When laughter gives me courage, I will think of Tucker.
When I remember the silliest hearts are the strongest, I will think of Tucker.
But today, I’m not ready to think of a world without Tucker.
How do you wrap your head around a globe without Tucker?
His presence had its own zip code. He was every letter of the alphabet, exploding into exclamation points like fireworks.
He was not “supposed to” be here. Tucker’s record was tattooed with the four letters that stop stories short: F-e-L-V, for feline leukemia virus.
But Tabby’s Place makes mischief with endings. So in the rebel poetry of love, Tucker got a clean page.
He used it to write different four-letter words, in explosions of bighearted hooliganism. He was not the perennial bull in the china closet. He was the sum total of bulls, orangutans, and brontosauruses at the rave.
Tucker appeared black-and-white because our eyes only see a sliver of the spectrum. But Tucker was a knight of neon, a kaleidoscope in cat form. His colors gave him courage to swear at schoolyard bullies, like cancer. He arrived with lymphoma, but promised he was strong enough to hurl it across the room.
Still, the vet team dutifully prepared us. Cats infected with FeLV have suppressed immune systems. We would give Tucker every chance, but chemo might not work. There would be side effects.
Tucker did not get that memo.
Tucker reminded lymphoma that he could out-beast all three Beastie Boys. He could out-rascal every twelve year old who ever turned his baseball cap backwards. No lymphoma, delayed dinner, or “time-out for bad behavior” could stop him.
He had chosen a poetic moment to come to Tabby’s Place. It was 2022, and Quinn’s Corner was still under construction. Tucker was there at the dawn of our audacious dream. He was there to see his own portrait raised among other legends and originals.
He was there with Oram, and that made all the difference.
If we are hobbled by the thought of a world without Tucker, Oram must feel as though the entire atmosphere has evaporated. They did not come to Tabby’s Place together, but they came here for the purpose of being together.
When they played, seismic activity could be detected as far away as France. Their feats of brotherly violence earned them the nickname “The Frat Boys,” but this was no ordinary paw-to-paw combat. Tucker and Oram rumbled with the rebellion of those who have survived. They took their own lives by storm. They increased the sum total of earthly euphoria.
Tucker pick-pocketed joy from everyone he met, yet we all walked out of Suite G richer. Collecting memories like action figures, Tucker soon had no room left for lymphoma.
He beamed through chemo. He jutted that jocular, gigantic jaw like a slaphappy Hercules. He made us wonder if he might be immortal.
In most of his photographs, Tucker is upside-down, belly-up, two seconds away from dissolving into laughter. I have never seen a cat so committed to a pose, able to go from zero to goofus in five flamboyant seconds.
He insisted we remember to remain head-over-heels.
Together with Oram and Charles, Tucker hosted the Grand Opening of Quinn’s Corner in 2023, giddy as clowns showing off their bounce castle. Seven hundred fifty people came to celebrate him, personally. That was his interpretation, and of course it was correct.
He managed excellent etiquette for the occasion. Although he wore the orange warning collar of the “easily overstimulated,” Tucker never meant to hurt anyone. When you are made out of enthusiasm and exclamation points, sometimes you can’t contain yourself.
In the end, this world was not enough to contain Tucker.
Illness approached slyly, like all cowards. There were the usual warning shots of weight loss and iffy appetite. But Tucker’s eyes were as wonder-wild as ever, and he would not let you leave his suite until you laughed out loud at least twice. He was so sweet and silly, we never realized he was being strong.
This is precisely the way he wanted it.
Tucker would expect that we remember him with songs and ceremonials. He would take it for granted that we should write anthems about him, as for doers of daring deeds and other world-saving individuals.
But he would be violently opposed to finding his name on the same page as lymphoma. He would never let us tuck him in the same pocket as a handkerchief for tears. He could not stay by our side, but he will live on, long after the last sadness surrenders.
I see him even now, under the skylight, impatient for undivided attention. The orange collar tells us he will stand up for himself. But Tucker’s true colors tell us he will stand by us.
He will live in every laugh that splits the darkness. He will help us to be silly and strong. He will trust us to take care of his Oram.
We will trust that we will meet again.
We love you to the ends of eternity, Tucker.
Thanks to just a few of Tucker’s many friends for the following reflections:
“Suite G wasn’t the same this afternoon without his bold, confident and casual presence and energy. I’ll miss his unapologetic swagger, boisterousness, and moments of surprising sweetness. He was a real character and a fighter. Rest easy, you lovable scamp.” – Volunteer Alex
“There was a plan. Various cats’ ages, diagnoses, and statistical probabilities meant that the plan was preposterous. Yet, if ever a being could pull off preposterous, it was Tucker. Our FeLV+ cancer survivor with the extreme tummy trap entangled hearts. Mine was kitten’s play for him. Now, regret for being unable to bring him home is amplified by grief with his leaving. The centering feeling of zen he brought to Quinn’s Corner is shattered. Neither Tabby’s Place nor I will ever be the same.” – Volunteer Kitty LeFey
Video by Sanctuary Associate Kelly:
