How It All Came to Be

The Miles & Rufus Era

In December of 2009 I lost my mother. Soon after, my two beloved dogs were both gone. And my friend Pam had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. So much grief.

One February day I took Pam for an oncology appointment and her doctor decided she could use an overnight in the hospital, for fluids and I don’t remember what else. So I took her over to the hospital. She asked if I would pick up her cat at the vet.

Katie, who worked the vet’s front desk, had famously found homes for many dogs. I mentioned this to her and she said, “I have a black miniature poodle right now. Would you like to see him?” Well, the two dogs I’d just lost had been a Bichon Frise and a white miniature poodle. Of course I said yes.

Out bounced Miles (aka Randy). He was SO exuberant, joyful, and in love with life! La-la-la!! If I had been ready for a dog, he would have been perfect for me, I knew. And then, boom, I said I’d take him—not quite ready but how could I say no? He was six months old. He came from a breeder who had given him away, I assumed because he was too big, i.e. too big for a miniature poodle but in reality, perfect. The breeder reportedly said he had a gentle soul. Oh yes. Lucky for me, the woman who had taken him ultimately could not keep him.

Pam gave him the name Miles and I gave him a middle name. Miles Louis. He loved every dog and every person. We took long walks in the neighborhood and down to the trail. He tried to go up the walk of every house. I would say, “We’re not Trick or Treating, Miles.” “Okay!” he’d reply. “Where to next, then?” Bounce bounce bounce. Happy happy happy. He loved everything.

We started going to a nature area where dogs could be leash-free. I carried treats in my pockets to keep him always coming back to me, which he did. He absolutely loved going there, running, chasing squirrels, meeting all the dogs and people, learning who carried the best treats. It was there that I discovered the wonder and fun of wildflower hunting. A friend gave me a wildflower book. I carried a small camera and took many photos. I learned the names and habits of wildflowers and a few birds—kingfishers, great blue heron, owls, pileated woodpeckers, flickers, the occasional egret. I read a book about moss (Gathering Moss by Robin Walls Kimmerer) and bought myself a loupe, so I could look closely at moss and lichen and other tiny things. Eventually, I knew every inch of this place I’d never been. Because of Miles, it became my happy place.

My life had changed.

I could see that Miles needed a best pal, so I had a fence built, to get ready. When I took him for his annual check-up, Katie said, “I have another little poodle mix.” And I said, “I have a fence!” She brought out another perfect dog—a little strawberry blonde who had been a stray. I named him Rufus MacGonagle.

So now there were these two buddies. Oh my. We three went adventuring in the woods nearly every day. Rufus did not love every dog, but he did love Miles and every human and he tolerated dogs that were his own size or smaller. But he barked and growled at others; and he carried grudges. He did not suffer fools to walk past our house, especially if they had a dog with them. “Keep going!” he’d scream. “And don’t come back by here, EVER AGAIN!” Miles had never barked at anything or anyone until he started hanging out with Rufus. But even then, he always started later and stopped sooner. You could almost see him rolling his eyes, sometimes, as Rufus carried on.

Anyway, we’d go to the woods and come back home, their curly hair wet, dirty, and full of burrs. My son and I would pick the burrs off in the evening, at our leisure, and then the dogs and I would go back to the woods the next morning and start all over again.

Rufus chased a coyote more than once. Miles searched for dead things to eat. They both tore after squirrels and birds. Miles loved getting into the creek; Rufus, not so much; but he found it interesting. They both dashed in and out of the brush and raced ahead, down the paths, always coming back, panting, to see if I was still there. And of course, I was. I just kept my eyes wide open for every last thing—the way the sun filtered through the leaves, the way that one tree leaned way out over the creek, the lovely meadows, the temperamental creeks, wildflowers, birds, turtles, mushrooms, mosses, heart-shaped rocks, sycamores and cottonwoods, bluffs and sandbars; and those two young, crazy, full of life dogs. We each did what suited us best.

There was a little community of regular dog walkers there, all of us morning people, all of us nature lovers, all of us dog lovers. It was a life of humble adventure, fun, and lush beauty that also included mud, ice, snow, whatever the weather dished out; and we would go, nevertheless, intrepid and stalwart. It was a life enjoyed by the lucky few.

A life that was given to me by Miles and Rufus. I am forever grateful.

***

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring--it was peace.” - Milan Kundera

“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.” - Will Rogers

“Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” - Mark Twain

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Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the "merry thoughts."