Trying to Earn His Stars

A lot has been going on lately at "Chateau Wooferdog." Rufus and Amelia keep on growing; they're now 19 months old, and still have a long way to go. Especially Rufus, who has become increasingly wary of strangers over the past few months. It's something that I have worried about for quite some time, since Buster's distemper left Rufus quarantined for three of the most important months for socialization.

Yesterday, he barked at a boy who asked if he could pet him. I told him he wasn't feeling good that day, so we'd have to sit for a minute and see if he felt like it. While we talked, he pointed out the "ranger badge" stars on Rufus' collar and asked what they were there for.

I told him, "Well, Rufus has always wanted to take care of people, and keep bad guys away. So I figured he'd like a sheriff's star on his collar."

Once Rufus had calmed down a little (there was a soccer game going on as well), the little boy got a high-five from him and a "kiss" on the forehead by way of apology. After giving him a treat and petting him, the boy got up to go. "So," he asked, "When he grows up, do you think he'll catch bad guys?"

I shook my head. "Probably not. But I'd like it if he got to help people who needed it."

The boy smiled and waved before he left. "I think he'd be good at that."

Rufus has a long way to go, and a lot of manners to work on, but I'd love to see him grow into a friendly, outgoing and happy dog. More than anything else, I want that for him.
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Monkey vs Dog in the Great Panty Battle

So, I'm gathering up laundry and Rufus grabs a pair of panties and runs out the back door. He proceeds to rip them up (Emmy helps) and chasing is no good, so I grab a big stick and start whacking it against the tree he's running around, and I yell "Drop it!" (whack) "Drop it" (whack) while following him around the tree. Basically, I become Big Scary Monkey. The stick shatters with every smack and I very rarely lose my temper with Rufus to that extent. (Annoyance is a totally different thing.) With a look of shock, he finally dropped it and just stood back and let me take the shredded remains of my undies. Now is very contritely sitting at my feet. So is Emmy (who drops things immediately.) Panties destroyed but maybe he'll stop swiping my stuff. I'm sure it's not the Dog Whisperer way to solve the problem, but it worked on this day.

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Rufus Learns a New Tune

While working on checking my e-mail and uploading photos tonight, I've been infrequently (as is usual around our house nowadays) interrupted by Rufus diving out the back door in a burst of spontaneous barking.

Usually, he's just menacing one of our next-door neighbour's cats. Slowly, they're realizing that he's no threat, and hopefully Rufus is realizing that he doesn't have to bark at them (hope springs eternal). Other times, he's warning away an opossum or noisy dogs or neighbors down the street. He even tried to alert our neighbour when his fence blew down in a storm. But tonight was a bit different.

At first, I thought Buster was in trouble - I learned this morning that he "yodels" when he's excited. Heading through the house, however, I noted that it was definitely Rufus' voice I was hearing. As I neared the door, the nondistinct sounds coalesced into a "bark-bark-hooooowl," over and over. It was a sound I'd heard before and recognized, but never from Rufus.

I called to him, and he stopped to look at me. Faintly in the distance, I heard the siren of a fire truck echoing in a low, wailing howl. Rufus replied twice more, then followed me inside.

Since bringing Buster home, I've been seeing Rufus acting like an arrogant, bullying snot. He steals toys and randomly jostles, shoves and chews on the newcomer, seemingly oblivious to protestations and acquiescence. He blatantly disobeys Sophie and I, throwing temper tantrums and trying to get away with whatever he thinks he can.

But tonight, I saw the Rufus that we brought home and have been living with for the past six and a half months. The same dog that I hope he'll be again after he grows out of his rebellious teenage phase. It's the Rufus that I love, and am so proud of it makes my chest ache when I look at him.

As I said before, I recognized that howl. It's the sound a dog makes in reply to a slightly different-sounding howl; the one he thought the fire truck was baying. In rough translation, Rufus' reply was, "It's okay, don't be scared. You're not all alone out here."
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Busted - Up Buster

Buster went in for his neutering surgery yesterday. Although it went far more smoothly than Rufus', the aftermath seems to be hitting him much harder. Granted, he's recovering from the surgery while shaking off a respiratory infection of some sort, but it's still worrying me. The poor guy looks miserable: he won't eat, sleeps fitfully, and is pretty frequently pestered by Rufus, who has decided that he wants to rule the world - or at least Buster's half of it.

To top it all off, Buster hates his meds. Combine that with the fact that he's got jaws like a steel bear trap, and an uncanny ability to pick even a fraction of a pill out of a ball of wet dog food or peanut butter, and dosing time becomes an extreme sport. Dogs usually perk up after the first day or two after surgery, and I'm hoping that poor ol' Buster will be more happy - and tractable - tomorrow. If nothing else, I want him to start eating properly; everything else will follow, but he's got to do at least that much.

Right now, he's curled up on our futon with two fans blowing over him and thunder rumbling noncomittally in the distance. There was an empty space next to him (where I'm certain he thinks I ought to be), so I remanded custody of "St. Christopher," a little stuffed beaver, to him. The toy had travelled literally from one end of the USA to the opposite shore with us when we were helping out bands visiting from Japan. It was sort of our good-luck charm, and though I'm not superstitious, I hope it can at least bring a little comfort to my ailing sidekick.

Get well soon, Buster.

UPDATE 8/10: Buster is feeling much better but poor old St. Christopher was mauled horrifically this morning and was laid to rest in the kitchen trash. I'm sure it was a martyr's death.


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Guard Dog

So, it was about 7:00 am a couple of days ago...

I should have been fast asleep. In fact, I was fast asleep. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard a sound that didn't fit in with the whole natural-for-7 o'clock-on-a-weekday-morning scenario, and my eyes snapped open. Before I could even lift my head from the pillow, I heard Rufus' now-familiar warning bark coming from the backyard. Then I heard the @#*&%(*& weedeater.

Apparently, the lawn guys that do my neighbor's yard have figured that the best way to beat the summer heat is to begin when the sun's not up yet.

I called to Rufus, closed our bedroom window, and headed for the back door. By that time, one of the lawn guys was wheeling an industrial mower into our neighbor's backyard, clearly amused by the knee-high ball of fur menacing him on the other side of the fence. I wouldn't have been smug, though; Rufus has no fear whatsoever of lawn mowers, and by his body language, was debating whether he ought to consider the fence optional. He'd only met my neighbor a couple of times, but he was sure this wasn't her, or her cats.

When he saw me come out the door, Rufus visibly straightened; his ears and tail flicked up as high as they could go, and he hopped back and forth excidedly. At this point, I was trying not to laugh - he was basically saying, "Yeah! You'd better stay over there, mister strange-guy, or me and my dad will straighten you out, but good!" Striding across the lawn, I tapped the Woofer gently on his shoulder. He stopped barking and glanced over at me.

"It's OK, Rufus. You did good." I nodded at him, then at the back door. Apparently, he wanted to impress the interlopers with how awesome a team we were, and he quietly ambled back into the house with me. Since he'd worked so hard, I gave him an early breakfast, closed the dog door (to block out the noise of course, *ahem*), and headed back to bed to try and get my last 30 minutes of rest for the day.
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Dog With a Mission!

(But without a clue...)

We've read in several books that dogs have more fun if they have a "job" to do (appropriate to their breed). With Rufus'... er, well-diversified bloodlines, there are quite a few tasks to choose from. Our relative distance from any substantial water-source (along with his odd fear of his wading pool) bumps him from dock-dog work, and there aren't any sheep or cattle nearby for us to (well, legally) herd. And Schutzhund is right out, until someone gets a lot better attention-span and discipline. Which leaves the sled dog in his husky genes, and the war dog in his shepherd blood. Hey, carrying stuff can't be too bad!

Thus the mental conversation in my head went at the local pet store, at least. The end result was that Rufus got his first official backpack! Now he can adventure with us in style, and feel like he's holding up his part of the work. Or at least holding a couple of his toys, some poop-scooping bags and a treat or two.

Although he frequently lapses into episodes where he thinks his backpack is some clever "solitaire-tug-of-war" toy, most of the time Rufus seems to really enjoy it. Once he's a little stronger, I might add some weight in the form of a couple of freezer-packs to keep him cool. Given the volume-to-weight ratio of water, though, I may be toting the refreshments for the forseeable future.

There's plenty of room for him to grow into his trusty backpack for now. If he keeps on enjoying it, I might trick it out with some fun "adventure dog" stuff. Looking at the basic pattern of it, I'm thinking that when the weather gets cool enough, I may have to try my hand at making him a suit of hundepanzer (dog armor) as well - if only for a photo shoot.

Neutering Day, Take Two (testicles, please)

Aww, poor Wooferpuppy's got a deflated scrotum and a few stitches, plus some antibiotic for his weewee, but the deed is done and it's nice to have that out of the way. We'll go back in 10 days to have the stitches removed. They also trimmed his toenails while he was doped up, which is really the only way it could've been done. He's a bit squirmy with having his feet messed with. We'll go out for a walk later, if he's feeling up to it. And boy howdy, does he get the treats today. Even though we did the responsible thing, it's hard not to feel guilty for putting him through surgery. So yeah, treats.

How We Met Rufus

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.

Rufus and "Mom"