At our wedding reception, my Dad gave a speech where he said, “Every man gets one good dog and one good woman in his life.” I think Rufus was that dog. If I am fortunate, I will never have to live without a dog by my side. But no matter how many dogs I will walk with, I think Rufus will be held up as the gold standard.
I don’t remember the exact date, but it was sometime in 2013. I heard our pack of dogs raising Cain at the front gate. A nondescript brown dog sat quietly just on the other side of the chain link. I put up our dogs and went back out. The stranger hadn’t moved from its spot. When I opened the gate, he walked in. And that was how Rufus came into our lives.
He’d had some hard knocks, including nerve damage to the left side of his face and a wrecked and useless left eye in a permanent squint. The vet figured he’d been clipped by a car or run into a pole. Other than that, he was maybe 2 years old and a reasonably healthy mutt.
No one came to claim him. My son decided to call him Rufus. He had chosen us, so we chose him back. Rufus quickly became part of the pack, adjusting to the routines of the household. Several years on, he decided the bed was a fitting place to spend the night, and ever after he would curl up beside us each evening.
We love all our dogs, but this one was special. He was loved by the whole family, and my boy’s best buddy. But I don’t think anyone could deny that he was my dog. He was my companion on moonlit rambles and afternoon strolls. He rode with me and sometimes sat under a table in my old office. I would come home to his face in the window, grinning and wagging to match the madly wagging tail I couldn’t see. It was his solemn belief that his humans should never nap alone — not on his watch!
And his appeal went beyond me and mine. His good-natured personality and his permanent wink endeared him to all. If you didn’t like Ruf, you probably didn’t like any dogs (and you were automatically suspect in my mind).
He wasn’t perfect, of course. Once or twice, he helped himself to a fresh-baked pizza off the counter. Like many dogs, he feared thunder, and even a distant storm made me pause whatever I was doing to provide a lap for the trembling mutt. And he hated to be penned up; if he could dig under it or climb over it, he would. Not that he’d wander far. I would always pull in to see him on the porch or trotting down the driveway, tail wagging in greeting. During my brief stint in an apartment, Rufus would not poop anywhere except this one pine tree behind the school next door — a half-mile walk one way. I got a little exercise every day, rain or shine.
To my recollection, I’ve only had one dog, Cooey the beagle, make it to 14 summers. Rufus may have surpassed that. But time is a bastard to us all. Ruf’s hearing faded, so that hand gestures or a tap became the only ways to signal him. Arthritis made him stiff and unsteady, so that the sure-footed pup could no longer jump onto the couch. His pleasant earthy scent turned sour with sickness. But the worst was the deterioration of his mind. I’ve never had a dog with canine cognitive dysfunction (“doggie dementia”). It was subtle at first, with a little more clinginess and occasional barking at nothing in the autumn of last year. By spring, though, he wandered away and got lost for the first time in my memory. We got a call from a neighborhood a mile away, and rushed to find him looking confused in a stranger’s yard. And it got progressively worse. Just like human dementia, Rufus would “sundown”, spending much of the night pacing, whimpering, barking at nothing, and seemingly unable to stay still. It was hell to watch, wondering what was happening behind that bewildered eye. The vet gave us medications which would sometimes give him a peaceful night, but it was hit or miss.
Last weekend, we made the hard choice. With kidney failure added to the growing list of mental and physical issues, we decided that it was time. The old boy was suffering.
Several friends, including one living two hours away, came over this week to say their goodbyes. He would wag his tail, climb (with help) onto the couch or lounge chair, and accept the scratches and strokes that were his due.
On the last day, he was coddled, got as much lap time as he wanted, and was even treated with home-made pizza — the scent of which roused him like nothing else. A kindly vet came to the house, and Rufus drifted off to sleep with comforting scents in his nose and familiar hands scratching him in his favorite spots.
There is a cartoon showing Death coming to collect a cherished pet. “It’s time to go,” the robed reaper says. The canine spirit asks, “Was I a good boy?” As they walk into the Beyond, Death replies, “No. I’m told you were the best.”
Goodbye, Rufus One-Eye
