With an abject sadness I cannot properly articulate, it is my unhappy duty to report that Rufus, Golden Retriever, Seizure Response Dog, and Canine Extraordinaire, has died. The specifics are the usual distressing tale of illness and vets scrambling for a diagnosis, but suffice to say that what appeared to be a mild case of pancreatitis was, in fact, something far more severe, and as yet unknown. After he collapsed on the morning of July 5th Rufus was taken to the emergency vet, where he subsequently died of heart failure.
It is difficult for those who have not had the benefit of a service dog to fully appreciate the role they play in the lives of those with whom they are bonded. Rufus was with me 24 hours of every day for nine years. Contemplate that for a moment and the outlines of the enormity of his passing begin to emerge. There is now a titanic hole in my life and my daily routine is shattered, haunted by the specter of his absence.
For nine years I was honored by his presence, his assistance, love and loyalty. He was guileless, charming, gentle, and whip smart. He followed his training, helped me learn how to handle him in public situations, responded to over a thousand seizures, and did his duty assiduously and with great aplomb. He worked right to the end, until, at last, he could not get up on his feet.
Rufus came to me when he was just shy of 2 years old, a beautiful, stunning red orange Golden Retriever with bright eyes to match. His fur was luxuriant, his attitude upbeat and always ready to go. He was afraid of nothing, curious about everything.
He jumped right to work, responding instantly in a variety of public access situations, including flying. His seizure response training was right on, and he kept at it, licking my face, hands, head, anything exposed to force me to awake after a seizure and give him the right combination of praise and cues to get him to stop. That training was invaluable. Instead of spending hours in back breaking positions on the floor or furniture, his responses to me reduced the unconscious period to some minutes, and his friendly familiar warmth, solid form, and smile kept the postictal terrors to a minimum.
Rufus was kind and patient with kids, adopted our cats as his own, (even Simon, who tried to kill him the first night Rufus spent with us) and never failed to brighten the day of anyone who came into contact with him.
I’ve had the pleasure to meet and befriend many dogs in my life, but Rufus was the first one to share my world with me. The quality of that world was immeasurably raised by his central role in it.
He was the whoa-whoa dog, so named for his head down, eyes up, happy gurgling growl approach for attention and love. I'd whap and rub on his sides and hind quarters, going “whoa whoa whoa” the entire time until he rolled himself up into a panting, snorting, writhing ball of furry joy. Even in his deepest sleep I could whisper “whoa whoa whoa” and his tail would begin thumping the floor.
“Whoa whoa,” accompanied by three gentle whaps, was the last thing I said to him, wrapped in a blanket, already beyond my reach. It was the core of our language together.
He was the mud retriever, Poofy, the donut dog, my buddy, my friend, my life companion. Words have utterly failed to express how special he was, how powerful our bond, how profound the loss.
See you in another life, brother. Rest in peace.
November 7, 2003 to July 5, 2014
Addendum: It is with profound gratitude that I single out Dr. Pfeffer and her staff at Animal Medical & Surgical Hospital in Tulsa, Oklahoma for years of excellent care of Rufus and all of our other furry friends. They recognize that an animal's ailments also affect their human counterparts, and behave accordingly. Rufus carved out a special place in their hearts right from the get go, and I know he'll be sorely missed. No worries, gang, he's still smiling for all of you.
