The Trouble with Tuck Read Online Free

and Tuck was photo-graphed leaping straight up in the air, catching it, all four feet off the ground, like one of those circus dogs, though I never taught Tuck to do tricks. That was below his dignity.
    He did his own tricks, anyway. About that time, Tuck began to steal things from me and hide them. A shoe. A sock. A belt.
    At the clinic for Tuck's rabies shot, I asked Dr. Tobin why he was doing it. The doctor laughed and said, “Because he loves you. He only has so many ways to show you. Taking your things to keep near him is one of the ways.”
    Stealing? I forgave him.
    In September, when Tuck was one year old, he showed his devotion in another way, and I became indebted to him for life.
    We went along to the park one late foggy morning, and as usual I let him off the leash just as we reached the wide entrance. Montclair Park, which covers almost five hun-dred acres, with a small lake in the center, has many shade trees, and I'm sure Tuck managed to lift his leg to most of them at one time or another.
    I was always content simply to walk along behind him wherever he went. Usually he'd look back every now and then to see that I was still there. I never had any worry about him running away, though he was becoming more and more independent when I wasn't around. He could easily leap our backyard fence now.
    But on this particular morning, the fog was very heavy, and I soon lost sight of Tuck, who was busily going frombush to tree. One thing I knew was that he could always find me.
    Suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a slim man in a light blue jacket, khaki pants, and a baseball cap. He smiled at me and said, “Hi, little girl.”
    My heart began to thump.
    I didn't see anyone else around. In good weather, there were always older people sitting on the benches or sprawled out on the grass, reading or talking. Kids went through the park on bikes. Mothers pushed baby strollers along the walks. Often, there were workmen around, trimming the bushes or cutting the grass or emptying trash.
    Today, not a soul.
    I didn't like the way this man was looking at me, either, with a funny wet grin on his narrow face. His eyes were bright—too bright. I'll never forget his thin face. It was like a wedge.
    He asked, “Where ya goin’?”
    Not answering him, I started to walk very fast, and he followed, into the dense fog.
    Starting to run, I heard him running behind me, through the swirling mist. I desperately yelled for Tuck. No sooner did I do that than the man caught up with me, grabbed me, and put a hand over my mouth.
    I remember that I tried to pull his hand away by jerking at his wrist, but he had me tight around the neck in the crook of his arm, as well as around the waist. I was helpless, and he seemed to drop to one knee. He ripped at my dress.
    At that moment, there was a roar and an explosion of gold that jarred me loose from his arms.
    Tuck had hit the man from behind, leaping on his back, jaws wide.
    There was a wild tangle, and the man screamed, trying to push the big dog away. With Tuck snarling and biting and the man screaming, the sound was terrible, and I crawled off, feeling sick.
    All of it stopping as suddenly as it had begun, Tuck soon came over to me, flecks of blood around his nose and in the yellow hair on his chest. I saw the man get up and run off into the mist, bent over, holding his shoulder and neck. He wasn't moaning or anything. His base-ball cap was still on the ground.
    Then I stood up, shaking all over, my heart still thudding, and hooked the leash into the ring on Tuck's collar, and we hurried out of the park. I was not whistling.
    I knew what had almost happened to me, knew what that man had intended to do, and Tuck was a hero around our house that night and forever after.
    Thankfully, I never saw the man in the blue jacket and khaki pants in Montclair Park again.

5

    I f there was ever any doubt whatsoever about the special status of Friar Tuck Golden Boy at 911 West Chelten-ham, no matter what he did