Ruffly Speaking

felt optimistic about her progress. Terriers have little aptitude for singing tricks, but even if Jennie had spent years without producing so much as a little yowl, Morris would have maintained his faith in her. I once overheard someone—it must have been Doug Winer—accuse Morris of always thinking that the glass was half full. I remember Morris’s rejoinder. Yes, indeed, he replied, half full of Sapphire Bombay gin.
    The high-pitched barking that now accompanied the chimes was loud and intent, if not melodic. The little dog who produced it proved to be what the vernacular styles a Heinz. At a guess, Ruffly had some Papillon, Chihuahua, foxhound, toy Manchester terrier, and beagle, possibly mixed with some basenji. But if you want a clear picture of him, imagine a Sheltie-size smooth fox terrier body; a black-and-tan coat; and the bright, intelligent dark brown eyes of a Pomeranian. Ruffly’s most striking features, though, were his rounded, stand-up Cardigan Welsh corgi ears, one perfectly upright, the other folded slightly at the tip, both utterly immense in proportion to his head and body, like two gigantic flexible satellite dish antennas on a tiny cottage, one mounted solidly on the roof, the other listing as if fixed in the act of clutching some invisible signal. Oddly enough, Ruffly’s serious expression and those mammoth, improbable puppy ears gave him the distinctive beauty of a dog perfectly suited to fulfill his purpose. Fifty-seven varieties and all, Ruffly was an unmistakable purebred, A.K.C.—All Kinds Combined—the perfect prototype of the all-American hearing dog.
    When I’d rung the bell, Ruffly’s prancing and yapping had been audible, but by the time Stephanie Benson opened the door and welcomed me, the dog was frozen in a sit-stay with nothing moving except his bright eyes and those sound-grabbing ears. Leah had said that he was having problems. I saw no sign of them at all.
    Like almost everyone else who lacks a major physical °r sensory disability, I practically don’t notice those of other people and am immediately relaxed and comfortable with anyone who has one. Furthermore, all my friends will testify that if, instead of being someone with hearing aids, the woman who greeted me had had no head or if she’d been a ringer for my deceased mother or even an obvious clone of me, I’d still have looked at the dog first. Having studied the dog, Ruffly, I did not then stare rudely at Stephanie Benson’s hearing aids, which were larger than Rita’s but had the same kinds of little switches and dials. Their color was the same, too, what Rita vilified as “prosthetic pink.” But, as I’ve said, nothing about disability makes me in the least bit ill at ease, apprehensive, or self-conscious. I’m never afraid that I’ll do or say the wrong thing. What happened as I followed Stephanie Benson across the foyer of Morris’s house was a meaningless accident. That I have executed thousands of about-turns in obedience rings covered with tom, taped, curly-edged rubber mats without once falling on my face is irrelevant. I just plain tripped.
    I’ve liberated myself from stereotypes about priests, too. It’s thus unnecessary to point out that when Stephanie Benson kindly knelt down to make sure that I hadn’t broken anything, I did not imagine that she would chant prayers over my bruised and recumbent body. I was, however, a little surprised to hear her say, “These bare floors are just hell on rubber soles.” Rita would have made something of it, of course. Hell and soles in a single sentence? But, then, Rita makes something of anything. “I’ve got to put a rug down here,” Stephanie Benson added. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    I scrambled to my feet. “Fine,” I said.
    Stephanie Benson smiled. She was a tall woman with a large frame and substantial muscles, bosomy, too, but not heavy. She had strong features and unusually square, widely spaced teeth that looked as if she’d just brushed them. Her face looked freshly washed, too. Her skin was thick and leathery, something like the insides of Ruffly’s ears. She wore no makeup, but, in its stead, a heavy coat of shiny moisturizer. Each of her hands was about the size of the dog’s head, and on the fingers of both, she wore silver and turquoise rings that were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the heavy Navajo squash blossom necklace that almost covered the top half of her white jersey dress. Her eyes were almost