Shooting Tuvia
It’s a dog-eat-dog world | Canned Soup
“Shooting Tuvia” is a true story. I wrote it more or less the way I heard it one summer evening, on my way to a book-signing in Haifa. The person who told me the story was Shmulik, my publisher’s distribution guy, who was giving me a ride to the event. I remember that when he finished, I said, “Wow!” and nodded, but deep inside, I felt there was something I didn’t understand. Shmulik’s story was about a father who tries to get rid of his son’s pet. It was intense and painful, and what I couldn’t grasp was this: if Shmulik’s dad really had done all those things, how could Shmulik be telling me about them now, while he drove a pickup truck and smiled playfully instead of disintegrating into tears?
A few days after that drive to Haifa, I met a German journalist who asked me to show him my favorite places in Tel Aviv. I took him to my regular café and a few other spots. By chance, everywhere I chose was right near a memorial for victims of a terrorist attack. The journalist was very taken by the fact that almost all the places I like are the sites of recent tragedies. I explained that it's not that I’m a fan of deadly violence, it’s just that pretty much anywhere you land in Tel Aviv is likely to have been the site of a terrorist attack at some point or another. Instead of putting the journalist’s mind at ease, my explanation only made him more upset. “This whole place,” he said with a grimace, “it’s all a kind of endless glob of violence and suffering and grief. I don’t understand how you can keep living here. And smiling…”
After that, I thought about Shmulik again. Ultimately, the two of us weren’t all that different: he’d grown used to his father’s questionable behavior, just as I’d acclimated to the violence and loss around me. Apparently, we both had a knack for emotional adaptability, and were good at loving and missing our past, even if it was just as wounded and bloody as that poor dog named Tuvia.
To Shmulik
I got Tuvia for my ninth birthday from Raanan Zagoori, who was probably the cheapest kid in the whole class. He lucked out, and his dog had puppies right on the day of my party. There were four of them, and his uncle was going to dump them all in the river, so Raanan, who only cared about how to not spend anything on the class gift, took one of them and gave it to me. The puppy was tiny, with a bark that sounded more like a wheeze, but if anyone got on his case, he’d give a deep, low kind of growl that didn’t sound anything like a puppy, and it was funny, like he was impersonating some other dog. Which is why I decided to name him Tuvia, after Tuvia Tsafir, the impressionist on TV.
From Day One, my dad couldn’t stand the sight of him. Tuvia didn’t care much for Dad either. The truth is, Tuvia didn’t much like anyone, except for me. Right from the beginning, even when he was just a little runt, he’d bark at everyone. And when he got a little bigger, he would snap at anyone who came too close. Even Mickey, who isn’t the kind of guy who ever talks trash about anyone, said my dog was messed up. He never snapped or did anything bad to me though. He’d just keep jumping on me and licking me, and whenever I’d move away from him he’d start whining. Mickey said it didn’t mean anything, because I was the one who fed him. But I’ve met lots of dogs who bark even at the people who feed them, and I knew that what Tuvia and I had going on between us wasn’t about food, and that he really did like me. He just did. For no reason. Go figure out a dog. But it was something strong. The fact is, my sister fed him too, but he hated her like hell.
In the morning, when I’d go to school, he’d want to come with me, but I’d make him stay behind because I was afraid he’d make a lot of noise. We had a chain-link fence around our yard. And sometimes, when I’d come home, I’d catch Tuvia barking at some poor slob who’d had the nerve to walk down our street. Tuvia would get so mad that he’d smash right into the fence. But the second he spotted me, he always melted. Right away, he’d start crawling on the ground, wagging his tail and barking about all the assholes who’d walked down our street and gotten on his nerves that day, and about how they were lucky they’d made it out of there. He’d already bitten a couple of them, but lucky for me they didn’t complain, because even without that kind of thing, my dad was watching Tuvia, just waiting for the chance to get rid of him.
Finally it came. Tuvia bit my sister, and they had to take her to the hospital for stitches. The minute they got home, Dad took Tuvia to the car. I didn’t need long to figure out what was going to happen, and I started to cry, so Mom told Dad: “Come on, Joshua, why don’t you just forget it. It’s the kid’s dog. Just look at how upset he is.” Dad didn’t say anything, just told my big brother to come with him. “I need him too,” Mom tried. “He’s a watchdog, against thieves.” And my dad stopped short just before he got into the car, and said: “What do you need a watchdog for? Did anyone ever try to steal anything in this neighborhood? What’s to steal here anyway?” They dumped Tuvia in the river, and stuck around to watch him being washed away. I know, because my big brother told me so. I didn’t talk to anyone about it though, and except for the night they took him away, I didn’t even cry.
Three days later, Tuvia turned up at school. I heard him barking under the window. He was incredibly dirty, and smelly too, but other than that he was just the same. I was proud of him for coming back. It proved that everything Mickey had said about his not really loving me wasn’t true. Because if the thing between Tuvia and me had been just about food he wouldn’t have come right back to me. It was smart of him to come straight to school, too. Because if he’d headed straight home without me, I don’t know what my dad would’ve done. As it was, as soon as we got to the house Dad wanted to get rid of him. But Mom told him that maybe Tuvia had learned his lesson, and maybe he’d behave himself now. So I hosed him down in the yard, and Dad said that from now on he’d be on a leash all the time, and that if he pulled anything again, that would be it.
The truth is, Tuvia didn’t learn a thing from what happened. He just got a little crazier. And every day, when I’d come back from school, I’d see him barking like a maniac at anyone who happened to walk by. One day, I came home and he wasn’t there, and Dad wasn’t there either. Mom said they’d come from the Border Patrol because they’d heard he was such a feisty animal that they wanted to recruit him, and that now Tuvia was a scout dog who’d track down terrorists trying to sneak across the border. I pretended to believe her. That evening, when Dad came back with the car, Mom whispered something in his ear, and he shook his head. He’d driven thirty miles this time, all the way to Gedera, before he set Tuvia loose, just to make sure he wouldn’t make it back. I know, because my big brother told me so. My brother also said it was because Tuvia had gotten loose that afternoon, and had managed to bite the dogcatcher.
Thirty miles is a long way, even by car, and on foot it’s a thousand times more, especially for a dog, whose step is like a quarter of a human’s. But three weeks later, Tuvia was back. He was there waiting for me at the school gate. He didn’t even bark when he saw me, that’s how exhausted he was, just wagged his tail without getting up. I brought him some water, and he must have lapped up about ten bowls. When Dad saw him, he couldn’t believe it. “A curse, that’s what this dog is,” he told Mom, who went to get Tuvia some bones from the kitchen. That evening I let him stay in my bed. He fell asleep before me, and all night long he just whined and growled, snapping at anyone who pissed him off in his dream.
In the end it was Grandma of all people that he had to pick on. He didn’t even bite her. Just jumped on her, and knocked her over. She got a bad bump on her head. Everyone helped her up. Me too. But then Mom sent me to the kitchen for a glass of water, and by the time I got back I saw Dad dragging Tuvia toward the car looking really mad. I didn’t even try, and neither did Mom. We knew he had it coming. And Dad asked my brother to come along again, except that this time he told him to bring his M16. My brother was only an army cook, but they issued him a gun anyway. At first, he didn’t catch on, and asked Dad what he needed a gun for. And Dad said it was to make Tuvia stop coming back.
They took him to the dump, and shot him in the head. My brother told me that Tuvia hadn’t realized what was going to happen. He’d been in a good mood, and was turned on by all the cool stuff he found at the dump. And then, bang! From the second my brother told me, I hardly thought about Tuvia at all. All those other times, I couldn’t get him out of my mind, and I’d keep trying to imagine where he was and what he was doing. But this time there was nothing to imagine anymore, so I tried to think about him as little as possible.
Six months later he came back. He was waiting for me in the school yard. There was something wrong with one of his legs, his left eye was closed, and his jaw looked completely paralyzed. But as soon as he saw me, he seemed really happy, like nothing had ever happened. When I got him home, Dad wasn’t back from work yet, and Mom wasn’t there either, but even when they showed up they didn’t say a thing. And that was it. Tuvia stayed from then on. Twelve more years. Eventually he died of old age. And he never bit anyone again. Every now and then, when someone would pass by our fence on a bike, or just make some noise, you could still see him getting worked up, but somehow, just when he was about to lunge, he always ran out of steam.
Now I want the story where pesachzon keeps coming back from the field and the dad doesn't make the kid smash him anymore.
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