Is Your Baby a Reincarnated Dog? Mine Is.

I’m not big on religion, and I’m unconvinced on the prospect of an afterlife, but I’ll tell you what I do believe in: reincarnation.

Specifically, dog-to-human reincarnation. More specifically, the ability for dearly departed afghan hound/doberman rescue mutts to be reincarnated into adorable half-Jewish babies.

What I’m saying is, I’m pretty sure Bubba embodies the spirit of the late, great, Tucker.

If you’re not familiar with Tucker, he was the first dog TFW and I had together, and to call him the greatest dog who has ever lived would be an understatement. Sure, I’m a little biased, but just behold this magnificent beast:

He was maddeningly wild (one did not walk Tucker; one simply held onto the leash and tried to avoid cars while Tucker raced through town, sniffing out squirrels and greeting anyone within a two-mile radius), and he could be a little naughty (we lost our entire deposit when we moved out of our rental house thanks to Tucker’s creative “landscaping;” in addition to the run-of-the-mill holes he dug, he also chewed down an entire palm tree — and we had only had him for four months when we moved out). But he was also fun-loving, affectionate, gentle, and loyal.

And his joy! My god, did that dog love just being alive. Every single day was the best day of his life. He didn’t walk, he pranced. He was the embodiment of happiness, lightness, and carefree exuberance. He never met a person (or dog) he didn’t like, and everyone loved him, too. You couldn’t look at this giant goofy-looking mystery pup (anywhere we went, at least one person would ask “what kind of dog is that*?!”) galumphing about without smiling!

Tucker’s death was sudden and tragic, and we were devastated. There was a hole in our hearts and in our family. We eventually adopted another dog, but it wasn’t the same at all — Tucker’s joyful spirit simply couldn’t be replicated nor replaced (Connie, if you are a secret canine genius and can read this, please relax: we love you, even if you are neurotic and have none of the joie de vivre possessed by your predecessor).

11 months after Tucker’s death, a new light came into our lives: Bubba.

And I swear to you, this baby is Tucker all over.

Like Tucker, Bubba is high-maintenance, but his cuteness and personality more than make up for it. They also share a passion for laundry baskets:

And they both like to have a cuddly friend at their side:

And like his spirit animal, Bubba loves, loves, loves his Mama.

I’ll share one more little example that convinces me that Bubba has at least a little bit of Tucker’s special spirit within him: when we would take Tucker to the dog park (his absolute favorite activity in the world, rivaled only perhaps by eating bacon), he would race around with the other pups for hours. In between all the excitement, though, he never failed to periodically “check in” with us by zipping by and giving us a quick lick before darting back off with his doggie pals again — it was like he was saying “Mom, Dad, I’m having a great time here, but don’t worry: I still like you and I haven’t forgotten about you!” Nowadays, Bubba does the exact same thing when he’s playing: he’ll be running around like a madman, singing to himself and throwing lemons into the air, then suddenly drop everything and dash over to give me a giant hug. My son does many, many things that make me happy, but I do believe this is my #1 favorite.

I’m know all parents think their babies are magical joy-bringing little creatures, and I’m also aware that lots of babies share Bubba’s (and thus Tucker’s) many fine qualities. But Bubba so perfectly captures Tucker’s classic blend of enthusiasm, tenderness, and insanity, it’s uncanny — and it makes my heart happy.

*if you’re wondering how we determined that Tucker was in fact 50% doberman and 50% afghan hound, the answer is simple: we are insane and spent $60 getting his DNA tested. WE HAD TO KNOW.