The Crime Dog

One of the things that convinced my parents I should go to law school (I admit, it took me longer to convince myself) was when I talked them into getting a dog. I was eleven. Most normal kids (like my brother and sister) succeed at doing so by whining incessantly until someone throws their hands up and says, "Fine! You can get one!" Kristin and Jon did plenty of that, but I took another route. I wrote a persuasive essay, complete with a chart designating certain dog-related responsibilities to different family members. Instead of begging, I handed them the sheets of lined paper, folded my hands, and waited for them to read it. I swear I remember one of them whispering to the other, "She's weird."

Even though we were visiting family friends out of town and were two weeks away from starting school, it worked. We brought home a five-pound Chow mix runt, who we briefly named Delilah. Until we realized "she" had a wiener. So we changed his name to Tuffy.

Tuffy was so small as a puppy that he could dive underneath our coffee tables.

Tuffy gained half a pound a day, turning into a big, furry, bulk of a dog with a penchant for perking his ears up at trespassing cats, never actually catching one. My dad trained him to sit, stay, lay down, and shake. The biggest training accomplishment, though, goes to Kristin, who went through two Supersize McDonald's french fries teaching him to "Speak."

Tuffy was a fixture on our front porch for the last thirteen years, either perched on his dog bed or sprawled underneath our front bushes. He barked at the mailman without fail, but never at the Aniello's delivery guy. He got sprayed by a skunk on three separate occasions, never remembering that his little black and white friends caused him (and us) so much suffering. When he was young and energetic, he would sprint through the rooms of our downstairs floor, running around chairs and under tables. He'd stop and stare up at you, unmoving, his butt in the air and front paws down. One movement on your part and he'd go back to running around. His hallmark? The tufts of fur he shed without fail in the springtime (except that one time my dad gave him a haircut that looked more like a lawnmower accident).

Over the past few years, he's slowed down. A lot. He stopped running around the house, stopped wagging his tail at people walking by, even stopped getting excited at the proclamation of "Cat!" I know change is a part of life, but it didn't make it any easier to come to terms with the fact that Tuffy had to be put down this morning. It's like losing part of my childhood, a favorite photo album of family memories. He saw curfews broken, friendships made. He watched Kristin sneak out of the house. He was there the night Jon had that party. He never saw me do anything wrong because I never broke the rules. He barked at the four'o'clock paper boy every morning and howled at the six'o'clock Dresser Rand horn every night. He always knew when we were eating dinner. Always.

When we were younger, he had hundreds of nicknames. Tuff. Scruff. Gruffkin. Tuffaluffagus. The Gruffster. My personal favorite? One Jon made up- Tuff McGruff the Crime Dog. And now the Crime Dog is going to the big farm in the sky where there are no chinchillas to drive him crazy, where he can chase cats and skunks without worrying about fences or stink, and where his meals will always include a little bit of steak. We'll always miss you.

Love ya buddy... :(