Rufie

Similarly, when I brushed Lucy, the other dog in our family, Rufie would push himself between Lucy and me, demanding all the attention until he got at least some of it. He might have even loved the brushings more than the tummy rubs. If I was holding the brush, he would nudge my hand to the top of his head until I got the message. He was just one of those dogs that needed extra everything, but especially pampering and attention, and Lucy never seemed to mind all that much. She loved Rufie, too.

I also loved Rufie’s adventurous spirit and willpower. I’ll never forget how, on one of our winter walks, we came across a pile of snow that had been collected by a snowplow. Rufie tried time and again to climb to the top of the pile, and although he kept sliding back down, I wasn’t about to stand in his way. After several failed attempts, he finally reached the peak of the snow pile, where he ceremoniously relieved himself. This was my little friend’s Everest ascent.

In July during a thunderstorm, I was in the bedroom when I heard an awful scream. It sounded like a frightened child outdoors wailing away. I walked into the living room, and there was Rufie on the floor having a seizure. Minutes later, the seizure passed, and he was behaving normally again. I found out later from the veterinarians that he had probably been suffering seizures for a while. They had begun very mildly and weren’t recognizable, so I hadn’t noticed any change in his behavior.

Eventually, it became apparent that Rufie was getting weaker while his seizures were getting stronger and more frequent. On one walk, a seizure knocked him off his feet. He couldn’t stand. He seemed aware of what was happening, but he couldn’t move. All I could do was sit on the grass next to him and try to comfort him until the seizure passed. He looked terrified. Because of his broad chest plus his weight in combination with my bad shoulder, I wasn’t able to pick him up. I called my neighbor Frank to come and carry Rufie home. Still, despite his illness, Rufie seemed to recover some of his confidence and energy. As always, he was showing real character. Since he had another vet appointment coming up in a few days, I figured the situation would be manageable until then.

The following day, I walked into the bedroom looking for Rufie and found him in a strange position halfway under my bed. He was panting rapidly. I pulled him out from under the bed and sat on the floor next to him. I held him and stroked him gently, telling him how much I loved him. After a few minutes, he looked up at me, licked my face, and then took his last breath. Frank tried to help by giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but my Rufie was gone.

Rufie lived to be eight years old. I had him cremated, and I now have his ashes at home. He left a big hole in my heart that someday will heal. Lucy has finally resumed eating and has quit looking for him. I’m a little surprised by how much grief Rufie’s passing has caused me. I’m equally surprised that some people around me think I’m overreacting. After all, he was “just a dog,” a few people have actually told me. In fact, because of the special relationship many people have with their dogs, the grief one feels for the loss of a dog can be more intense than for the death of a family member. I notice Rufie’s absence every time I open my front door and he’s not there to greet me. Eventually, I’ll come to terms with this emptiness, but until then, I still have Lucy to care for, and I try to return all the love she gives me. Rufie will always have a place in our hearts, but we still have each other.