KC is the quintessential dog person. He is loyal and values loyalty. He generally respects authority and expects the same in return from his subordinates, though he does not always receive it when those subordinates share his DNA. In fact, I am probably alive today because we owned dogs. With the number of times that I ask him such deferential questions as “Do you know what you are doing?”, “Are you sure?”, “Wouldn’t it be better to do it this way?”, etc., KC would have cracked my skull long ago if he were also dealing with an aloof, self-governing cat on a daily basis.
Our family has always owned yellow Labradors. My parents got the first one in the early 80s when they were living in Belgium. KC purchased the puppy at a pub. It is not uncommon to wake up the morning after a night at a bar and find a stranger in your bed. Only in my father’s case would this stranger have a tail. When it came time to name his new friend, KC , a stranger in a strange land, wanted to flex his ample American nuts and give his dog a name that would leave no doubt about his red, white and blue bona fides. So he gave the dog a quintessential American name— Rufus after bluesman Rufus Thomas. His Belgian friends, however, took the dog’s name as a proud sign that my parents were really trying to assimilate themselves into Belgian society. This was because Rufus was the name of Belgium’s ruling king. Apparently a civics test was not part of the application process for a Belgian work visa in 1982. KC tried to save face by extending the dog’s name to “Rufus T. Bubba.”
Rufus T. Bubba quickly endeared himself to my mom, eating through a wall in their apartment.
My parents eventually moved to Memphis. When spring came around, Rufus would inevitably dash out of the yard. Sometimes we were able to track him down. Other times he would return home several hours later on his own accord and sleep for a couple days straight. It is important to note that KC did not have the heart to get Rufus neutered. We suspect that Rufus is the Wilt Chamberlain of Hickory Hill, his baby mamas stretching from Winchester Ave to Hacks Cross Road.
While KC was happy to let Rufus keep his coconuts, there was one time that he probably wished that he had put him under the knife. My sister was about four years old, sitting on the kitchen floor playing with Rufus, when she reached up and absent-mindedly grabbed a fist full of his nuts. Amazingly, Rufus merely froze, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. He then blinked a Morse code message to KC that went something like “KINDLY GET YOUR DAUGHTER’S HAND OFF MY GENITALS AND ONTO A ROSARY.”
Rufus was a big Lab, well over 100 pounds in his prime, so he took shits that were large enough to stop the lawn mower. He wielded his poop as a weapon against foes both human and canine. When we changed routines and kept him in the laundry room instead of the kitchen, he willed piles of revenge poop out of his colon until we relented and returned him to the bigger space. There was a neighborhood dog that Rufus despised. I think they had opposing personalities: Rufus was calm and collected, while this dog was a bundle of yipping energy that would go apeshit whenever we walked by. When we took a walk, Rufus would conserve his ammunition until we got to this dog’s yard. Then, with a placid look on his face, he would drop an eight pound turd right next to the fence while his nemesis barked helplessly behind the barrier. In hindsight, being respectful neighbors, we should have cleaned up after the dog. But let’s be serious. KC was proud.
