God put Rufus T. Hound in our lives at just the right time. Now we have to say goodbye

We said goodbye to an old friend this week.

For the last 10 years, Rufus T. Hound has clicked his way up and down our hallways, stolen bites of food from our kids who looked away for half a second, guarded our front porch, and, in his role as the most perfect sundial God ever created, chased every warm spot in our home.

He once stole and ate an entire pizza from a high counter, and we have no idea how he got up there.

But the time had come. My wife had the strength to finally make the call that I couldn’t make; truly, she’s the rock of our family.

I thought we might lose Rufus a few years ago, but one removed spleen later he bounced back and gave us more precious time. Thanks to his resilience, our youngest child should remember him.

I remember the night we found him, a snowy January evening in 2011. My wife, our toddler and I had ventured out to Feeder’s Supply for some goldfish. In those days, the Humane Society’s pet rescue installation sat at the front of the store, and as I parked the car, my wife waited at the front because — after one look — she knew I wouldn’t leave without him.

She was right. As I shook the snow from my coat, I said to her: “We are taking this dog home.”

She rolled her eyes, but I knew she liked him, too — a full-blown basset hound standing there like he owned the place.

We were still reeling from our last dog. The previous August, we lost a baby and our faithful beagle, Charlotte, within hours of each other. It was the most devastating week of our marriage (still is).

When I worked at the White House, we rescued Charlotte — a much-needed friend in Washington, as President Truman once said. She came home to Louisville with us and was a cheerful companion every day of her life.

As I sat with my wife in a sad, dark hospital room in August of 2010, my mother-in-law called to say that Charlotte had collapsed. I rushed home and took her to the vet, but she was gone within hours. You will never convince me that Charlotte wasn’t cosmically connected to our little girl. Molly needed a friend where she was going, and Charlotte wasn’t about to let her go alone.

Replacing Charlotte seemed unthinkable.

And then we met and named Rufus, after my grandfather, a name allowed by my wife as a consolation prize rather than letting me saddle our next kid with it. It was the perfect name for an old basset hound.

Rufus was in rough shape. He was 15 pounds underweight and fighting a respiratory infection, dirty ears and chipped teeth. We fussed over him for weeks and nursed him back to health. He was stubborn at first, but eventually eased his way into a comfortable life at home instead of a scavenger’s life on the streets.

Every one of our kids tried to ride him. They all grabbed his long, beautiful ears. They steadied themselves on his sturdy body as they learned to stand and walk. Their noisier toys made him howl and carry on.

And he patiently absorbed their love like the good boy he was.

The only person he ever bit was a reporter who had stopped by the house for an interview. Rufus went barreling down the driveway where the journalist grabbed his collar to stop him from running into the road, startling Rufus.

Don’t worry; Rufus just nipped his jacket. He did, after all, live with a PR man.

We aren’t quite sure of his age. Rufus was estimated at 5 to 7 years when we got him, making him 15 to 17 today, a much longer life than the average basset. (He was born during Bush 43’s administration!)

And in his longevity, we take solace in our decision to say goodbye. I don’t know the circumstances that led Rufus to us, but I know the quality of his life since and the joy he brought our family over the last 10 years. I think God puts these good boys in our path at just the right time.

My wife and I needed Rufus to help us move on — from our previous dog and our lost baby. Our house was supposed to be filled once again with coos and cries and instead was filled with musical howls, sad eyes and sloppy wet basset kisses.

My wife says we bought our current house mostly for Rufus, with its fenced backyard and doggy door. And life at home won’t be the same without our family’s scheduler.

In the morning stillness, you heard his nails clicking on the hardwood floors as he stirred for his first daily mission: prompting us for breakfast. You could set a watch by his insistent meal reminders.

In the afternoons he performed a perimeter check, his white-tipped tail up as though he were hunting rabbits or some other invader. I liked to think he is descended from the hounds gifted to George Washington by the Marquis de Lafayette, which historical lore holds were among the first bassets in America.

He may be gone, but I’ll hear those clicks and see that tail in my mind’s eye forever.

Our kids have a lot of questions about why Rufus had to leave us, and we are using this opportunity to talk to them about life, old age and our responsibility to do right by the pets that enrich our lives, even when it is time to say goodbye.

His last days were spent getting extra scratches, extra treats and extra love. We let the old man sit on the front porch for a while, his favorite place for watching the world go by and ruminating on whatever occupies a basset hound’s thoughts.

I hope he was as happy with us as we were with him. Godspeed, Rufus. You were a good boy.