The Sunday Memory Drawer - How We Got Tuffy

You've seen this picture of my beagle Tuffy before. Sadly, it's the only photo of her, so it will turn up everytime I do a piece about my childhood pet. The good news is that this is also the only known snapshot of our kitchen sink and stove. Trust me, that's welcome news for all.
Picking up on the birthday thread from last week, Tuffy was the present I got for my eighth birthday. After about a year of family deliberation, it was finally decided that a dog could be added to our household. Trust me, the discussion prior to her arrival made the Yalta Peace Talks during World War II look like an episode of the "Rachael Ray Show."
You see, Tuffy wasn't supposed to be Tuffy. Lucy, I'll 'splain.
The dog acquisition dialogue had begun the summer prior. Usually precipitated by my annoying question. When can I have a dog?
"Ask your father."
Dad?
"Ask your mother."
Mom?
"Ask your father."
Round and round and round it went.
Other voting precincts checked in. The grandparents downstairs. First, Grandpa.
"What do you want a dog for?"
"Grandma?
"I'm not going to clean up all that poop."
Got it. So, you can see how hard it was to get them all on the same page. Once it was confirmed that, yes, a pooch would be coming at some point, we needed to decide just what breed to get. Now, I had cousins who owned a collie. Forget the cute Lassie connection embedded there. A boy and his dog. My cousin's collie was a virtual horse that may or may not have run some races as a trotter at Yonkers Raceway. There was really no need and/or desire to have a dog like Lassie in our midst. First of all, I rarely fell into a well. And Grandma had already essayed a keen observation on my cousin's pet.
"That dog makes a lot of poop."
Other relatives had a cocker spaniel and my mother had a desire to duplicate that. As for me, I was less than interested. The cocker spaniel didn't look like a "guy's dog." Maybe a guy living in West Hollywood. I imagined proudly walking my best friend up and down the block. I couldn't see doing that with a cocker spaniel. To me, this breed was the perfect target for a firecracker up the ass. Sadly, we actually had kids in our neighborhood who specialized in just that kind of flagrant activity.
Ultimately, we settled on what we wanted for a dog. One of those miniature Schnauzers. With the slight German connection, we thought this would make it an easier sell for Grandma.
"They still poop."
Okay, got it.
For the next several months, we immersed ourselves in all things Schnauzer. We even went to the local pet store and bought a book devoted to the care and wellness of a Schnauzer. Even the names we started to debate all took on that general German flavor as well. Potentially, our dog could be named after a food.
"Sauerbraten."
"Schnitzel."
"Rheingold." That was Grandpa's suggestion.
Or an actual German person.
"Hans."
"Helga."
"Johann."
At various points, we referred to our still-coming dog with every possible German word or name in the Berlitz book, except perhaps for "Adolf."
As my birthday approached, I'd ask the same question every day.
"When is Schnitzel coming?"
Soon, I would hear back. But, as we got closer and closer to my special day, the answers started to change. And sounded more and more ominous.
"Ask your father."
Uh oh. I smelled another argument brewing. Apparently, Dad had been entrusted with the shopping and acquisition of said animal. And was probably late coming through with the goods.
My birthday came and went. No dog.
"Where's Rheingold?"
The previously terse responses had morphed into sneers and grunts.
Uh oh.
I came home from school the day after my birthday. As I bounded up the stairs to our part of the house, I heard the sound of a chain being dragged against the kitchen floor. Was this at last Johann? Or had we purchased a slave?
I ran down the hall into the kitchen and was greeted by my parents. And my new dog.
It was not a Schnauzer. It didn't look like Schnitzel or Hans or Sauerbraten. After months of studying books about Schnauzers, I was floored as I stared at the little dog on the floor.
"What's that???"
Mom sneered.
"That's a beagle."
Oh.
What had happened was that my dad had gotten a deal. In his part time job delivering oil for his cousin, my father had a pet store as a client. The guy had all these beagles in the window and Dad cut a bargain. For a full breed beagle, my father had negotiated the price of 25 bucks for the dog. Hey, he had secured the animal. He had done his part. And, after all...
"We're not made of money."
Oh.
Mom and I had to regroup quickly. All the names we had on our list no longer fit. For about a week, our beagle was simply referred to as "the dog." And no one name seemed to work. How we arrived at the ultimate choice? I have no idea. Our new arrival just sort of emerged into "Tuffy."
And, despite my disappointment those first days, Tuffy and I became inseparable. It was truly a boy and his dog. We operated as one entity.
Until...
To be continued.
Dinner last night: Sausage cacciatore at Miceli's.