The fifth member of our family was tan and black and called Rufus. He had curly, woolly hair, limpid brown eyes and would wipe his cold, wet nose on you whenever he could, especially if you were wearing white pants. (Thank goodness I never did – everyone knows they make a big bum look bigger)
Rufus was a square-muzzled Airedale Terrier. They are a love em or hate em breed. We loved him and thought he looked like a giant teddy bear.
When he was a puppy he was a ball of brown fur with tan eyebrows who could fit in one of dad’s boots, walk under the cat and was scared of the ironing board and aerosol cans. When he got a bit bigger dad would put him in the back of the ute and take him to work. It took Rufy a few goes to realise that jumping out of a ute, whilst moving and still tied to it was a bad idea. Dad was often see he wasn’t in the back and stop to find him dangling over the side of the car. He was a good dog, mostly, though he did try and pee on old ladies at the beach.
For his grown up life, Rufus lived in Kelmscott. By this time the cat could walk under him, tail up, with clearance to spare. It was a house on a ¾ acre block that backed onto a trickle of the Canning river. There was a big garden and a pool. Rufy didn’t like the clean pool. He liked the muddy, slimy stinky river. He and dad would often go walking on what we called ‘the island’ at the bottom of the garden, crossing onto it over a rickety wooden plank. Dad fell off it more than once, with only a grinning dog as witness.
While Rufus didn’t like the pool he’d have fun chasing us around it, nipping our ankles, sometimes accidentally biting his own tongue in his frenzy. He’d get cocky after a while, cutting across corners of the pool, often falling in. We were broken into three times and we never came home to the bloody remains of a burglar but if me or sis screamed while playing in the pool, whoever caused the squeal would often get a nip and a growl.
For fun we would chase Rufus around the kitchen. The kitchen and lounge were divided floor to ceiling by a pantry and fridge recess on one side. We’d work him into a frenzy, clapping loudly, chasing him, scuffing our feet on the tiles and yelling ‘cheese!’ – his favourite food. He knew the game – would bark and carry on and if we stopped chasing he knew to turn around and chase us. That’s when we’d quickly duck into the pantry quietly calling ‘Ruuuufuuuus’ and hear him snuffling around the door, confused.
Sis taught him how to sit, speak, paw, lie down and up. The problem was he got too smart for us and when you said ‘sit’ – he’d do all 5 in a row without being asked. Sis would brush him and also trim his eyebrows when they blocked his view. Good thing he wasn’t a show Airedale (besides only having the one testicle). When he’d get his proper Airedale haircut he’d have woolly paws, a moustache, goatee, little eyebrows, a curly head and shorn body, and he’d smell like doggy-aftershave.
Dad’s favourite game was the ‘dog let in’. As teenagers are wont to do, sis and I would sleep a lot. When dad thought we’d had enough sleep (I think it was a bit of jealousy, he himself getting up at 5am everyday) he’d give us a dog let in, which meant he’d open the door with a ‘get ‘em!’ and Rufus would be in there like a shot, and if you weren’t quick with the doona you’d get a wet moosh on any exposed flesh. Having bunk beds we thought we’d get past the dog let in by sleeping on the top bunk. Until dad would come in, physically pick up this 30kg dog and put him on the top bunk. Of which he couldn’t get down. So unless we wanted to sleep with him, we’d have to get up and let him down.
Rufy’s favourite spot was in the kitchen next to the laundry door, he’d lick the floor when it was hot and at night he’d howl in his sleep, sounding like he was being tortured in doggy hell (probably not allowed to lick his parts or sniff other dogs’ bums) scaring the sleeping family to death. Anyone who set foot on our land was his friend and he’d jump in your car muddy paws and all if you weren’t quick. Once a visiting dog, a quarter of his size, gave him a good biffing because Rufus just wanted to play, play, play.
He ran like a rocking horse, loved carrot, ate tissues out of the bin and if you were home alone he’d follow you around like a shadow. If you were asleep and alone he would check up on you – you could hear his nails click-clacking down the tiled hall, paws padding on the carpet, nose snuffling whatever part might be sticking out of the doona and when he realised you were okay, he’d leave, with one last glance back at you at the door. If the door was closed he’d give a huff, whine and walk away.
One day our Rufy got old. His fur got a bit grey, he couldn’t get up stairs without a helping hand under his bum. He was even stinkier than usual and wouldn’t notice if you dangled a bit of bacon over his head. He’d only give a cursory lift of his head if someone came in the door. Our vet would give him shots for his arthritis and for a few weeks he’s be all ‘See? I’m young and vital – look at me whip these stairs now!’ But one day he stopped by the pool for a drink and couldn’t get back up. Dad feared that it couldn’t happen on a really hot day, and knew it was time.
He called me up. I remember being dressed in my Kmart uniform. He spoke in his slow, gentle voice, with the slight North-East English accent.
‘It’s dad here. Um, Rufus isn’t doing too well. The vet gave us the injection….if you want to come over to say goodbye, can you tell sis?’ and he hung up suddenly. It took me a couple of misty seconds to realise that he was on the verge of tears. Never in my twenty-four years had my father even given a hint of crying and it tore at my heart.
When we got to mum and dad’s that afternoon, it had been done.
‘Where is he?’ asked sis.
‘We did it at a couple of hours ago.’
‘Oh!’ she said, stricken ‘I thought you meant say goodbye, while….while he was still alive!’ I had thought so too. But I suppose it was less traumatic that way.
We buried him on the island, his favourite place of smells and possums, muddy water and walkies. To this day when I walk in the house I expect to see him waiting at the laundry door, slobber marks on the glass, waiting to be let in.
My Beloved and I are waiting for our pre-named Airedale puppy (the ‘granddog’) to be born. I hope that even with all his dopey, slobbery stinkiness, there is some Rufus in Theo.
