It was back in February of this year, February 19th to be exact, only a couple of weeks after Tim and I had begun our volunteerism at the Irving Animal Shelter. I (Sophie) had wandered to the back kennels where the small dogs and puppies are kept, and noticed this adorable little fluff ball curled up all sad and lonely in his kennel. Naturally I had to take him out for a cuddle, and L____, one of the staff who helps run the place, told me "That little guy needs to be fostered," and gave me a meaningful look. The puppy, whose kennel card read "Rufus," snuggled up and sighed against my shoulder.
Now, up to this point, I hadn't owned a dog before, save for a dog that my family owned (but I never really did much with) when I was a kid. I have always been rather cat-obsessed. Insanely cat-obsessed, to be honest. But I thought, Well, he's cute and he's so quiet and cuddly. It'll be fun! Tim and I had a brief conversation that consisted mostly of, "Well, I'm game if you are," and that evening we took our new foster puppy home.
He was only about five weeks at the most and as the reality of this tiny, helpless, noisy and poopy creature sank in, I began to freak out a little bit, like any new parent. We put him in a laundry basket with a heating pad, blankets and a soft toy or two and kept him next to the bed. He slept fitfully and I kept reaching down to soothe him. By the second night, he was sleeping between us. Yeah, we're suckers.
We also read online that we were supposed to be crate-training him, so we went and bought a wee little kennel. It was soft-sided and made for a great dog-carrying satchel. He still slept in the bed, though. We also began what was to become a four-month long saga of housebreaking. Again, the kennel was abandoned although we did get a kiddie yard-fence thing and set it up in the kitchen so that at least he was penned over the tile floor. It wasn't long before he could jump the pen side and so every homecoming was a game of "find the pee spot."
Rufus got the idea of going outside but he didn't seem to understand that we weren't telepathic. He would go to the back door and wait for us to notice him there. When we didn't, he just did his business right there. Needless to say, I got very good at keeping an ear out for the sound of him wandering around by the back door. (Getting a doggie door solved that problem in a day, but we didn't get that installed until May.)
But back to the early days: we were just fostering him, you know? A couple of weeks after we started taking care of him, I took up up to the shelter to let him play around with some of the other puppies. A lady and her husband were up there, having had to return a dog because their other dog, a female somethingorother, was too aggressive toward it. But the lady fell in love with Rufus and wanted to see if her dog would accept a male dog instead of a female. A few days later I brought Rufus over and we let our leashed dogs meet on the grass. Her dog sniffed him, he turned to play with her and she attacked him. I was so horrified I couldn't move for a minute. Luckily, she didn't hurt him and puppies are made of rubber, so he was fine, if frightened. Obviously that definitely didn't work out.
Our next attempt was with one of my co-workers and her boyfriend. They took him for a night and by 6 am the next morning, I had a message on my phone from a very tired sounding co-worker saying they just weren't ready for a puppy.
The third attempt was with my manager who absolutely fell in love with Rufus. She took him home for a couple of nights but her old cat was NOT having any of it and was actively menacing the dog. We took him back and then she gave it another try, thinking maybe she didn't give the pets long enough to call a truce, but again, no dice. She was really sad to have to give him back and I still bring him up to visit her at work when I can.
At this point, about 2 months had elapsed. We had neither crate-trained nor potty-trained our puppy, spoiled him by letting him sleep with us, and taught him some tricks. I told Tim, "Well, we've pretty much ruined him. I guess he's our dog now, huh?" Truth is, we loved the little punk, exasperating as he could be. Even our four cats had come to accept him, begrudgingly. I took him up to the shelter, had him microchipped and registered, and formally adopted him on April 6th.
One thing we did early on was try to rename him. We thought "Rufus" was a pretty goofy name so we called him "Mischka" for about a week. Tim pointed out that since his papers and his profile online said "Rufus," we should keep calling him that, so we did. Now he knows that as his name and frankly, its grown on us. Rufus the Doofus became Roofer, which has become Wooferpuppy. His formal name is Rufus P. Cornchiphead (or Cornchip Ears, owing to the shape of his ears in his puppyhood.) He was being an adorable brat one day, and I laughed at him and said "I love your stupid little cornchip ears," and that made Tim laugh and the nickname stuck.
The photo at the top of this entry is misleading. That was done in April. He's much bigger now and his stupid little ears are halfway standing up like chicken wings. Rufus P. ChickenHead just sounds rude, though, so we'll stick with the cornchips.
Now, up to this point, I hadn't owned a dog before, save for a dog that my family owned (but I never really did much with) when I was a kid. I have always been rather cat-obsessed. Insanely cat-obsessed, to be honest. But I thought, Well, he's cute and he's so quiet and cuddly. It'll be fun! Tim and I had a brief conversation that consisted mostly of, "Well, I'm game if you are," and that evening we took our new foster puppy home.
He was only about five weeks at the most and as the reality of this tiny, helpless, noisy and poopy creature sank in, I began to freak out a little bit, like any new parent. We put him in a laundry basket with a heating pad, blankets and a soft toy or two and kept him next to the bed. He slept fitfully and I kept reaching down to soothe him. By the second night, he was sleeping between us. Yeah, we're suckers.
We also read online that we were supposed to be crate-training him, so we went and bought a wee little kennel. It was soft-sided and made for a great dog-carrying satchel. He still slept in the bed, though. We also began what was to become a four-month long saga of housebreaking. Again, the kennel was abandoned although we did get a kiddie yard-fence thing and set it up in the kitchen so that at least he was penned over the tile floor. It wasn't long before he could jump the pen side and so every homecoming was a game of "find the pee spot."
Rufus got the idea of going outside but he didn't seem to understand that we weren't telepathic. He would go to the back door and wait for us to notice him there. When we didn't, he just did his business right there. Needless to say, I got very good at keeping an ear out for the sound of him wandering around by the back door. (Getting a doggie door solved that problem in a day, but we didn't get that installed until May.)
But back to the early days: we were just fostering him, you know? A couple of weeks after we started taking care of him, I took up up to the shelter to let him play around with some of the other puppies. A lady and her husband were up there, having had to return a dog because their other dog, a female somethingorother, was too aggressive toward it. But the lady fell in love with Rufus and wanted to see if her dog would accept a male dog instead of a female. A few days later I brought Rufus over and we let our leashed dogs meet on the grass. Her dog sniffed him, he turned to play with her and she attacked him. I was so horrified I couldn't move for a minute. Luckily, she didn't hurt him and puppies are made of rubber, so he was fine, if frightened. Obviously that definitely didn't work out.
Our next attempt was with one of my co-workers and her boyfriend. They took him for a night and by 6 am the next morning, I had a message on my phone from a very tired sounding co-worker saying they just weren't ready for a puppy.
The third attempt was with my manager who absolutely fell in love with Rufus. She took him home for a couple of nights but her old cat was NOT having any of it and was actively menacing the dog. We took him back and then she gave it another try, thinking maybe she didn't give the pets long enough to call a truce, but again, no dice. She was really sad to have to give him back and I still bring him up to visit her at work when I can.
At this point, about 2 months had elapsed. We had neither crate-trained nor potty-trained our puppy, spoiled him by letting him sleep with us, and taught him some tricks. I told Tim, "Well, we've pretty much ruined him. I guess he's our dog now, huh?" Truth is, we loved the little punk, exasperating as he could be. Even our four cats had come to accept him, begrudgingly. I took him up to the shelter, had him microchipped and registered, and formally adopted him on April 6th.
One thing we did early on was try to rename him. We thought "Rufus" was a pretty goofy name so we called him "Mischka" for about a week. Tim pointed out that since his papers and his profile online said "Rufus," we should keep calling him that, so we did. Now he knows that as his name and frankly, its grown on us. Rufus the Doofus became Roofer, which has become Wooferpuppy. His formal name is Rufus P. Cornchiphead (or Cornchip Ears, owing to the shape of his ears in his puppyhood.) He was being an adorable brat one day, and I laughed at him and said "I love your stupid little cornchip ears," and that made Tim laugh and the nickname stuck.
The photo at the top of this entry is misleading. That was done in April. He's much bigger now and his stupid little ears are halfway standing up like chicken wings. Rufus P. ChickenHead just sounds rude, though, so we'll stick with the cornchips.
Rufus and "Mom"
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