You Never Forget Your First

When I was four years old, my family and I lived on a ranch property in BC’s Rocky Mountains. I was, it should be said, a weird, cerebral kid—with no siblings to speak of (yet) I defined my days playing alone, talking to myself and wandering around the yard with a dreamy look on my face. My mother, forward-thinking woman she was, decided that I needed a companion.

It went down like this: Just like every other day, my mom picked me up after work. I jumped in the front seat of the car, babbling away about a day spent with my babysitter and oblivious to the fact that, right below my dangling, four-year-old feet, sat a cardboard box with a six-week-old mutt in it.

Oblivious, that is, until he squeaked.

Allegedly (I remember none of this), I stopped speaking mid-word and looked over at my mom, then looked down and screamed, “A puppy a puppy a puppy!” It took all my mom’s strength to keep me buckled in and away from my dog. My dog!

Rufus was a black cocker spaniel mutt, his sire’s whereabouts (and breed) a mystery. He had huge paws, which led my mother to believe he’d end up being a larger guard dog, that maybe his unknown father had been a Newfoundland or black lab. But my mom should have known better—she did, after all, give birth to a 22-inch long baby who doctors and grandmas alike predicted would be tall and graceful (I topped out at 5’3”, and I exhibit nothing akin to grace). In the end, Rufus was the same way—a short-legged, big-pawed mutt on the low end of medium sized. And guard dog he was not—he rarely barked, except for one low “Woof!” to be let in. And his disposition was set to snuggle, not protect.

Thus began one of those friendships only dogs and their people can share. For thirteen years, Rufus and I were close to inseparable. I fed, played with and chased him around, and in later years I whispered my fears, secrets and dreams into his black, matted fur (we tried to brush it, but living in the bush meant things like burrs and sticks were inevitable plants in his coat). Rufus was a constant escapee, and I’d sometimes find him sitting outside my school gate at lunch or after class. He was also picked up by the pound a few times, when he’d sneak out and try to find me or my sister (he once appeared at a friend’s birthday, and totally stole all her thunder by eating two hot dogs and a piece of cake before anyone noticed he was there).

As I grew to be a teen, Rufus became a good judge of character, too. He growled at one of my first boyfriends who turned out to be a slimeball, and instantly snuggled up to the girl who would become my life-long best friend. Still, his health declined, especially after he suffered a stroke when our neighbour’s aggressive Rottweiler attacked him. My mom put him down when I was away working at summer camp one year, after a long and painful battle with cancer. Ten years later, I love him still (of course).

And now, for the last few years, I’ve been considering getting another dog. A lot has changed: I live in the city, I’ve been known to be busy and frequently out of the house, and getting a pooch would mean relocating from my apartment. I’ve felt for awhile that it would be unfair to bring a dog into this life of mine, but some stars are aligning: I have a stable, long-term relationship (and he wants a dog, too), there’s a possibility of this mutt living in a house with a yard (depending on said relationship’s progress) and I’m home more than ever, working on writing and other projects.

So, this is the road I’m starting down, tentatively and carefully. I think about how hard it could be to have a mutt in this city, at this time in my life, but then I remember 4-year-old me putting Rufus in a red wagon and cruising down a country lane, and my heart swells. So here I go. This is a Brave New Woof.