For The Love Of Ruby

I have to admit, I wasn't one to really appreciate the offbeat behaviors and attachments that otherwise seemingly normal people develop with a family pet. I mean, really, have you ever seen a pet owner kissing their dog, tongue-to-tongue? Or letting their kitty-kitty-kitty lick them all over their face? Or letting their pet gerbil nibble the lettuce off of their nose? I'm surprised at the lack of short-term memory some of these owners must have to not have remembered watching their pet lick themselves...everywhere...just a few minutes before their face bath. I'll repeat myself...everywhere. I still cringe to think that before licking their owner's face, a dog may have been going to town on his anus. And that's just the boy dog.

It wasn't just the licking, though, but also that foreign language that I couldn't quite grasp. "Here, Muffy," the cat owner might say in a baby-talk voice, "come give your mommy a big kissy-kissy here on my lips." At least with the baby talk with a human baby, you eventually come to the conclusion that it will cease when the kid turns one, maybe two. An end is in sight, yes? But with cats? I don't think so. I think one is looking at 10-20 years of baby talk, minimum, with a pet cat. God forbid the day I scratch a dog behind the ears and whisper "goochie-goochie-goo." No way, no how--not for me.

I grew up around pets, yes, but they were at my grandparent's farm and they were outdoor pets. Besides several pigs, lots of chickens, and a little house full of rabbits, several cats and dogs were also part of the lot. They remained outside, though, and were well taken care of with their own private houses and feeding stations. We talked normal English to them. We pet them and fed them regular pet food from the 50 lbs. bag. They didn't wear designer outfits but, instead, relied on their genetics to thicken or shed their hair, depending on the season. The names rush me now--Sweet Pea, Prince, Trixie--and they were all awesome dogs, my buddies actually, when I was visiting for an afternoon or overnight. I don't think the dogs minded their lack of indoor living, judging by their playful run through the gorgeous, rich, adventurous farmlands.

So, with this upbringing, it seemed a little off to me that so much energy would be spent by an owner on making their pet so extremely comfortable within an indoor setting. Wouldn't the pet hair all over the floor and clothes be a deterrent enough? I've seen my share of ER patients with their clothing covered in pet hair. Cringe-worthy, I tell you.

Enter Ruby. Our family pet. Our yellow lab. I have to chuckle when I call her "yellow," though, because, if anything, she is actually pure snowy-white.

Most important? She spends the majority of her time indoors. Yes, I know, I'm eating crow. But she has single-handedly changed my way of thinking when it comes to indoor pets.

Five years ago, in March, our Ruby was born. Around the same time that Ruby was born, my mother passed away. Like any other family who has suffered a loss, try as we might, a certain "funk" seemed to linger around our house. Smiling was, at times, a chore. Sad realizations of Mom's death would interrupt happy moments. We needed to change things up.

My wife and her sister had a suggestion. Maybe it was time for us to get a family dog, something we had considered in the past but rejected. Sandy's family had two beautiful labs, both from the same breeder. This particular breeder focused her attention on two of the dogs' attributes--their gentle, mild disposition and their beautiful white coat. And she would not sell a person a dog unless she approved of them and the home her dogs would be joining.

Yeah, I'll think about it, I thought to myself. The breeder didn't have any available pups from the upcoming litters, giving me some available thinking time. Or so I thought. Because a few days later, Sandy called to say that the breeder had an about-to-be-born litter with one more pup than was supposed, confirmed by ultrasound.

"June said the pup is yours if you want it," Sandy said, exciting our family at the prospect.

Thus, the process began. First, we had to be interviewed by the breeder, June, a gruff woman with a heart of gold, whose profound love for her dogs was very evident. She, thankfully, felt that us receiving one of her puppies was meant to be. After a successful interview (brow-glistening included) and tour of her comfortable home, she led us to her enclosed back porch and the most beautiful litter of pups imaginable. And there, jumping on her hind paws and trying to get our attention, was our Ruby. Leaning into the enclosure, trying to climb out to us. The kids were sold. My wife was sold. And me? Standing there looking at the wrinkly, yelping little bundle of goochie-goochie-goo that so quickly took to our family, I knew I was hooked. Even if I hadn't been, I knew I was outnumbered.

Ruby, named for Mom's birthstone, came home with us in early May. Five years ago. Lifting that "funk" that had clouded our air for the whole spring.

Yeah, the carpets now get shampooed and vacuumed more frequently. Yeah, my socks have white fur stuck to them occasionally. Yeah, sometimes a leftover snack will disappear off the kitchen counter. Yeah, sometimes stepping in a pile of poop in the yard is annoying. Yeah, sometimes our house smells like wet dog after a walk in the rain. Worse, I've had to learn that dogs have gas just like humans.

And you know what? Who cares. Really, for all the love and smiles that she has brought to our lives, Ruby can certainly shed and traipse some dirt through the house occasionally. All it takes is one look at Ruby cuddling with the kids at bedtime to know that some things are worth the inconvenience. She is, quite simply, an important part of our family--our fourth kid, even.

So yeah, I've talked the (baby) talk. "Where's my Ruby, Ruby, Ruby?" you might hear me say when I get home from work. Without shame. That might be me on my knee, kneeling at her face level, tickling her ears while I whisper "We love you, Ruby." That would be my eyes, gleaming, as I throw the tennis ball and she chases it down, returning it at my feet.

My favorite thing about Ruby, though? Late at night, while we are all sleeping, she does her rounds, nudging open each of the kid's bedroom door and checking on them. Even my wife and I are included in her rounds. And if she suspects anything unusual, she can be found lying at the base of our stairs, ready to protect us as necessary. Otherwise, you'll find her randomly sleeping in one of the bedrooms, at the foot of the bed, every night. Snoring and farting. And fitting in beautifully.

Many of our family and friends now have indoor pets, most of them making adjustments similar to us, and we are happy to be included in this group. And, patients that come in with hair on their clothes no longer make me cringe. Well, except for the frail, elderly woman who has the hair of ten cats clinging to her wool sweater. Excuse me while I go sneeze...okay, I'm back. But I can easily picture these patients, in their home, cuddling up to their pets, their smiles bigger and better than any medicine I might possibly prescribe.

If you ever wondered about or considered an indoor pet, but opted out, reconsider. I am living proof of the convert that exists in all of us.

Happy 5th Birthday, Ruby! We hope you like your raw-hide presents and doggy-cake!

Now...get over here and give me a big kissy-kissy...

As always, big thanks for reading. This post is dedicated to my sister Rosie's little Havanese, Maggie, who will only drink bottled water and snack on mini-marshmallows! And my sister Susie's dog, Knuckles, who was the king of all self-lickers! LOL Have a good weekend...