Helter Shelter
The Jowers family basset hound, Rufus, joined up with the rest of us Jowerses about four years ago. He was a free-ranging farm dog in deep trouble. He’d just run a whole herd of his owner’s cows out of their pen, and he was not welcome back on the farm. The Jowers house would be Rufus’ last (or next-to-last) stop. If we didn’t take him in, he was headed for hound heaven. Rufus was 7 years old when we gave him his audition.
I’ve shared three Jowers houses and yards with basset hounds. First, there was Martin, who dug under the fence and ran in front of a car. Then there was Josh, a longhaired basset. Longhaired bassets are peculiar-looking, mutant dogs and are banned from the show ring. Soon after Josh arrived, I found him a dogwife, Gracie, who bore 13 of Josh’s babies, all in one litter. All but one was born with a broken tail.
Wife Brenda and I kept one pup from that litter—straight-tailed Buster—and we gave away the rest. Sure, we thought about selling them, but they were half-mutant and all broken-tailed. We’re lucky we didn’t have to pay people to take them. After Buster moved on to the dog hereafter, Brenda and I went dogless for a long time.
Anyhow, back to Rufus. After we’d commiserated with him for a while, we gambled that he would be a dog worth keeping. Brenda bought him a nice insulated doghouse, a comfortable bed and a heated water bowl so he wouldn’t have to lap at ice in the winter. We put Rufus and all of his gear in our 20-by-20 backyard shed, where he settled in.
Pretty soon, though, Rufus started acting like a basset hound. Understand, basset hound puppies are the cutest creatures on earth. There’s nothing more fun than playing with a basset pup. But grown-up basset hounds are generally loud, slobbery and stubborn. All the bassets I’d had were also just plain dumb.
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Basset hounds do what they want to do, not what you want them to do. If a basset hound could talk, its first words would be, “Kiss my ass.” But don’t take my word for it. In all of history, only one basset hound—and don’t you know he was named Goober—has been an obedience trial champion.
Rufus was sweet and playful, but he was a whole bunch of trouble. Every time we’d hitch him up to his leash, he’d pull like a tugboat, doing his best to snatch Brenda or me down the porch stairs. Believe me when I tell you, 69 pounds of low-slung basset traction can just about pull a tree out of the ground.
After a few weeks of experimenting, Rufus figured out that he could use his super-powerful nose to pry boards off the backyard fence. Then he’d run away, far away. If it weren’t for kindly neighbors penning Rufus up in their yards and calling the number on his I.D. tag, Rufus would’ve been gone a long time ago.
A while back, Brenda decided that Rufus would be happier if he came in the house more. So she started letting him in. I objected, because every basset hound I ever knew would poop and pee wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. But Rufus didn’t pee or poop in the house. When he needed to go, he went to the back door and whined until Brenda let him out.
So we put in a dog door for Rufus. Now he comes and goes as he pleases. Brenda made three beds for him—one in the upstairs sunroom, one in our bedroom and one in the TV room downstairs. He enjoys those beds, but he prefers the leather sofa. Lately, he’s taken a liking to riding in the car with Brenda, especially since Brenda made a little bed for him in the back of our station wagon.
In recent months, Rufus has gotten very vocal. I swear, he’s learned more human language than one of those sign-language-flashing zoo monkeys. He’s developed a sound that means “Brenda’s home,” and he’s refined a pretty good “uh-huh” and “uh-uh.” He has certain sounds that he shares only with Brenda, including chortles that mean “pet me” or “feed me.” Brenda can tell the chortles apart.
But the thing that amazes me most is that Rufus has figured out when any of us Jowerses have just one bite of food left. Whether we’re eating at the table or on the sofa, Rufus sits close by and watches, then starts creeping up little by little. When Brenda, Jess or I pick up the last bite of anything, Rufus walks up and opens his mouth. We feed him. Then he goes back to his regularly scheduled program.
I know, I know. We shouldn’t feed Rufus anything but dog food. But he’s 11 years old now, so why deprive him of a little satisfaction in his golden dog years.
I figure if I’ve got a dog that’s smart enough to learn a language, I might as well let him do what he wants and see what new ways he’ll find to entertain me. At this point, I’m pretty much convinced that Rufus is at least as smart as that obedience-trial-winning Goober.