My dog Rufio is nearing the end of his life. I can feel it coming. I see it in everything he does. When he was a young pup, I had to set up barriers around the tree in my backyard to keep him from climbing it. Yes, climbing it. He would walk out onto a branch, hop onto the roof, or scale my brick fence. But he never ran away. Instead, he’d explore for a bit, then sit patiently outside my front door until we noticed he was gone.
Rufio is, without question, the best dog I’ve ever had. He’s clever, intense, and fiercely loyal. He’s afraid of cats—hiding between my legs whenever one comes near—but he’s also gone toe-to-toe with pit bulls and even a huge neighborhood Rottweiler to defend me. His technique is simple: latch onto their jowls until they whimper and submit. It works every time.
He runs like the wind. At the dog park, the only dogs that can catch him are greyhounds and whippets. He’s a little white blur of a mixed-breed mutt—part terrier, part Chihuahua, with those crazy Chihuahua eyes that don’t quite point in the same direction.
But Rufio is 13 now, turning 14 soon. He has an enlarged heart, other health problems, and seizures—some common to Chihuahuas, others simply due to age. Sometimes I catch him as he’s falling to the left or right, or hold him when his body shakes so badly he can’t walk. During his worst seizures, I cradle him until he recovers.
Remembering Thor
Rufio came into my life after I had to put my previous dog, Thor, down. Thor was my baby. He was a 15-pound Miniature Pinscher who wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but I loved him dearly. Unfortunately, his health deteriorated so quickly that the end came just a few days after his 14th birthday. Renal failure, blindness, and a host of other issues took their toll. Losing him broke me. Putting him down was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. To this day, I relive that moment in nightmares.
After Thor’s death, I swore off dogs. I was spiritually broken and couldn’t imagine dealing with the loss of another pet. Losing a dog isn’t like losing a person, but it is like losing a friend.
Meeting Rufio
A few weeks after Thor’s death, I happened to stop at a traffic light near an animal shelter in Long Beach. A young girl dressed as a dog held up a sign for a pet adoption event. She waved for me to roll down my window and said, “There’s a dog here who needs you.” I was sweaty and gross from a game of disc golf, so I shook my head and waved her off. Later, I told my wife about it, and she suggested we go back to take a look.
When we arrived, the place was packed. It was a warm day, and the shelter was hosting a large adoption event. Local B-list celebrities, including Steve Garvey, were there signing autographs under pop-up tents. The shelter was overflowing with dogs, cats, and people. Most of the dogs were pit bulls or other large breeds. I was looking for something smaller, like Thor.
After checking every kennel, I finally found five small dogs grouped together. One small white mutt ran up to the front, and we immediately connected. I thought I had written down his name, but it turned out I had the wrong dog. A volunteer redirected me to the little white dog huddling in a corner near the back.
We went to a small outdoor enclosure with grass to meet him. Rufio was on a leash when we entered. He circled me twice, sniffing cautiously, then climbed into my lap. A moment later, he climbed up my arm and onto my shoulders. He sighed audibly, then wrapped himself around my neck and fell asleep. That was it. He had found his forever home.
Rufio’s Life with Me
Rufio had been found by the side of the road, abused and scarred, with visible marks on his nose and face. Despite his rough start, we bonded instantly. He was already housebroken and well-behaved. For three months, he didn’t bark at all. Then, suddenly, he became the family’s personal alarm system, warning us of every “intruder,” from mail carriers to delivery drivers.
While cats got a free pass, he brought death to small possums, rats, and mice. It turns out he’s a natural mouser, and he’s damn good at it.
His antics are the stuff of family legend. He’s been known to bolt through the house at lightning speed, turning corners so sharply we call it his “Crazy Ivan” maneuver. He still manages brief moments of that energy, but they’re usually followed by long naps.
Facing the End
Now, the end is near, and I dread the day. He has an enlarged heart, the seizures are getting worse, and his body is slowing down. But I have a plan. Unless Rufio’s quality of life deteriorates to the point where pain rules his days, I’ll keep him at my side until he passes. If the time comes to put him down, I’ll hold him at the vet, just like I did with Thor. None of this brings me joy—it’s duty. I owe it to him, and I’ll follow through no matter what.
Thinking about the end reminds me of the beginning. After Thor’s death, I was certain I couldn’t go through the heartbreak of losing another dog. But life had other plans. Rufio came into my life when I needed him, and now, as his journey comes to a close, I’m reminded of how much he’s given me.
His coughing and endless farts are driving me crazy—good lord, the farts—but I wouldn’t trade a single moment with him.
A Forever Bond
Rufio has been a constant source of love, protection, and humor. He’s my loyal companion, my little white blur, and my crazy Chihuahua-terrier mutt. The end is coming, but I’ll cherish every moment I have left with him.
Rufio has taught me so much about loyalty and living in the moment. He doesn’t hold grudges, worry about the future, or waste time on things that don’t matter. He’s happiest with a warm lap and a belly rub. As I face the thought of losing him, I realize those are the things I’ll carry with me—lessons on how to love simply and fully.
He’s the best dog I’ve ever had, and I know I’ll survive losing him. I have a plan, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
Peanuts In My Pocket 
Leave a comment