For the Love of MUTT
March 23, 2006
Four years ago, our only daughter was brought into this world by a purebred Keltie, and the sperm donor was a mutt black lab/german shepard/husky named Rocco.
Originally, we were just “going to look at a dog,” (read: I tricked Daren into seeing the litter because I desperately wanted a dog and I knew he would say no forever unless he met her himself, thereby falling in Love with a captial L.) We loaded her into our car within the hour, carting her off to a Pet Shop to buy her paraphernalia and calling friends for recommendations for a good vet.
Ruffy’s original name was Bear, and she was the biggest of the litter, with her Bear paws and german shepard ears bigger than her head flipping around like alien antennae. She charmed us instantly by nipping at then 3 year old Dylan’s shoes and Daren’s hands. I could see Daren falling in love with this other woman. We let Dylan name her and he choose Ruffy, because “dogs go Ruff.” Fair enough, kiddo! Doodle evolved as her middle name just because I kept calling her that, and I’ve had passersby do a double take when I call her sternly to stop rolling in dirt or taking off like freaking Lassie. Ruffy, your missions, they are all here at home, baby.
She is a placid, sweet young lady. I use those words carefully since she does this crotch licking number that would make any male dog blush. Her tongue is so long she could wrap it around her head. Thrice.
She is slightly neurotic, like most women, and needs constant reassurance that we love her unconditionally. We must. She took nearly 2 years to housebreak and still has accidents from time to time. She used to pee every time Daren got home from work, simply out of pure joy of his presence. I ripped up carpet while pregnant, and we spent hundreds of dollars redoing the underlying hardwood because of her. Oh the joy!
She has an innate ability to frustrate the shit outta me by lying in front of the stove while I cook dinner, stand in front of the highchair as I try to clean up Troll Baby, and walk back and forth in the yard no less than 64 times before deciding where to drop her butt and pee. She has this look she gives us if we show any affection, a look that says “it’s never going to be enough,” or “stop abusing me and give in to my desire for cheese.” Our cutlery drawer is enormous, packed to the brim with every cultery-ish type device known to man, and yet, she knows precisely when I’m pulling out the cheese grater. She also knows cheese packaging sounds within seconds of me opening the fridge.
Ruffy is also fiercely protective of the kids and I. The poor Gas Company Meter Reader Dude shakes in his boots every month as all that stands between him and her is a measly pane of patio door glass. She barks with such urgency and boldness, I wonder if she doesn’t have a split personality. For this, I am grateful, and I feel safe in her presence. It just blows when GCMRD shows up during Troll Baby’s very delicate, nobody breathe, rustle a paper, or blink, afternoon nap.
It saddens me that dogs don’t live nearly long enough. I know that when my boys are a few years older, Ruffy will pass and it will break their hearts. Silly of me to think of that now I guess, but the first four years have flown by so quickly, and I can see less puppy and more dog with each passing month, and I know the next four years will slip between my fingers just as fast.
So Happy Birthday Ruffy. I love you enough to walk in hail, rain, snow and sleet. I love you enough to grate a few bits of cheese but no more, because God knows, that 64 back and forths to poop need not get any higher. To the only daughter I’ll ever have, my Ruffy Doodle, my Furry Wonderkin, my Lovely Lady, this day is for you.
Last photo: credit to Dylan at Didgery Doo.
