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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
In July of 2021, my husband, daughter and I flew to Whitehorse to care for my father, who had advanced intestinal cancer. I was burned out from a year of lockdowns and online schooling a kindergartener, so I’d taken a leave from work and we were going to spend a month living under the midnight sun in the town of my youth.
My husband planned to work remotely, and our daughter was thrilled to spend the summer with my father’s 10-pound pup, Scruffy, who months before had charmed her out of a paralyzing fear of dogs.
Dad had adopted Scruffy, likely some sort of shih tzu-terrier mix, from the local shelter two years before and renamed him to reflect his unkempt appearance. His white fur was long and messy, his ears flapped like wings as he ran, and his too-long nails click-clacked across the floor.
Though Scruffy had endless patience for small children, he was territorial and protective, and barked aggressively at every person who dared walk by the house. Undeterred by his tiny stature, he took particular umbrage with the mailman; no matter where that dog was in the house each morning, he made it his mission to run to the door to snarl at the poor letter carrier the moment the mailbox lid creaked open.
A few days before we were set to arrive, my father called to say he was being flown down to Vancouver for another surgery and would be gone for almost our entire trip. I’d already booked the leave from work, so even though my dad wouldn’t be there, we made the trip north anyway.
Alone in my father’s house with nothing to do, it was Scruffy who saved us. There were no kids for my daughter to play with, but there was a sprightly pup who loved to play fetch. The dog needed to be walked, and those walks were opportunities to explore and acquaint my family with where I’d grown up.
The valley walls surrounding my father’s neighbourhood had steep cliffs of clay that we climbed for adventure – mountain climbing, as my five-year-old dubbed it. Walks down by the river were opportunities for her to take off her shoes and let the frigid water run over her feet – something she never got to do in downtown Toronto.
Scruffy and I took my family on walking tours to my old school where my picture still hangs, past my childhood home where my playhouse remains, and through the forest paths on which I once rode my bike. I had rushed to leave that small town behind as soon as I finished high school, and had visited home infrequently, but it remained a part of who I was that I felt compelled to share with them.
My father, who was both a widower and a divorcé, had lived alone for many years in a rented house. I spent my days organizing his closets, which hadn’t been looked at in at least a decade, and packing up his clothes, which were far too big on his wasting body. As I worked, I could hear my daughter in the other room, trying to teach the dog new tricks.
“When is Grampa going to get better?” she asked me one morning.
“I don’t think he is,” I told her.
She paused, contemplating the meaning of what I had said. “But who will take care of Scruffy?”
My dad, who had loved the idea of being a grandfather but had less readily embraced the real-life chaos of small children, hadn’t made a significant impact on her psyche. But his dog, who loved without hesitation, sure had.
Scruffy had a way about him that made people want to serve him. After our second family dog died when she was 15, my dad was heartbroken. Adopting Scruffy gave him purpose, and he liked nothing more than going for a long car ride with the small dog in the seat beside him.
Dad dutifully cooked Scruffy’s vet-ordered diet of chicken breast and white rice every few days and ensured leftovers were always warmed in the microwave, though he never put the same love into his own meals, which came from either a restaurant or the prepared-food aisle at the grocery.
Once I took over that summer, I found myself cooking dinner for the dog alongside meals for my family.
By fall, we had resumed our life in Toronto, and Dad was back home in Whitehorse. My siblings, my aunt and I were taking turns flying up to the Yukon to take care of him postsurgery, then through chemo and then through his final weeks of life.
Scruffy brought comfort to each person in a different way. The work needed to care for the dog – getting out for walks, cooking healthy meals, playing tug-of-war with a squeaky toy – was also the work we needed to care for ourselves during an otherwise overwhelming time.
When I visited again in November on my own, my father was tired and napped a lot, and the winter days were short and dark. With no one to talk to, I found myself chatting with Scruffy when he’d greet me each morning.
I gave him a series of increasingly absurd nicknames: Scruffster, Scruff-man, Scruffmaster, Sir Scruffington the Third. He’d happily respond to them all, always excited to see me. He’d sit beside me on the couch while my dad and I watched Jeopardy!, or sleep at my feet while I worked remotely.
When Dad went to the hospital by ambulance at 3 a.m., or when we finally had to move him to the hospice, Scruffy followed me to bed at night and slept tightly by my side.
The final months of the year were hard on him. Visitors came and went. My father died. Boxes were packed and furniture was given away.
Finding a home for his dog was one of the few things my dad planned in advance of his death. My siblings and I all lived in apartments and our hectic lives couldn’t absorb a pet, but it didn’t matter anyway because months before, Scruffy had won the heart of my father’s homecare nurse.
When the house was nearly empty, we gathered up Scruffy’s toys and bed, and took him to his new home where he would have a sunny window to nap in and a dog brother named Scout. Finally, we all left for good.
Six months after my father died, my brother and I returned to the Yukon to inter his ashes. Being back in my hometown for the last time, with my father gone and his house empty, was a heavy load. Still feeling guilty for not being able to adopt Scruffy myself, I went to the nurse’s home.
As I peeked through the door, Scruffy heard the noise and looked up at me. He stared, head cocked to one side as if puzzled, but he didn’t bark. When I opened the door, he ran to me, as excited as ever. This little dog, who had helped me through one of the worst years of my life, did not hold a grudge.
Lizz Bryce lives in Toronto