24 Months

Rufus,

Today you are two years old. Or, 16 years old in big-dog years. And you are, indeed, a big dog.

This morning I dropped you off at doggie daycare as a birthday present to you, because who wants to spend their birthday trapped in a tiny cage? You pulled at the leash frantically as we were walking in, and once we got inside, you couldn't wait to get into the main room. This, my love, is a miracle. I never thought I'd see the day when you actually enjoyed doggie daycare. Until recently, you had a reluctant doggie daycare routine, and this routine consisted of you sitting down and refusing to budge while the kindly workers pushed your unwilling ass through the door, where you would proceed to cower in the corner until various dogs forced you out with their noses, and then you'd haul out to the lawn and spend most of the day there alone. I know this because, yes, I do watch the webcams occasionally. But when I left you today, it seemed you were the one doing the forcing out. And I was one proud mama.

I announced to the workers at doggie daycare that today is your birthday, and they all declared "happy birthday!" to you loudly, even though you have no idea what the hell a birthday is, not to mention what a year is, or even time. But as I left doggie daycare, a man who had been at the check-in desk with me asked me if I'm doing anything special for you for your birthday. I hemmed and hawed for a while, and then I said, um, I'm writing you a post on my blog. The man laughed, and then walked very quickly to his car. This is your post, and even if you can't read it, and even if I've begun to feel slight shame at the idea of writing letters to my dog online, I know that you're fully aware of the sentiment behind it. And that that sentiment is precisely what you live for. That, and sticks.

It's been about a year since I've written one of these letters to you, Rufus, and I have to admit that I'm out of practice. How do I describe my love for you and your love for me, both of which have grown incomprehensibly over the past year? Is it in the way you stand beside me when I'm sitting on the couch, and then lift your paw and put it on my chest? Is it the way you lie on the bathmat, your back pressed against the tub, when I'm taking a shower? Or the way you greet me every morning by jumping up on my side of the bed, stretching your legs across my thighs, and laying your head on my stomach?

But I know that it's all of those things, and so many more.

In addition to coming out of your shell a little, you have also become a pretty hilarious dog. Most of the time you're cracking me up, just by being you. By grabbing your "squirrely" and throwing it into the air, playing catch with yourself. By prancing around the house. By your ridiculous, toothy grin. But my favorite has got to be your insistence on cocking your head when I'm talking to you, making me feel as though every word coming out of my mouth is direct prophecy from God.

I vacillate between thinking you're the smartest dog in the whole world and calling you Rufus the Doofus. I have to admit, whatever street smarts you seem to be lacking, your vocabulary is pretty impressive. You understand most everything I say to you, including "Go potty," "Wanna go outside?," "Get your squirrely," "Eat your dinner," and "Wanna go on a walk?" But the holy grail of all of the phrases you understand is definitely "Want a bone?" Some evenings you simply sit and stare at me, silently pleading with my mouth to form these words. And most of the time it works.

Here we are at two years, and the separation anxiety battle is still going on. We've figured out how to manage it somewhat, and by "manage it," I mean that your crazy pills are an absolute necessity. It's shocking sometimes how different you become on those (rare) days I forget to give them to you, how clearly unbalanced you are. It's still an issue of constant trial and error, though. For a while I started feeling really bad about making you spend eight hours in a crate every day, so we took to clearing the entire bathroom out and letting you stay in there with your bed while we were at work. All the spaces within your reach are completely covered in tile, so we figured you didn't have many options for destruction. But no. After a couple weeks, you found the only wood in the whole bathroom and dug a hole in it. And we're still trying to figure out how we're going to repair it.

My nicknames for you have also continued to flourish. At some point I began calling you "Sugar," which spawned the subsequent "Sugar Boo," as well as the inexplicable "Soobles." Every once in a while Chad has the terrible misfortune of hearing such a grotesque display of babytalk, but I think what repulses him even more than the words coming out of my mouth is the fact that you sit there and just eat them up. You look at me like you have absolutely no idea what is going on, but you know that it's very, very good. And whatever it is, you want to be a part of it.

Last August you almost died when your stomach decided to flip over itself. We had to pay $4,000 to save your life, and that expense hurt. A lot. Not only because we lost half of our savings, but also because, well, apparently most people wouldn't pay that kind of money to save a dog's life. But you recovered your health quickly, and we recovered financially eventually. And every morning when the alarm goes off and you jump up to greet me again, reminding me that a new day has begun and that is a thing to be grateful for, I know that not only did we make the right decision, but that it was also worth every single penny.

Happy birthday, bubby. It's an honor to help you greet your second year.