Me Again by Keith Cronin

I thought I was becoming ill, then I realized that I was simply feeling . Responding for the first time to something from my past that I recognized.
    “Rufus,” I said aloud, trying the name out. “Rufus!”
    I felt simultaneously happy and sad as I stared at that furry black face. It was a happy face. A loving face.
    “Tell me about Rufus,” I demanded, not looking up. I didn’t dare tear my eyes away from my first glimpse of an honest-to-God memory.
    My mother laughed. “Rufus,” she said, “was a handful. Full of love and sweet as sugar, but utterly impossible to control. He was always getting outside, chasing cats and picking fights with dogs, even if they were twice his size.”
    She shook her head. “He was a fighter right up to the end.”
    “Rufus is dead?” I realized immediately how stupid my question was. Even without grasping the math, I knew a dog that had been full-grown when that picture was taken – when I was just a small boy – couldn’t still be alive.
    My mother nodded. “Cancer. We did everything we could for him, but it got so bad we finally had to put him to sleep.” Looking at me uncertainly, she said, “Do you understand what putting something to sleep is?”
    “Yeah,” I said, “I understand.” I could definitely relate to the concept of being put to sleep, although in my case it hadn’t been done to me on purpose. Nor, as it turned out, had it been permanent, despite some widely held expectations.
    “You were heartbroken. You loved that dog dearly. And the feeling was mutual.” She smiled, remembering. “He belonged to all of us, and your poor father got stuck with walking him when it rained and taking him to the vet and such, but there was never any question that Rufus was your dog. I swear, that dog stuck to you like glue. We used to call him your shadow.”
    I stopped talking. I was doing something foreign and new. I was remembering. Not in a very clear way – more at an emotional level. I remembered the love. And I remembered the sense of loss.
    I remembered something else. A name. Maddy. No, that was wrong. Maggie?
    “Did we have another dog?” I asked. “After Rufus?”
    Again my mother shook her head. “No, Rufus was our one and only.” She smiled affectionately at the photo. “We couldn’t bear to get any more pets after what happened,” she concluded, looking away.
    I sensed I had raised a sore subject, and regretted it. But my relentlessly cheerful mother quickly turned back to face me, her smile once more in place.
    “Let’s look through the rest of this album,” she said, “and see if there are any more shots of Rufus. He was such a cute dogger-wogger.”
    She laughed at herself. “Listen to me. It’s been twenty-some years, but I’m talking just like I did when Rufus was around. What is it about dogs that makes us fall into baby-talk?”
    “Dogger-wogger,” I repeated. “Think I remember that. Hey – did we used to call him... Rufus the doofus?”
    Now we were both laughing. I was glad to see my mother’s mood lightening. And I was delighted to have opened another door in my hallway of memories. I flipped the page, looking for more pictures of Rufus.
    Looking for more memories.
    * * * * *
    In the days that passed, I managed to have a number of brief – and, mercifully, less disastrous – conversations with Rebecca since that debacle in the PT room. Still, I was surprised when one day at lunchtime she approached my table in the hospital cafeteria.
    “Can I sit here?” she asked. She balanced a tray of food on top of her walker.
    I had my mouth full of grilled cheese sandwich, so I grunted and nodded. Yes, those communication skills had really come a long way.
    She put her tray on the table and sat down across from me. “I like their grilled cheese, too,” she said, looking at my plate.
    I managed to swallow, and dabbed hastily at my mouth with a napkin before replying.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Grilled cheese is good.” Unlike my