My heart is breaking. It’s shattering into a million little pieces and I can’t, for the life of me, stop it. My Roofie Doof has died.

We didn’t even know he was sick. One day he was fine. Just his normal, fluffy self. The next he was hanging on for dear life, ill, with a mysterious ailment, defying diagnosis. Not knowing what was wrong, we didn’t know how to fix it. We tried. We really did. We put everything into it. We devoted time, money, hours of conversation, and more than a few tears to the cause. We fought the good fight. We did the best we could.

But in the end, it wasn’t enough. Tonight, — ah, God, tonight he went into respiratory failure and his little heart stopped beating. He just gave up and went on to the next phase. Whatever that might be. Rufus was never one to obsess. He was tenacious and loyal to the core, but he was never that big into prolonging the inevitable. “Fuck it, I’ll move on.” That about sums up Rufus and how he went through life.

We all went to see him, visit him in the E.R. We took turns petting and talking and giving him scratches. I kissed his little forehead. Told him I loved him. I turned and walked away. We didn’t know it would be the last time. We didn’t know!

He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to! He was just going to be transferred to a place with all night care and — and that’s it. Then he was supposed to keep getting better and then come home. Instead, this crazy doctor called me and said he just died. Died! As in, he’s not around anymore. As in, I’m never, ever going to see him again. WTF is up with that?

Rufus- you had to know Rufus, to get Rufus. My sister, upon meeting him, dubbed him the marshmallow man. She said he looked like a big, fat marshmallow with four toothpicks for legs. And I suppose he did. He was actually deceptively deft for his big size. He could run. He could throw down.

But he just didn’t see the need in doing it all the time, just because it could be done. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, is the point. He would take all-comers, and usually, he would win. He basically just did as he pleased.

Which isn’t to say that he was hard-headed. Oh, no. He was so smart. He was this little genius with a personality bigger than life. He was very well-behaved. Trustworthy. Fiercely, fiercely loyal.

Sometimes we called him gramps, or grampa. It was all because of the little spots of white that flecked his black chin. And his curmudgeonly attitude. He was kind and sweet and gentle. But he was no pushover. If you pushed him too far he would snarl a nasty warning at you, bare his teeth a little. And you would deserve it too. He doesn’t go around tugging on your fur or trying to ride you. Have some respect for the elderly. And get off his lawn. He didn’t like people he didn’t recognize anywhere near his lawn.

Knocks on the door would drive him into a frenzy. Not a crazy-making frenzy, just a “look at me! i’m making noise! warning! warning! danger!” kind of frenzy. He would bark and snarl and run back and forth across the house — and then suddenly stop. There was no method really, to his madness. He just wanted it to be known that someone approaches! Here they are! They’re at the door! Do something! and then he would stop. Go about his business. It was only worth wasting his time as long as he thought there was a threat. If no one else was freaking out, he certainly wasn’t going to go through the trouble. Walls, too. you could fall against a wall, put your hand out to steady yourself, and in the process, make the slightest little noise with your hand making contact with the wall and Rufus would be off with his little script. “look at me! i’m making noise! warning! warning! danger!” annnnd SCENE! Take five!

Which isn’t to say that Rufus wasn’t also brave. Because he was. Comically so. If he perceived any danger to any of us, he was instantly the Chuck Norris of the canine world. If Matt was rough housing with the boys, Rufus would drive himself mad trying to figure out whose side he was on. His loyalty ran so damn deep.

He was so patient and long suffering. He would tolerate Poe jumping around like a banshee fleabag – trying to get him to play. Rufus would throw him a bone, wrestle and thrash about for a few minutes, and then revert to sentinel-like stillness. Poe would nip at his ears and wonder how it was a dog could manage to actually sit still for a minute. Poe’s energy and hyper-doofiness never seemed to bother him. He just took it in good stride and protected him like Poe was his giant little brother.

You knew when he was happy to see you. He was always happy to see you. His eyes would light up and that tail would start wagging like a propeller jet, taking off. I read a quote recently. I don’t remember who said it. “A Dog is the only creature who has already seen his God.” That’s how you felt when you looked at Rufus in the eyes. He was just so honored to be a part of it, just so pleased you had chosen him. There was real, naked honesty and devotion in those eyes. He loved Matt. God, that dog loved him so much. He was his morning star and his evening moon. He was first a bachelor’s dog and he carried that badge proudly. And Matt loved him. Rufus got him through some dark times in his life. He was his best friend. He was so proud of him. Proud of how smart he was. How well-behaved. He was proud of his personality, his ability to win anyone over. I grieve for him, too. I know this is so hard on him.

He cleaned out his dog dish. Put his bed out in the garage. He mourned the loss. Mourns it still. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t get it to sink in.

Rufus would put out all four paws when Matt tried to put him in water. He loathed it. It was like watching a cartoon, Matt gallantly pushing Rufus towards the water and Rufus frantically clawing for purchase at the walls, trying to stop himself going in. Water was for drinking, not frolicking. Tongues were for cleaning, not tubs.

He loved food. He stayed under my feet in the kitchen, despite my repeated pleas to have him “go lay down” or “go play in traffic”. He paid me no never mind and assumed I was only joking. Which I was. Because the next meal he would be right back, tripping me and my pan full of dinner, hoping for a morsel. If I so much as said the word “treat” in, any context, his tail would wag and his mouth would open in stark anticipation.

Matt’s family loved him to pieces. My family fell in love with him, too. He was a hard dog not to love.

He had the memory of an elephant and a heart as big as this whole damn world. He was, at his worst, better than most humans at their best. He was sweet and thoughtful, laying at your side in silent vigil when you felt ill or down. He was kind and gentle. He was brave and proud. He was as sober as a judge and as goofy as they come. He had black specks on his pink tongue and a million dollar smile.

The crying hasn’t stopped. It still goes on. Will go on for quite sometime, I imagine. I go to feed Poe and notice the empty spot where his dish used to be, and it hits me all over again. Matt goes into the laundry room and sees all his things, his immunization record, his leashes, his shampoo and brush – all things he would no longer need- in a box in the cupboard. He’s speechless and his eyes are the saddest things I have ever seen. The boys are walking around with tear-stained eyes – not too common a sight when they hit thirteen and fourteen. They are shell shocked and devastated.

People will say, “he was just a dog.” They don’t understand. He was our dog. He was a member of our family. He was one of us. And now he’s gone forever. We’re grateful he’s not suffering anymore, but we are so, so sorry he had to go.

Rest in peace, Roofie Doo. We love you and miss you.