Mike Maddock Back in 1994, I had absolutely no use for cocker spaniels. Each and every one I came in contact with snapped or growled at me like I was some kind of masked intruder. I didn’t know if cocker spaniels were instinctively surly or the victim of over breeding, but I did know I didn’t want one around me. But 11 years ago, my future wife insisted on getting one.

She had grown up with cocker spaniels and blamed my disdain for the breed on ignorance. Well, ignorance or not, I would have preferred a snooty cat to a nasty dog with a stubby tail and a Napoleon complex.

But as is the case with most things, my wife got her way, and as is also the case with just about everything, my wife was right.

We bought our little cocker spaniel from a breeder who lived near a prison off a highway in Utah and named him Tillman after Tillman Hall in Clemson. The fact he was born near a prison could have been a bad omen, but it wasn’t.

We could hold him in the palm of our hand. He was the runt of the litter and had already been purchased and returned to the breeder by another family. The alarms that should have been going off in our heads were silenced by his sad brown eyes, curly ears, and fat little tummy.

He rolled into my wife’s arms and essentially stayed there for 11 years.

This past Sunday, he died in my wife’s arms. Despite the best efforts of our veterinarian and the prayers of my family, Tillman stopped eating a couple of weeks ago. There was no definitive diagnosis. He may have had cancer or liver failure or some other disease, but there was simply nothing we could do to save him. He died as he had spent most of his life; peaceful, patient, and as always, loving.

For 11 years, he was always there to cheer us up, snuggle up against us, or just keep us company when no one else would. He could run alongside a mountain bike on just about any trail, but he preferred to just curl up in bed around my wife’s head on cold winter nights. He loved everyone but especially loved being an integral part of my family’s life.

Tillman was a patient dog. He had to be. As our family grew, he accepted each and every one of our children, no matter how much they pulled on his ears or jumped on his back.

Even as arthritis attacked his hind legs and the sickness grew inside him, Tillman would wait for my wife or me to rescue him from the clutches of our rambunctious two– year–old son, or he would simply walk away.

He never growled and rarely even barked. He loved us no matter how much neglect he endured due to the demands of family life. He gave up his spot in our bed and accepted his role on the floor with a doggy smile and several wags of his stubby tail.

We’ll miss our little cocker spaniel. He was more than a dog; he was one of our children. His suffering is over, and we know he’s in a better place, but that doesn’t make us miss him any less.

My wife could have been wrong about cocker spaniels, but she wasn’t wrong about this dog. His love was unconditional and his life was a blessing to us.

Rest in peace little (and slightly odoriferous) puppy dog. We love you, Tillman.