July 24, 2002

A Eulogy for Tyler

"I find God through dogs because dogs are full of love."

–Katie Drury, 7^th grade, St. Thomas School

(from How Can I Find God?, James Martin, ed.)

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My beautiful dog, Tyler, had a habit, whenever we would enter my house, of entering first, taking maybe two or three steps and then turning around, looking up at me, and waiting for me to pat his head, as if to say, "well, allen, it is good to be back home again."

During the past ten years, when i’ve not been travelling, it has been my habit to start each morning with the same spoken phrase – "good morning Tyler" – and to kneel down so that i could put my head next to his and rub his neck. In that same ten years, and particularly in the seven that i’ve traveled as a singer/songwriter, Tyler has always been here to welcome me home.

Yesterday afternoon, i arrived here at the farm from North Carolina with the uneasy awareness that Tyler would not be here to greet me.

Sadly, on last Friday, July 19, 2002, my dear old friend was laid to rest.

i never dreamed that something so physically small could leave such an emptiness behind.

Given that so many of you somewhat know him, i thought i might offer this eulogy to Tyler.

Tyler and his brother, Toby, full-blooded Austrailian shepherds, were given to my parents as a gift from Gary sometime in the late 80’s, maybe ’89. When it became obvious that two might be too much dog for them, a new home was found for Toby. Tyler has been a member of the family ever since.

When i returned home from 2 years in Scotland and began living at the farm in 1992 (my parents were living in Columbus by then), Tyler was the farm’s only resident. Since then, he has evolved from being my responsibility, to my dog, to my co-writer, and finally, and above all, to my closest friend. In the thousands of solitary hours which i’ve spent in the studio since 1995, and in living alone with him at the farm for almost 10 years, Tyler has been a constant companion to me.

Here are some random things, in no particular order, that i remember about him: …

i really DID talk to Tyler, incessantly. Things that i could not, would not, should not, tell to any human, i said out loud to him. There were times that i belly-laughed at the look on his face, or at the things that i imagined he might say if he could talk back. He always seemed to enjoy hearing my voice.

For the past couple of years, Tyler had his own chair in my house where he would sleep as i worked at my desk. Most of the time, the chair was covered with a Scottish wool, tartan blanket, given to me by some friends years ago. It was where Tyler slept at night during the winter months.

Whenever there was severe weather, Tyler would frighten to the point of shivering. He was terrified of thunder and lightning. For several years, i was somehow unaware of the fact. On one particularly stormy day, though, as i was driving away from the farm, i noticed him, terror-stricken, chasing my car down the dirt road in a pouring rain, something he had never done before. When i opened the car door, he dove, muddy and rain soaked, into the front seat with me. He was so pitifully afraid that i could not be mad at him. After that, whenever there was even a threat of rain, i’d let him inside the house or studio (this was before he gained ‘all access’ to whatever indoors he chose). At night if i happened to wake up and hear rain or thunder, and if Tyler happened not to be in the house already, i could expect that he’d be at the door waiting to get inside. He trusted me, i think, to care for him and not to let him be needlessly afraid. If, on those nights, he was wet, i’d get towels and dry him off which always put me close enough to him that, with his wet face, he could kiss me in gratitude.

Whenever we strolled around the farm, he would stay comfortably in front of me, as if to make sure that the way was safe to walk. He would stop every so often, turn to look at me, sometimes wait for a touch, and then continue on his way.

There are blueberry bushes behind my studio and a fig tree just to the side of it. When blueberries are in season, i take work breaks to eat them straight off the bush. Tyler always stood beside me and ate them out of my hand. When the figs were in season, usually mid-summer, we’d do the same, me always biting the fig in two so that he’d get the sweetness of it.

He often drank water from the birdbath.

Tyler did not like to be photographed, a trait i share.

Since "Talking with Tyler" was released, he received a steady flow of mail and treats from all over the country. It never made me jealous.

The paw print on the "Talking with Tyler" CD really is his. i got it by spraying blue paint on his foot and pressing it to paper. For weeks, his front paw was blue.

For the past two years, i trimmed Tyler’s hair when the weather turned hot. If dogs could sue, he’d have had a strong case for infliction of emotional distress. He always seemed to take it in stride.

When i’d come home from road trips, i would often stop on the way home to get Tyler a ‘six pack’ of white powdered donuts, quite possibly his favorite food (it’s either that or ice cream). There was a ritual that went something like this. He’d hear my vehicle in the distance. He’d stand up and walk to the edge of the front porch, looking intently to make sure it was me. i’d begin to honk my horn when i was two or three hundred yards from the house. He’d come running. When he reached me, i’d stop and open the car door. He’d stand on his hind legs, put his paws on my left thigh, and we’d talk (like you hear at the start of "Old Dogs, New Tricks"). At some point in that process, i’d rattle the plastic paper on the ‘six pack’ and Tyler’s Pavlovian response was to forget all about me until he’d finished off the last grain of powdered sugar. … Funny how i missed that when i got home yesterday.

i don’t know if Tyler actually enjoyed the sound of guitar and singing but he seemed always glad to be near me when i played.

Tyler seemed to have particular affection for little children, and they for him.

He loved it when we had gatherings at the farm. If he ever saw cars begin to park at the barn or the chapel, he’d walk across the pasture and join whatever occasion was being celebrated. Everyone seemed to know him, and everybody loved him.

i noticed in these past few months, as Tyler lost his hearing and as his eyesight began to weaken, he wanted to be as close to me as he could be, as if touch was the only way that he could be sure i was there. If he had to choose between eating in my absence, or being near me, he would forego food just to lay at my feet or follow me around. In the studio, he would lay under the table touching my feet and, often during the day, he would stand up or walk to where i sat, lay his head on my knee, and look at my eyes until i acknowledged his presence. If we were on opposite sides of a closed door, he lay as close to the door as he could get, sensing, it seemed, that he had done all he could to be near me.

For the past several months, Tyler showed obvious signs of aging. He would hardly eat, he moved much slower than usual, he slept a lot and was losing some weight.

i took him to the vet last week and, at the suggestion of the doctor, Tyler stayed at the ‘hospital’ overnight, his first night away from the farm since i moved here in 1992. We were hoping that IV fluids and special attention might re-energize him. It didn’t. On Thursday, when i went to visit, i could tell that my old friend was not doing well and, on Friday morning, after talking with the vet, i made the difficult decision to put Tyler to rest.

i must thank my wonderful Dad, who loved Tyler as much as i did. He knew that i was to call the vet on Friday morning at 10:00 for an update on Tyler’s status. At ten sharp, Dad arrived at my house, overheard my conversation with the vet, and talked with me through the difficult decision to put Tyler down.

He went with me to the vet, cried with me during my last visit with Tyler, prayed as Tyler departed this world, and drove me back to the farm as Tyler’s body, wrapped in his tartan blanket, lay in my arms. At home, without a word, he helped me bury Tyler just outside my studio, under the wind chimes that were made by my Grandfather Levi.

And when i got home yesterday, there was a note on my pillow from Tyler, in writing strangely similar to that of my Dad’s. The words hit deeply, but sweetly, and reminded me that, among both the departed and the living, i am in the good company of sainted souls.

In a world with all the problems that ours has, it might seem to some a lack of perspective to grieve deeply for the loss of an animal. i can simply beg to differ, sensing that the whole world is in some small way diminished by the death of a gentle creature. i don’t see anything in scripture to contradict such a view and i even find myself hoping that, in the world to come, i’ll talk again to my old friend. i worship, after all, a Jesus Who takes note of every fallen sparrow, Who chose "shepherd’ to describe His own love for the world, Who promises that the lion and the lamb will be peacefully present in a righted world, and Who used all manner of animals to illustrate the truth of His kingdom.

Some would say, perhaps, that Tyler was "just a dog." But there is no such thing as "just a dog." There is no "just a" anything if it be true that God is the author of life. Birds, flowers, dogs, and, in a most unique way, people – all have something to say about the Creator Whose fingerprints are present wherever life is found. Might it be that we will love people best, in ways most Christ-like, if our hearts also love, and care for, the other creatures that somehow bear His image?

God used Tyler to teach me much and i will miss him mightily.

Even now, though, i rather sense him walking through the door, taking two or three steps, turning around, looking up at me, and saying, "well, allen, it is good to be back home again."

Good morning, Tyler …

i love you.