The next week, Rufus moved less and less, often collapsing in his effort to get outside. I found myself carrying him out to the grass and back in, hoping to provide him some small dignity. As he could no longer even attempt the jump to Evangeline’s bed, he slept beside her on a blanket on the floor. Several times, I woke to her voice whispering through my door. “Isaac. It’s Rufus. I think he needs out.” I’d rouse myself, pull on a pair of jeans, and fetch the poor animal.
She would have carried him herself if she could have. But even had she been as strong as Lorrie, Evangeline’s first duty was to her child, to protect herself from strain. She was closing in on the last weeks of her pregnancy. Maybe I’d forgotten how huge a woman got at the end, but I couldn’t imagine another three weeks of growth.
To my surprise, Evangeline had asked me to be present at the delivery. “You know, up by my head, keeping me company.” Of equal surprise was how much I wanted to be there, how it seemed right, the way I’d feel if she were my daughter.
The third Saturday of May started with the usual drizzle, but by midmorning sun lit the new grasses of the field. Rufus’s breath came as wet, wheezing gasps that racked his ribs. When I walked into the kitchen that afternoon, I half expected to find him dead. Instead Rufus lifted his head with a buoyancy that’d long been missing. His eyes were clear, the inner lids stowed away, and the muscles of his head and neck restored, held in place by some new purpose.
To my amazement, he dragged himself out of his chair and lumbered to the back door. With difficulty, but with a steadiness of intent and execution that could not be explained, he took himself outside. I didn’t go with him but stood at the window in case he needed me.
I spent most of the next hour watching him, dumbstruck at what I saw. I almost called Evangeline, but she was taking her afternoon nap, and her sleep had been fitful these last weeks. I also felt certain that if Rufus had intended Evangeline to be part of this—his ceremony of remembrance—he’d have arranged it accordingly. As it was, he chose me, one of his beloved humans, to witness this aspect of his final journey.
This dog, who for more than a week had been unable to support his own weight, was trudging across the acre back field, keeping up a steady pace through the long green grass. Once he reached the back gate, he sat and stared through the wire mesh at the field where deer often congregated. He had spent much time there in his life, never ceasing to be fascinated by the wildlife that ventured so close to his domain.
He sat in great stillness for nearly ten minutes. I was about to go to him, thinking his energy had failed, but he got up and plodded back to the old oak from which he’d once fallen, the remnants of Daniel’s tree house hidden in its spring leaves. Again the dog sat and stared—into the tree this time—his posture remarkably straight, as if keeping guard.
He continued this practice, moving to the empty center of the field, facing the house. I picked up binoculars and startled to see his eyes, clear and directly on mine, as if peering into my soul from that great distance. I couldn’t bear the pain and turned away. When I did, he lumbered to the other side of the house, settling beneath the old plum where he and Evangeline had lain together that first night. When he returned inside, he belly-crawled under the kitchen table, a place where he’d spent many hours, forever lying awkwardly over one set of feet or another, waiting for Daniel to slip him bits of chicken or steak, willing to accept broccoli too.
I wasn’t sure he’d make it back through that maze of chair legs, but he did, and this time when he looked at me, it seemed a warning. He went to the door that led to the second floor, pawed at it and barked, the happy bark we used to receive on arriving home. I opened it and watched as he climbed the rough stairs. Twice a hind leg slid from under him, but each time he recovered and continued his trek. At the top, he stopped and gazed down at me, a lingering gaze that can only be described as a healing, an act of pure love, a look unlike any I have ever shared with another creature. I remembered how I’d imagined Daniel coming home the week he was missing, imagined him looking down on me from the top of the stairs.
Rufus turned and headed toward Daniel’s bedroom. I didn’t follow. I don’t know why. Something private in his motions. I heard his nails on that plywood floor and his weight landing on Daniel’s bed, though how he managed such a feat I couldn’t say.
About ten minutes in, I heard a whimper and went to him.
I hadn’t been in Daniel’s room for many months. It hit me hard to see that form on his bed, as if it might turn and rise and become my son. But of course it was Rufus, and when I switched on the nightstand light, I saw he had returned to his former state: his face fallen, his muscles melted away, his eyes shielded by that inner membrane. I lifted up my beloved dog—my son, it felt—and carried him downstairs.
In the kitchen, Rufus lay on the floor with great stillness, his cloudy eyes tracking me as I stripped the old blanket from his chair and replaced it with a soft, clean fleece. I tucked it carefully, smoothing every fold. Then I slid my arms under him, cradled him to my chest, and placed him on his chair.
Once he made his final adjustments, I began to sing.