Rufus

Struggling through a week of sickness does horrors to one's writing ability. After finally delivering the knock-out punch to a cold that had me pressed into a corner for far too long, I continue to deal with fatigue. It didn't help that this week was the first time I worked for more than two days in a row for over a month. The mornings were as cold as a frozen water spicket. I didn't warm up until lunchtime. My energy level was dismal--after about two hours of work, my weary joints screamed at me to take them home.

I'm posting this with chagrin. The date of my last post, January 13th, is staring at me with bloodshot eyes. If I cover the date with left hand, however, I can continue to type with my right hand without distraction. This may take a while.

Rufus announced our coming before we arrived. Driving up the rural road to the house, we heard his barking. His voice was deep, rumbling, and full of canine menace. As we pulled into the driveway, Rufus circled our van like a shark circling a raft of shipwreck victims--the house was our land, and we knew we had to leave the vessel and cross the surf of driveway gravel to get to safety. We stepped out of the van and braced for confrontation. Rufus stood his ground, arching his back and bellowing warning to the sky.

"Shut up, Rufus."

Aaron saved us. He was working on the remodel too, and having been there for several days, he already knew that Rufus was a coward.

"Rufus, shut your mouth."

Rufus hung his head and ran behind the house.

"He's not going to bite you," Aaron said.

We nodded in agreement. We could see that Rufus had given up for the moment.

As we began working on the house, Rufus eyed us from the outskirts of the building. Poking his head in random doors and windows, he'd make angry faces and put on a show of bristling his back hair. His back hair was abundant. I'm not sure what breed Rufus is, but as near as I can guess, he is half Labrador and half buffalo. Bison fur has a strange way of matting in dirty, brown clumps that gradually fall off buffalo hides. Rufus had this same kind of hair--it tangled in wiry patches that sagged away from his skin. Elsewhere, his coat was long and shiny. On his scruff the hair stood spiked and thick like a wolf's.

Rufus didn't trust me. Eventually he summoned the courage to pace the open half of the house and inspect us as we worked. He never stood still. Rufus was always in motion--he'd walk past me as if on a definite mission, but I'd catch his sidelong looks as he passed. I could tell he was sizing me up, trying to determine if I was really friend or foe. Once or twice I reached for a tool from my belt just as Rufus walked by. He jumped to one side, and stared at me wild-eyed. It was as if I were a gunslinger from the old west who had just reached for my six-shooter. Then Rufus would calm down and continue walking, but still keeping one eye on me as he did.

After we had been working for several hours and had grown accustomed to Rufus's nervous pacing, I noticed he was carrying something in his mouth. It was a small rubber tire, taken from a toy truck or a hand cart. Rufus repeatedly walked by me with the tire in his mouth, slowed his pace as he passed and looked askance at me, and continued stalking the house. Eventually it occurred to me that the tire was Rufus's toy. As he passed by me again, I reached out and took the tire from Rufus's mouth. He turned his head away as I did this, putting up a weak show of resistance. As soon as I brandished the tire in the air, Rufus changed. The hulking buffalo-dog became a puppy. He spread his legs, stretched his back with his head to the ground, wagged his tail like a high-speed windshield wiper, and perked up his ears to triple their normal height. I threw the tire, and away Rufus ran, but he didn't do what I expected next. He didn't bring back the tire and beg me to throw it again. He resumed pacing the house, tire in mouth, and looked at me suspiciously.

A little later, Rufus approached me without his tire. He put his head next to my knee. I reached out my hand and he didn't flinch. I patted him. He seemed to like it because he pressed his ear against my knee a little harder. I scratched behind his ears and smoothed the jagged hair of his nape. Eventually I stopped and resumed my work. Rufus looked up at me, and a hurt expression spread his face.

"Sorry, Rufus. I need to work now."

Rufus turned away and seemed to sigh. I watched him leave, and then looked down at my work. When I looked up again, I saw Rufus walking out of my house carrying my water bottle in his mouth.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Put that back!"

I sprang after Rufus, but he was too quick. He turned around as I sprang, saw me coming, and ran away just as my hand was closing around the bottle. Rufus ran to the far side of the house, sat down, and began munching on the cap that firmly shut the water bottle. I gave up chasing him and resumed my work. When I looked up after a few minutes, I saw that Rufus had succeeded in removing the cap from the bottle, had taken the mouth of the bottle into his teeth, and was attempting to drink my water. I stared incredulously as a dog proceeded to guzzle my Aquafina. Rufus was interrupted by Aaron, who saw the dog and took the water away from him.

"Is this yours?" Aaron asked after coming inside the house and holding up my water bottle.

"Yes," I said. "But I don't want it now."

"Watch out for Rufus," Aaron said. "He'll steal any kind of drink he can. His favorite is coffee."

Rufus had entered the house behind Aaron. He looked from Aaron to me.

"You're a bad dog, Rufus," said Aaron.

Rufus hung his head and shuffled over to me. He put his head against me knee.

"No," I said. "You stole my water. You're not my friend anymore."

Rufus walked away without looking at me.

I later found out that Rufus stole more than just drinks. The following morning my father and I returned to the house to continue our work. Rufus didn't bark at when we arrived--or at least, not as much. He seemed inured to our presence and contented himself with barking at the other subcontractors who arrived at the job. Rufus approached me with his tire more than once, and deciding that I ought to forgive him, I threw it for him several times. Eventually, Rufus persuaded me to pet him. This was the real test of my forgiveness. Would I pat him on the head again, he asked as he looked up at me with hopeful eyes. I gave in. Again I patted him, scratched his ears, and smoothed his scruff. Again I was forced to tell him that I was done petting him, again he looked at me with pain, and again, as he walked away, he robbed me.

"Hey," said my father, "isn't that your hat?"

Rufus had swiped my winter hat off of nearby box as he walked away.

"Stop!" my father shouted, lunging after Rufus. "Put that back!"

Either my father was faster than I, or Rufus was more intimidated. He froze in his tracks, and my father retrieved my hat. This time, Rufus didn't bother apologizing. He just kept walking towards the door and went outside.

But eventually, he was back, asking for forgiveness. I was foolish enough to grant it.

"Put that down! Stop!"

This time it was my gloves that Rufus had taken. We'd gone through the whole routine again, and my father had caught him red-pawed. Rufus dropped the glove from his mouth in disgust. I caught his eye as he stomped outside. His face quivered with guilt.

I decided that I couldn't take any more chances. I put everything that Rufus could take into the van and shut the door. Rufus returned to my side asking for affection, and I gave it to him. He seemed to look around and be disappointed when he realized that I had nothing left to steal. Even if I had, and even if he did, I'm pretty sure I would have forgiven him again. Something about this whole ordeal is very familiar. The predictibility of Rufus's behavior initially struck me as funny, but then I started to think about myself. How many times have I been guilty of the same stupid, selfish actions? And every time, I end up going to somebody and saying I'm sorry. It's embarrassing, but if I didn't, I'd be all alone. And where would I be without someone to forgive me?