MANY are familiar with the 1870s proverb: “Dogs are man’s best friend”. Although it would be a cliché thing to say, I’ll still say it: my dog was my ‘best friend’, and so much more.

He was the gem in my family, my father’s right hand, my mother’s everyday companion, and my brothers’ playmate. And for me, he was that annoying little terrier whom I couldn’t resist loving.

The first time I met ‘Tuffy’ – as I named him – or saw him for that matter, was when Emma, his mother, who was on her second litter, was giving birth to eleven jet-black puppies on a shabby bookshelf in my bathroom while I watched.

They were all beautiful creatures, but ‘Tuffy’ would’ve won the award for being an ideal “chip off the old block”, for he was identical to his father, ‘Toby’, except that he was graced with jet-black hair and a distinct beauty, compliments of his mother ‘Emma’.

As I watched him grow — and do note, dogs grow really quickly — Tuffy soon became the ringleader of the litter, accompanied by his brother ‘Tequila’, who was big in size but reticent when it comes to defending himself from the other little devils. It was always Tuffy who would stand up for his rights, especially when it came to food.
And that’s how I ended up naming him ‘Tuffy’, because he was a tough little warrior, my favourite little warrior, to be exact.

As the days went by and the puppies grew, some were sold while others were given as gifts to close relatives and friends; but I kept Tuffy. How could I part with the little pup who had taken control of my heart right from the beginning?

I remember I would often pretend to discipline him so that I could witness his pretentious anger. One could not simply cuddle him, for he had severe temper issues and disliked being handled roughly.

My mother loved his physical features and personality, and my father loved his wit. Tuffy would often spend his days in the kitchen staring at my mother while she cooked, hoping that she would throw a piece of chicken at him. And of course she spoiled him! It was inevitable.

I remember how much he loved the water, so rain was like Christmas to him. He would often run from one end of the yard to the other, soaked in the rain. He had this weird thing about finding his way up the patio zinc to sit and bark at passing vehicles in the hot sun. Most times he and our neighbours would have a one-on-one conversation after he had shamelessly barked at them for no reason at all.

My father would look forward to his big brown eyes glaring at him when he would open the doors in the mornings. He liked the idea of walking around the yard as my father went about his morning chores.

Then one time he ran behind my father’s car when he drove off to purchase dog food. It was such a funny sight, since my father had no choice other than to stop the car and let him in. What was even funnier was that he hopped on the passenger’s seat, all eyes on the road, ready for take-off. And it so happened that my father was thereafter obliged to take him with him whenever he had to purchase dog food. He would even hop on the steering wheel, so that his body weight would lean against the horn to signal my father that he was tired of waiting. And that is why he was known to be my father’s right hand.

But Tuffy had his flaws. He liked being on the road just like his father, Toby. Toby was a tad wittier than Tuffy. We call him the ‘professor’ at home. He normally sits in strict ease with his head lifted high, looking as though he is teaching a bunch of invisibles.

Toby has “road sense”, and is smart enough to know that when a car is approaching, he should buckle in a safe corner. Sometimes cars would have to stop and wait on him to cross the street when they notice him. He feels he is that important; and no doubt he is.

Tuffy, on the other hand, was not that road smart. He would often run on the road once he was not properly monitored, making us catch a “fit” screaming at him to come back inside, or running to fetch him back inside.

It was around the second week in June 2015 that I woke up to my mother’s urgent call. I hurried down the stairs half asleep to hear that the great warrior who was just one year old had been crushed by a passing vehicle earlier that morning. He was picked up by my father and placed in the yard with his eyes nearly popping his smashed head.
I stood far from his carcass because I knew that if I had seen it I would’ve gotten into a rage and would have ventured out to find the person who had done this cruel deed to the jewel of our home.
His mother Emma went to see him and figured he was dead, so she walked towards me and stood there handling the situation calm as ever, assuming she was giving me some moral support. His little sister Teddy ran towards him, scratching him with her little paw, hoping that he would get up. But he didn’t.

My father cried for weeks. My mother was distraught, while my brothers mourned their loss of someone who had known the rules of cricket and basketball more than they did. My father thereafter developed a habit of feeding the strays around our area, and he has even built a shelter for them.

Dogs are like jewels in my household. They have become such a part of our everyday lives that we would even celebrate their birthdays by giving them the two things they need most: lots of food and affection.

After the loss of Tuffy, my family and I came to realise the influence these dogs have on us. We have become so attached to them that we are clinging to them so that another does not end up like Tuffy. He will forever be remembered as the lost gem in my family.

Many dogs are being smashed by vehicles on the road every day. Most are strays which had lived suffering lives. There are many of you who have a pet that you cherish and can relate to the above; and, as such, it is up to us to help these innocent animals and the Guyana Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (GSPCA) in their fight to end animal cruelty and in the capturing of strays and lost animals that are often hit by careless drivers.

 
By Shivanie Sugrim