Rufus 1

I have been prevailed upon to write of the red dog mentioned in my previous blog. Before I began, I realized that, to write of Rufus meant explaining about Bull Terriers. And to explain about Bull Terriers required me to go a long way back, to Cape Town indeed. And, if I were to get on to that, it would be necessary to start talking of my family, my father especially...

So it seems that I may have another book on my hands, as if I needed yet more pressure. But I have nothing remotely ready for the Journal and have already resigned myself to waiting until Christmas has passed before continuing with it. I am out of excuses; it seems the thing must be attempted. Oh great, as if things weren't difficult enough; write two books at once, why don't I?

This Rufus thing is exhausting to write. I already know that I can't manage a chapter a day, so I'll just throw each bit up as and when I run out of steam. Here's the first morsel:

Rufus

Chapter One - Part One

I grew up with Staffordshire Bull Terriers. Now, that is one heck of a mouthful so from here on in they will be referred to as Staffies. Glad to get that sorted. But, as I was saying...

I grew up with Staffies. This happy circumstance was all due to my father's determination to get his own way. He was a strong, silent man who worked hard to provide for his family. As a consequence of this, my sisters and I saw too little of him in those early years, when memories were just beginning to be laid down. To us, he was authority itself and the threat of, "Wait till your father gets home" was always enough to deter us from mischief.

It was rare for him to use his strength of character against my mother. Generally he was content to allow her whatever she wanted, for he was a man of simple tastes and few desires. I can think of very few instances when he pushed through on something he wanted, regardless of her opinion.

That first Staffie was one such occasion. And the manner in which he broached the subject was typical of the man. It was over dinner one night that he said casually, "There's a man down the street with some puppies to sell."

My mother looked up immediately. "We can't have a dog. I've enough to cope with, the kids and the house and you away most of the time."

He settled back in his chair and smiled at her. "Oh I thought I'd have a wander down after dinner and have a look. Just a look, that's all."

"Well we're not having one. And don't take the kids with you - they'll only go on at me about taking one if they see them."

My father nodded wisely as he smiled back at her. "Just a look, dear. That's all."

No more was said and we returned to the meal. I knew nothing of dogs at the time and so took no more than a passing interest in the brief conversation. My father disappeared after dinner and we hardly noticed his absence.

Some time later he reappeared with an old blanket wrapped around something in his arms. We followed him into the living room where my mother sat reading. He said nothing but deposited the bundle in the center of the room and unwrapped it. My mother watched, her lips compressed into a thin line of disapproval.

The puppy, a square, solid little thing of total confidence, looked around at us all, shook itself almost off its paws, then waddled straight for my mother. Her resistance collapsed immediately and she took the bold little mite into her arms, glancing just once at my father and releasing an "Oh Hubert!"

My father's broken promise was never mentioned, that day or any day since.