Rufus...

Rufus had been counting down his days in a high-kill shelter somewhere in Georgia when we agreed to foster him. A teenager, he was open and friendly at the time. But we only had him for a few months before a young woman adopted him. Given the fact that he was not very outstanding in his size, appearance, or personality, a “real mutt”, we were pleased to see him find a “forever home”. The young girl was loving and motherly toward him, had a good job and her own place.

Good. One less dog to foster. We had already fostered and placed quite a few.

That was that, or so we thought.

Then Carla got a call from the girl about three months later. She wanted to return Rufus to us. We were happy to take him back, unwilling to risk him winding up in another shelter or worse.

But he had changed a bit. He no longer would look me in the eye or get too close. He cringed when I picked up a magazine or a long-handled cooking spoon. It was obvious he had been abused. We investigated as best we could. Apparently, the young girl took in a boyfriend shortly after she got Rufus. We believe the young couple worked long days, leaving Rufus too long in their apartment on weekdays, beyond what his bladder could endure. So, he probably peed on the floor, and was beaten when the young man came home at night.

Rufus was understandably skeptical of me. He kept his distance even though I’ve always been the primary dog feeder and walker in our house. I knew that he had been through a bad few months though, so I was overly gentle with my voice and movements when he was in the room, never pressing him to do anything much, other than to just relax.

We went through six years of him acting like he didn’t trust me. He would cautiously approach my hand when offered a treat, grab it like a nervous squirrel, and run back to his bed to eat it.

Sometimes, if I was not looking at him, he would approach me and stare at my face, as if I was a dog TV. But if I looked his way, he would scurry out of the room.

He never looked me in the eye.

Then one day last year, when our other dog, Chica, jumped up into my lap Rufus finally decided that maybe I’m not so scary after all. When Chica jumped back down, Rufus hefted his chest and front legs up onto my lap, with his head down by my knees.

He let me pet him. It was obvious that he liked it.

Now he asks for that same attention regularly, but he still won’t look me in the eye.

No hurry boy. Maybe next year...

Crawl, walk, run…you know?