hate us. But upon returning home from his vet stay, he slipped back into his routine of loving to be held and sung to.

As Tucker aged, he spent less time carrying out attacks on slippers and more time sleeping next to the wood stove in his plush dog bed. Arthritis slowed his leaps and sprints into a hobbling gait. His stuntman days were over, as we now had to carry him up and down stairs. He made it to his 17th birthday, after which we learned his tiny body was fighting hard against cancer, a battle he had no chance of winning.

He crossed the Rainbow Bridge before keepsake clay paw prints and pet urns were the norm, so what we have left are our memories and a few Polaroids tucked away in a shoe box.

I believe that we are reunited with our pets in the afterlife and I will see Tucker again. Will he come running to me with the speed of a young puppy? Or will he log roll down a flight of stairs and into my arms? Either way, I can’t wait to see what color his toenails are painted.