Any family would be lucky to have Rufus as a member. Mine is extraordinarily fortunate that he’s been a part of ours.
This isn’t to say Rufus is without flaws. He’s not terribly articulate, and his perpetual slouch suggests to outsiders that he’s not terribly ambitious. He rarely makes eye contact with anyone, and often sits alone in a closed bedroom when the rest of us are socializing.
But he’s spent the past quarter-century ready, willing and able to give (or receive) hugs at moments when they’re most appreciated and/or needed.
Rufus was there twenty-five years ago this week, when we brought our first-born child home from the hospital. Tommy and Rufus were virtually the same size, so it’s tempting to say they grew up together. Tempting, but not accurate, since Rufus never got any larger physically than he was back in 2001.
I never did find out exactly where Rufus T. Bear was born, or learn anything about his life prior to the day he came to live with us. It’s a fair bet his origins were in China, but that’s hard to verify, since he came without any label. His physical appearance defied any traditional characterization. He displayed something of a backwoods southern drawl on those occasions when he chose to talk to the children, but that probably had more to do with the person he was channeling his voice through (me) than it did with any ethnic, social, or geographic background.
Rufus was easy to outfit; the most he ever wore was a baseball hat. It became apparent early on that he was somewhat sensitive to the sun, since he rarely ventured outdoors, even when weather conditions were ideal.
As my three children grew older they became curious about their ursine sibling. They asked how I knew his name was Rufus T. Bear. I told them the truth: it was how he introduced himself when we first met. When they asked what his middle initial signified, I told them what he told me: that it stood for “The.”
Today my now-grown-up offspring all live elsewhere, but I still speak with Rufus when the spirit moves one or both of us. Currently he spends most of his time in Tommy’s old bedroom, reminiscing with some of my children’s other childhood friends, like Bud, Eddie, Leonard, Rocky, Wolfie, Sasky, the Paligator, and others who value their privacy and prefer to remain anonymous. These days Rufus and his colleagues are remarkably undemanding; all they request are occasional visits, and I’m happy to oblige. After all the joy he and his pals shared with my children during their formative years, it’s the least I can do.
I feel badly for those who cannot understand how rational people can personify (and regularly converse with) a nominally inanimate object like Rufus. “If it has a name, it has a soul,” a wise person told me some time ago, and I have never forgotten (nor stopped appreciating the truth of) those words.
Our last chat, which we both knew was coming, was bittersweet. “My work is done here, amigo,” my brown-furred friend drawled, and I acknowledged that he was right. Left unsaid: he’s still in great shape, and has lots more love to give. Next week Rufus will be relocating to the home of a young fellow who is just two months old, and he can’t wait.
Rufus and I will undoubtedly shed a tear or two when I drop him off at his new digs. But they’ll be joyful ones, as we both imagine what lies ahead for him and his new family.
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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