When I was four years old, my family and I lived on a ranch
property in BC’s Rocky Mountains. I was, it
should be said, a weird, cerebral kid—with no siblings to speak of (yet) I
defined my days playing alone, talking to myself and wandering around the yard
with a dreamy look on my face. My mother, forward-thinking woman she was,
decided that I needed a companion.

It went down like this: Just like every other day, my mom
picked me up after work. I jumped in the front seat of the car, babbling away
about a day spent with my babysitter and oblivious to the fact that, right
below my dangling, four-year-old feet, sat a cardboard box with a six-week-old
mutt in it.

Oblivious, that is, until he squeaked.

Allegedly (I remember none of this), I stopped speaking
mid-word and looked over at my mom, then looked down and screamed, “A puppy a
puppy a puppy!” It took all my mom’s strength to keep me buckled in and away
from my dog. My dog!

Rufus was a black cocker spaniel mutt, his sire’s
whereabouts (and breed) a mystery. He had huge paws, which led my mother to
believe he’d end up being a larger guard dog, that maybe his unknown father had
been a Newfoundland
or black lab. But my mom should have known better—she did, after all, give
birth to a 22-inch long baby who doctors and grandmas alike predicted would be
tall and graceful (I topped out at 5’3”, and I exhibit nothing akin to grace).
In the end, Rufus was the same way—a short-legged, big-pawed mutt on the low
end of medium sized. And guard dog he was not—he rarely barked, except for one
low “Woof!” to be let in. And his disposition was set to snuggle, not protect.

Thus began one of those friendships only dogs and their
people can share. For thirteen years, Rufus and I were close to inseparable. I
fed, played with and chased him around, and in later years I whispered my
fears, secrets and dreams into his black, matted fur (we tried to brush it, but
living in the bush meant things like burrs and sticks were inevitable plants in
his coat). Rufus was a constant escapee, and I’d sometimes find him sitting
outside my school gate at lunch or after class. He was also picked up by the
pound a few times, when he’d sneak out and try to find me or my sister (he once
appeared at a friend’s birthday, and totally stole all her thunder by eating
two hot dogs and a piece of cake before anyone noticed he was there).

As I grew to be a teen, Rufus became a good judge of
character, too. He growled at one of my first boyfriends who turned out to be a
slimeball, and instantly snuggled up to the girl who would become my life-long
best friend. Still, his health declined, especially after he suffered a stroke
when our neighbour’s aggressive Rottweiler attacked him. My mom put him down
when I was away working at summer camp one year, after a long and painful
battle with cancer. Ten years later, I love him still (of course).

And now, for the last few years, I’ve been considering
getting another dog. A lot has changed: I live in the city, I’ve been known to be
busy and frequently out of the house, and getting a pooch would mean relocating
from my apartment. I’ve felt for awhile that it would be unfair to bring a dog
into this life of mine, but some stars are aligning: I have a stable, long-term
relationship (and he wants a dog, too), there’s a possibility of this mutt
living in a house with a yard (depending on said relationship’s progress) and
I’m home more than ever, working on writing and other projects.

So, this is the road I’m starting down, tentatively and
carefully. I think about how hard it could be to have a mutt in this city, at
this time in my life, but then I remember 4-year-old me putting Rufus in a red
wagon and cruising down a country lane, and my heart swells. So here I go. This
is a Brave New Woof.