"Rufus" is latin for "Red-head". His mom was a red Cocker Spaniel, dad was apparently the golden retriever who lived next door to her, although they didn't catch him. His mom was a breed bitch., and when she got preggers without another papered cocker around, the people knew they would be just giving the pups away. 5 weeks after he was born, we moved from Eastern Ohio to a little town of 200 in the north-west part of Kansas. Two weeks after we moved into this old house that had an abandoned chicken coop out back, a neighbor offered to loan me his old roto-tiller so I could put a garden in where the old chicken pen had been. He warned me that the rabbit population could decimate a garden in almost no time, so we headed into the nearest "real" town (~2500 pop.) to get some chicken wire and posts to keep the rabbits out. In front of the Big R was a horse trough, with a sign that said, "FREE!" Sandy looked at me, and I sighed and said, "If you're gonna, you're gonna. Go ahead." That was sixteen years ago. He has been our faithful companion through three moves, and more stress than I want to remember. He was my mom's comforter for those last few months she lived with us, dying of leukemia. He's put up with adopted stray cats that turned out to be spawns of Satan. He's chased rabbits, and guarded the foot of our bed. Now....
Two years ago he had a major stroke, and we thought it was over. He came back from it, lacking only a little memory and coordination. However, there have been two more major ones since then, and countless minor ones. The cataracts are so thick I don't think he sees anything more than light and dark. He's deaf, and has lost almost all real memory of where he is. He gets lost and confused. After the last stroke my son and I decided we had better get the grave dug, because here in SW Kansas the ground is so dry and hard we knew it was going to take a while. But he came out of that one, and there we were with a hole. We covered it with a 1/2 sheet of plywood, because we knew it was only a matter of time. The other night I was reading a bedtime story to the granddaughters, and he wandered in. When the 6 year old imperiously told him, "Get out!" he turned and walked into the closet, and when he got to the back wall through the clothes, he just stood there and shook.
But today... Our son came over this morning, and when he got here he was met by Barnabas, our almost-two year old shepherd mix. (We got Barnabas shortly after Rufus' second stroke. My wife said it was so that when Rufus was gone, I wouldn't be lost without a dog. But I know a secret. It's because she has become so attached to Rufus she isn't sure she will be able to get along without another dog to cry with. Couple of old softies, aren't we?) Barnabas is a happy dog, who just wants to play...at full speed. So when Jon walked through the door, Barnabas was there. Rufus was behind him, looking thoroughly baffled about what was going on, and when Barnabas turned to run to the back door (Jon's "job" is understood to be "frisbee thrower") Rufus also turned, and Barnabas ran over him. Rufus' eyes rolled to the back of his head, he lost bladder control, and Jon was sure he died right there. No, he struggled to his feet after a long minute of complete stillness. But he's lost bladder control two more times today, and that was one thing that was engraved on his brain. Up until now, the one thing he never forgot to do was bark and be put outside before he peed. But now, he's almost in a constant state of agitation, walking to the dog food dish, but not eating, walking to the kitchen, and after a second, walking into another room, just to look confused and go somewhere else. Every time he moves, we worry about where he's going to forget where he is and pee again. He seems absolutely miserable. He can't see, or hear, or even seem to know we're here. And he's been my second-best friend for 16 years. When menopause struck, my only friend. And I don't know if it's time. We have a vet who's a wonderful dog person. We talked last year. He knows that I know Rufus is just a dog. He knows that I know that there will be a time to put Rufus down, because it's the humane thing to do. But how do you know when it's that time?