My First Dog Tuci: A Childhood Memory of Love, Regret, and Hope

When I was a kid, my neighbor had a dog that had a bunch of puppies. They were offering the pups to people because they couldn’t keep them. I asked my mom and dad if they were okay with me getting one of the pups, and they said they were somewhat okay with it. I don’t think any of us realized how quickly this would happen, not even me.

So, I told my neighbor that my parents were seemingly okay with it, and the next day, this guy just dropped a dog off at my doorstep. We didn’t know the first thing about training a dog. I think we all just assumed they knew what to do. Boy, were we ever wrong!

Meet my first dog, Tuci.

Before Peppa, Calbee, or Baby, there was my first real doggy. We only had her for a few months and her name was Tuci. My dad and I used to record audio programs, and one of his characters, Don Ramon, had a dog named “Tuco.” Since this was a girl, I named her Tuci. You pronounce it to-key.

In hindsight, I think we did everything wrong with her. Look at this picture above, her tail is tucked between her legs, so clearly she was a fearful dog. Realizing this now makes me so very sad. I wish I knew then what I know now—I would have been a much better dog parent.

Anyway, my folks made me give her up because none of us knew how to care for or raise a dog. We had her chained to a door when we couldn’t watch her. This wasn’t quite crating, but by not giving her the whole house right away, we were sort of on the right track, though not quite. Anyway, she peed, pooped, and did all her business there. We didn’t know about weewee pads or anything like that.

When I took her outside, she would cower in fear and not walk at all. But again, we didn’t know what we were doing, we didn’t know her history, and she was kind of big to be a puppy. When I think back to her, it makes my heart ache so much because I feel like I failed her. But I was a kid, ill-prepared, and not a good dog parent, and no one in my house knew any better than me when it came to dogs. We were not ready. I’m so sorry, Tuci.

Until the day my father died, he always said he gave her to somebody. I seriously asked him as he took his last breaths, and still, he said, “I gave her to this old woman.” I never believed him, but I couldn’t get him to admit anything else. I mean, he literally took it to the grave.

My father was a proud, stubborn man. I think if he lied, even if he was caught, he’d never fess up. He was very proud and wanted to save face until the end. But maybe he did give her away. Still, my gut says he didn’t, and the thought of what became of this dog makes my soul ache deeply. I know she’s long gone, but it’s an unresolved matter for me. My mom said he told her the same thing: “I gave her to an old woman.” You know, I’m probably going to die not knowing what really became of my dog.

Tuci, I’m so sorry that I failed you. I pray and hope you had a good life wherever you ended up.