It’s been a year since Ruffian joined our pack, fifty-eight pounds of cream-colored cheer with a puzzle of a past. Twelve months of pawprints moving in a (mostly) positive direction.

The shaved patches of infected skin have healed, now covered with coat that floats in wispy clouds across the hardwood of our home, and he’s bulked up a bit, tipping the big scale in the vet clinic waiting room at just under seventy pounds.

He’s still got an affinity for paper towels, napkins, and cash register receipts, leather coasters, gloves and golf shoes, slippers from the closet, dirty laundry from the hamper, and clean socks from the dryer. And, despite 12 inches of surgical staple scar across his belly, throw rugs.

But he now relinquishes the riches with reduced resistance, especially if encouraged to bring the treasures to me so he can show off his great find.

He still wrestles with his memory foam bed, but more for energy disengagement than for enemy domination.
He pees on the daylilies, the hostas and the shavings in the stalls, but never in the house.

He still barks at the cats sitting on the sidewalk, but no longer at the horses walking in the barn.

He’ll squeeze through an open stall door to snack on Chicago’s grain but waits at the barn door while I empty the manure bucket in the bin on the other side of the driveway.

He’s earned supervised access to the free world of Four Sticks, where he runs giant figure-8’s around the mound, across the driveway, between the trees and behind the house, a gleeful lope through the yard, sometimes sideswiping the ground with his left hip when he loses control in the turn.

Down the straight-a-ways he flings his legs full-length with joyful abandon and a curiously consistent preference for the right lead, just like his big red barn brother.

He discovered the deer in the back of the pasture and developed a passion for their pursuit, but miraculously returns to the sound of my blaze orange plastic whistle for the promise of a few soft and chewy beef treats.

He relishes a good roll in the greasy piles of fresh horse manures but… The positive spin on this one is still a work in progress.

Last fall we completed a Beginner Obedience class, which is to say we attended four of the five sessions for which he was willing to get out of the truck, but with all the dogs and all the training classes I’ve done, I don’t remember feeling less successful, and that includes Dixie the crabby lab and Boone, the laggardly greyhound. Week 5 was better than Week 1, but barely.

But this summer we completed a Therapy Dog training class, for which I had to only tap the corner of his crate to coax him out of the truck. And once inside the building, he showed potential. Still needs a little polishing, but definitely a little diamond in the Ruff.

He’s settled in, chilled out, grown up, slowed down, emptied our checking account and filled our hearts.

It’s been a pretty good year.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Final Night
Last night of class
We’ll go and then
We’ll pass our test
Just don’t know when