Tuddy

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When our kids were young and didn’t know any better, they would run and greet me as I walked home from work. Their enthusiasm was all out of proportion. I was just a guy coming home from work, not some brave Ulysses returning from war. The kids eventually grew up and figured that out for themselves.

Maybe that was why I loved our dog Tuddy so much. Tuddy never figured out I was not a returning hero. He replaced the kids as my one greeting from work. No matter how brief the period when you were away, Tuddy treated your return as if it were a combination of New Year’s Eve and winning the World Series. He would see me from a block away and off he would run down the street like DeSean Jackson on a fly pattern, his floppy ears waving like some curly haired propeller blades.

Tuddy

You never see dogs like Tuddy at fancy dog shows. He was a mutt. His legs were slightly crooked so, when he walked, he looked as if he were going forward and sideways at the same time. His beige-and-white hair was so curly, he looked as if he always had a perm. What Tuddy had going for him was his noble poodle profile. It made him irresistible.

He came into our lives as a gift to our son from our married daughter on Christmas 1991. We welcomed him with a great deal of apprehension. My wife initially viewed Tuddy as the precursor to messy carpet stains. I saw him as a precursor to midnight walks on 40-degree nights. We were both right. What we hadn’t figured on was Tuddy stealing our hearts. My son succumbed to his charms immediately. My wife and I took a bit longer.

It is impossible to explain to non-pet lovers the connection between animals and humans. The non-pet lover only sees the mess and the burden. They never looked into Tuddy’s deep-set brown eyes after a misdeed and had their anger melt away like a chocolate bar left in the noonday sun.

Some believe the relationship with a pet is akin to caring for a young child. But young children eventually grow up and go out on their own. Kids grown into adults don’t have the same need for you, although there is always the occasional perfunctory phone call and once-a-year Christmas card. Dogs are eternally young children. There is never a time when they don’t need you, when they don’t have to be protected from the cruelties of the world.

A dog lives its life in quick time, seven years equaling one of a human. They are here but for a brief time, even in Tuddy’s case; he was with us for just over 18 years. It is our fate that we must say goodbye to our pets.

I believe if there is an afterlife, we will be reunited with our pets. The main difference between Heaven and Hell is, in Heaven, the mess is cleaned up for us.

We lovingly watched Tuddy grow from a puppy into adulthood and finally into old age. His gait slowed. His hearing and eyesight diminished until one day, they were gone. He even developed one of those circular bald spots on his head that made him look like some elder statesman. I took some comfort that we both were growing old together, a couple of old codgers ambling down the streets of my neighborhood.

You can’t write about Tuddy without mentioning my son. Boys and dogs go together like wings and hot sauce. It doesn’t change when boys become men. My son and I are like most men, we don’t often express our love in words. We found it easier expressing our love through Tuddy. He became our medium.

I learned a lot about growing old from Tuddy. As his body weakened, he seemed to grow more determined. We dreamed maybe Tuddy would eclipse the record for dog longevity. We kidded ourselves he would be a part of our lives forever. But there is nobody more cruel than Father Time. On Nov. 28, 2009, my 71st birthday, the old bearded man with a scythe caught up to Tuddy.

I prefer to remember Tuddy, not in his final days, but as that young dog, lightning fast, racing down Johnston Street on a late summer afternoon, his ears flopping in the gentle breeze, his overwhelming joy at welcoming home an ordinary guy on another ordinary day. Tuddy made us feel as if we were something special, that the three of us — my son, my wife and I — were all he ever needed in the whole wide world.