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His jailors were kind, even courteous, but they were increasingly concerned; it seemed obvious that unless someone gave him a reprieve it was going to be their responsibility to execute him.

He had come to this pretty pass by an odd road. As near as we have been able to tell, from conversations with his jailors and through reading his paperwork, he had been in police or security training and had somehow flunked out. And when his trainers tried to push him all the harder, he had apparently rebelled and become difficult and withdrawn, further assuring his failure.

That is how we found him the day we met.

All four of us were there, my wife and myself and our two children, Joe and Kate, and we were searching the cages to see if there was a friendly face and good eyes that might entice us to provide a reprieve and take a chance on having a jailbird enter our family domain.

He was an unlikely candidate.

When I approached his cage, he immediately retreated to the farthest back corner and stared at me, his big golden eyes never leaving mine. But he didn’t growl or snarl. He just looked back at me. I returned his gaze for a long minute, at first of course feeling that this would not be the dog to have around children, but then finding myself curious that unlike so many other animals confined in the MSPCA facility on Rte. 28 in Centerville, this one was neither pleading nor aggressive.

If anything, this big, golden creature was neutral. He was considering me as I was considering him, only from a safe distance away from the bars.

And he was strikingly handsome. A tall, deep-chested male with a large but well shaped head, short hair in varying shades of gold and a little trace of black running up his tail, which curved up when he was alert. His large dark gold eyes were rimmed with black, and his eyelashes were golden. At first I thought he was just a big Golden Lab, but the more I looked at him the more I felt that wasn’t the whole story.

He never wavered. He watched me carefully, and was clearly prepared to do so as long as I was going to watch him, but he never barked, snarled or growled, he just stayed as far away from me as he could in the limited confines of the cage.

And I became intrigued.

I called my family over, and with them came a surprise.

As soon as the big golden dog saw my wife and daughter, his tail started wagging and he came closer to the bars of the cage. I stepped back and motioned my son to do the same. As soon as we did, the dog came up to the bars and was quietly, almost elegantly friendly. His tail wagged, but not frenetically, his eyes showed gentleness rather than wariness, and he stood waiting to see what they would do rather than put himself right up to the bars.

Just at this point a young woman who was the MSPCA staffer on duty came up to us and introduced herself; if I remember correctly, her name was Melissa Dean. She was quick to ask if we would like to meet “Rufus,” and exhibited true concern. We soon learned why as she explained that she thought he was a great dog but that he was slated for expiration (euthanasia) within a week, having come to the end of the time when he was available for adoption.

We agreed to meet him, and waited outside for him to be brought out on a leash. My view was simple; if he would not come to my son or me, or if he exhibited aggression, there would be nothing we could do with him. But that wasn’t the case. Melissa led him to us and while he showed warmth to my wife and daughter, he showed passivity to my son and me. He allowed himself to be walked by my son, and then by me, quietly and without aggression, but when my wife and daughter walked him he was lively, even frisky in his obvious delight to be out of the cage.

Our decision wasn’t made that day, however, since it was clear Rufus had some issues regarding male humans. We talked it over extensively, looked at other dogs in other kennels, and then spoke again, at greater length, with Melissa. We learned that Rufus was about 14 months old, a Golden Lab and Rottweiler mix, and that he had been bred and initially trained in Rochester, MA, one of the last rural towns in the area.

The Rottweiler part of his genealogy gave us pause, but it did explain his appearance; he looked, as an acquaintance later said, “like the biggest damn Golden I’ve ever seen.” His chest and stance was deep and broad, his head was wide and large, and he was a solid, muscular 115 pounds.

We were told that Rufus’ time was increasingly short, and that everyone else who viewed him seemed to pass him by, partly due to his size but also because of his reluctance to come near male humans.

In the end, of course, we all agreed to give Rufus a chance, rationalizing that if it didn’t work out at least he would have had some additional time and would also have gained another chance at adoption if we returned him to jail.

It was a bit rocky at first, since it was quickly apparent that Rufus would tolerate my son and me as his handlers, but considered all other males suspect. Yet his vast gentleness with my daughter and my wife seemed to indicate to all of us that his real personality was reflected when he was with them.

And with that in mind we changed his name, casting about to find something close to Rufus, with generally the same sound but without the history and the multi-syllabic resonance. We settled on Ruff, taking a cue from the name of Dennis the Menace’s big, hairy goof of a cartoon creature.

It was only a few months before his suspicion of males began to wear off, but it required some work on our part. And in the process we learned from him as well. We discovered that he was extremely well trained. He was much more than just house broken; he would only relieve himself in a field or woods, away from a lawn or any traveled area. We also learned, when a contractor friend of ours happened to make a quick hand gesture to emphasize a point, that Ruff had been trained in that manner as well. He had been lying on the floor, watching us, and when our friend moved his hand, he got up quickly and moved next to us, standing alert. Our friend wasn’t able to duplicate the gesture, but over time we saw this phenomenon a number of times, bringing varying responses.

Also, around the same time, we learned that Ruff wasn’t happy near a firing range. When a gun was fired, he was very interested in being as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.

So in the end we put all of the random facts together, including our knowledge that there are dog breeders in Rochester who train police and security dogs – some of whom have experimented with mixing large breeds – and concluded that Ruff likely was in such a training program and flunked out. We also assumed that the process leading up to dismissal involved harsher discipline, which probably led to his mistrust of males, and perhaps even his dislike for the sound of firearms.

But it didn’t take long before his true nature emerged. Using our assumptions we practiced a sort of reverse training; that is, whenever he was gentle and friendly to male friends who were strangers to him, he was rewarded. He quickly demonstrated that gentleness was his predilection. He became the mini-horse that the kids rode and wrestled with, and the mini-draft horse that pulled my son along as he sat on his ten-speed bike holding the leash.

Ruff became more and more mild mannered as the years went by. The kids graduated high school and went on to college, and his delight was limitless when they returned. He remembered their friends, and ours as well, and showed it with grace. One of my daughter’s friends told her that it was because of him that she lost her fear of big dogs. Yet he was still protective of the house at night, and during the day if he was home alone. And we never worried when the kids were out walking or home alone, although as time went on we all realized that he might be impressive to strangers but anyone who knew him understood he was a ‘big wussie.’

Sharon on the front desk, and other people at the Falmouth Animal Hospital, located on a small hill off Rte. 151 in North Falmouth, who groomed him from time to time and who cared for him when he had problems, called him ‘the gentle giant.’

His muzzle began turning gray a couple of years ago, and by this year he was not only gray, but some of his facial hairs were white. We teased him about getting old, and sometimes he seemed to understand, even though given the traditional formula – seven dog years to one of ours – he was only in his late fifties. But then about two months ago we noticed he was less active, and soon after that he seemed lethargic.

Don Delinks and his associates at the Falmouth Animal Hospital examined him several times and did tests, informing us he was anemic and that it could be a simple infection, or it could be a sign of a tumor. We gave him antibiotics and he bounced back, enjoying about 10 days of true normalcy, but then he had a relapse. A more extensive blood test was done, and stronger antibiotics were given, but this time the response was only a partial return to his old self.

He never complained. He didn’t whine or whimper, and certainly never snarled or snapped, no matter how bad he was feeling. He was just lethargic, but when he sidled up to us, he stayed longer and wanted to be petted more.

The final test results came back within 48 hours of what became our day of decision, Saturday, November 23^rd, 2002.

We had lengthy discussions with Dr. Delinks on Friday, and he was very helpful and considerate in giving us all of our options. We left off with the expectation that Ruff would go in for more extensive tests, including x-rays and ultrasound on Monday. But by Friday night we knew that wouldn’t work out.

Poor Ruff lay prone for hours, and when he moved 15 feet to his water bowl, he panted for several minutes afterwards. And worst of all, he was clearly becoming bloated, even though he couldn’t eat.

By Saturday morning we had made arrangements to have Ruff examined by Don Delinks’s longtime associate, Paul Kotas, who knew Ruff from many past visits and who quickly encouraged us to bring him in for a first-hand look and examination.

Fastidious as always, Ruff went to the door about 9 a.m. Saturday morning to go out. He hadn’t been out in over 24 hours, although we had encouraged him to do so. He went across the lawn toward the field, but his rear legs gave out and he stumbled. I started to go out to help, but he picked himself up and made it to the field, where he relieved himself but then lay down at the edge of the lawn, obviously exhausted.

We let him rest for some minutes, then drove the car up next to him. He managed to get up and we helped him into the back seat. Even that effort left him panting.

When we got to Falmouth Animal Hospital it was clear he couldn’t get out on his own, and a 115-pound dog isn’t easy to carry. Dr. Kotas and other veterinary hospital staff helped and we put him on a stretcher and took him into the building.

After just a preliminary examination, it was clear to Dr. Kotas that Ruff was suffering from extensive internal bleeding, and that in all likelihood he had a tumor that had burst. We sat in an examination room a couple of doors down from where Ruff lay prone, near the ultra-sound equipment, and discussed the probabilities, all of which looked dark. Several more expensive tests, x-rays and ultra sound, could be done, but it was readily admitted they would probably confirm what was already guessed by the physical exam.

The only ray of hope was that the tests might show it was only a burst tumor of the spleen, which could indicate that an operation to remove the spleen would be successful. But the operation, complete with transfusions and related recovery hospitalization, would clearly run toward thousands of dollars, and if the operation revealed malignancy it would be a choice of removing what was visible and pursuing chemotherapy, or if it was too widespread, closing him up and letting him pass.

We aren’t poor, but we’re a long way from rich, so now we were faced with measuring costs against our hearts. And naturally the question of euthanasia entered the discussion, a thought that chilled us completely, all the more so since this was happening on a weekend and our two young adult children were both away, one at college and the other, having graduated, was working out of town this particular weekend. We knew they would be devastated to learn that Ruff had gone from ill to his death.

And as we began this terrible discussion, a soft rhythmic click of toenails on linoleum announced the arrival of Ruff, who peered tentatively around the door and then walked in and up to us, putting himself next to us and his head on my lap. His strength soon lapsed and he lay down, but his effort made it impossible to continue discussing euthanasia. We told Paul Kotas to go ahead with the next round of tests, and he told us he’d call when the results were complete.

We went home to continue our Saturday projects, not saying much and glad to have work to do that would keep our minds off the pending phone call.

It was several hours before Dr. Kotas called back, and the tone of his voice said as much as his words. The tests showed that the tumor had indeed originated on the spleen, but that it had now involved the liver, and although there was no sign of tumors on his lungs, there was fluid, which was a very negative sign. The possibility of malignancy was now higher, and this was supported by the final blood tests that showed some irregular cells along with an extremely high white count. And of course he was bleeding internally.

We asked another battery of questions, and then asked Paul if we could have a few minutes to talk and call him back. He was very gracious and even though it was now mid-afternoon and the hospital closed at 5 for the weekend, he made it clear he would be available to help us. It was, to say the least, an agonizing discussion, but we finally concluded that euthanasia was the only logical option. We called Dr. Kotas back and explained our decision, then told him we would come down immediately to say goodbye to our friend and companion.

Poor Ruff was prone on the floor, his belly shaved from the testing, and clearly unable to move. But his eyes were clear and he knew us, his tail began slowly swishing as soon as we came into the room. We got down on the floor and patted and stroked him, talking with him. Paul told us to take as much time as we needed.

How many minutes we spent with him I don’t know, but at the end my wife suggested we take his collar with all his tags. We did, and somehow when he looked at me I felt he knew his time was at hand. We asked Dr. Kotas all the hard questions about the procedure, and being satisfied that it was as humane as possible, we took our leave of the great dog, patting and stroking him one last time. As we left I looked back, and the look of resigned intelligence in his golden eyes will I’m certain remain with me forever.

As we drove silently home, my wife quietly weeping, I had the unusual thought that if it was this hard for us to part with a great animal, what must it have been like for families who have ordered a loved one disconnected from life support, or who obeyed the desires of a family member who sought euthanasia in lieu of a lingering and hard death.

The thought, of course, only underscored how deeply we felt our personal loss, which was mitigated only slightly by recalling that once Ruff left his MSPCA cage, he was never incarcerated again and did in fact live a healthy life well into his late fifties. And while we still feel his life was too short, the bulk of it was spent among companions who loved him and cared for him. He now lives on in our hearts and minds, and the memory is vividly refreshed every time we come home and there is no friendly face at the door expressing delight at our return, no matter how long we may have been away.