Helter Shelter
Being a high-functioning hound, Rufus has a few thoughts that he can convey to us two-legged Jowerses via body language—stuff like “Rub my wattle” and “Could you wipe off my feet? Because I hate when my feet are wet.”
I attribute Rufus’ high functioning to the little bony topknot at the apex of his massive skull. I believe that in the topknot, there’s a little emergency dog-genius brain that Rufus can switch on at any time, like activating the reserve fuel tank in a 1960s Volkswagen.
Since daughter Jess went away to college, Rufus has had his emergency brain working overtime. I know this because his topknot is warm to the touch, and I can hear a little whirring and clicking in there, like the noise that comes out of a person with a mechanical heart valve.
For about two months now, Rufus has been grieving and searching for Jess. When Rufus gets up in the morning, he walks into Jess’ room, lies down on the rug beside her bed and waits faithfully. After a while, he goes downstairs and curls up behind Jess’ futon. When he’s had enough of that, he goes back up to Jess’ room and lies down in her closet. By nightfall, Rufus just can’t take the stress anymore, so he curls up on the sofa beside wife Brenda and starts chewing at the base of his tail.
“He’s been all over the house and yard looking for Jess,” Brenda said. “He’s missing one of his people, and it’s making him nervous.”
“Well,” I said, “lawyer Jean, who’s quite the dog expert, says that dogs don’t think of us as another species. They think we’re dogs. If Jean’s right, Rufus thinks he’s missing a dog.”
“That’s it,” Brenda responded. “Rufus is missing his blonde dog.”
“The blonde dog’s coming home tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe Rufus will calm down a little.”
A few minutes later, Rufus was asleep on the sofa and dreaming hard. All four of his massive feet were trying to run, and I could see his eyeballs darting back and forth behind his eyelids.
“I wonder what dogs dream,” I said to Brenda. “Rufus looks like he’s chasing something.”
“Rabbits,” Brenda said. “Whenever I walk him down the side of the road, he wants to chase the rabbits hiding in the brush.”
“Or,” I said, “he could be trying to catch up to his blonde dog.”
Yesterday afternoon, when the blonde dog pulled up in front of the house, Rufus must’ve recognized the sound of her car, because he jumped up off the rug beside Jess’ bed and pogoed down the stairs like a ’70s punk rocker. For Rufus, running down the stairs is a bold and risky move. He’s 12 years old—most bassets are in dog heaven by that age. But Rufus is special, what with his reserve brain, considerable reserve muscle and determination to boot. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he ran to the front door and started barking and spinning in circles.
“Ruuufus!” Jess shouted as she came through the door. “Calm down, buddy, before you get dizzy and fall over.” For the next minute or two, Jess gave Rufus as many hugs as he could stand, and Rufus gave Jess all the chortling, baying and joyful slobbering that he had in him. Then they ran up the stairs together.
This morning, Rufus settled into his old routine. He sat at my feet and waited for me to give him the last bite of my scrambled-egg sandwich. Then he escorted Brenda to the front door as she headed off to work. After Jess got out of bed, Rufus stuck close to her until she went shopping in the afternoon.
I spent most of my day conjuring images of Jess the night she was born and of Rufus on the sofa last night. Almost 19 years ago, I held my newborn daughter on my chest, watched her eyelids dart and felt her limbs twitch, and wondered what an hours-old baby had to dream about. About 19 hours ago, I wondered what visions came to the mind of a nervous old hound dog dreaming on my sofa. Best I can guess, Jess, fresh from the womb, was likely dreaming about cuddling up in a warm safe place. Rufus, fresh from a walk along the roadside, was probably dreaming about running with a happy pack of pups. Whatever they were dreaming about, it had to have been something from the simple parts of their brains—no hopes, no desires, no metaphors, no epiphanies—just the raw, basic code.
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