My Life, by Rushie. Fred Evans

      AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

      An autobiography by a dog? I know you’re thinking that’s preposterous. Who ever heard of a dog telling her own story? While unusual, I assure you—dog’s honor—this is my story. My thoughts have been faithfully transcribed in this book.

      To the skeptical reader, I’ll be the first to admit that there are good reasons for the scarcity of canine literature. Paws are a major issue. It’s hard to hold a pen, almost impossible to type.

Although dogs can understand human (and some of us have a large vocabulary), it is our inability to speak human that is the major obstacle in the development of canine literature. Not only does it rule out dictation, because all literature is written in human, most dogs don’t even consider recording their experiences. Dogs may think about careers as herders, guards, hunters, and companions but rarely as writers. In fact, writing this autobiography never crossed my mind until by chance I happened on to the diary kept by my human father, D.1 In his diary, D described particular events of my life. As I read the diary, I was shocked at how profoundly M&D, who love me dearly and whom I love in return, misunderstood me.

      Given my privileged upbringing and advanced education (I have graduated from two obedience schools, but was largely home schooled), I thought, “Rushie, you have an obligation to yourself and to future generations to set the record straight.” My intention, first and foremost, is to tell my story, but I also hope to make a small contribution to human understanding of dogs.

      For readers of a literal bent, I did not actually write this book—not in the sense of putting pen to paper or typing on a laptop. (I don’t ask the reader to believe that I miraculously grew fingers and opposable thumbs.) I used a rather simple literary device common among celebrities and important historical figures: I told my story to someone who could write it for me. I chose D as my ghostwriter because over the years we’ve developed a very special ability to communicate.

      He’s transcribed my thoughts faithfully, if not always eloquently. I’d have preferred a better writer, but one does not choose one’s parents, and I thank him for giving me the opportunity to express my views.

      The reader will note that the book’s format is unique for an autobiography in that it isn’t written entirely by me. I first quote relevant portions of D’s diary and then add my comments. I do this because it documents the frequent miscommunication between dogs and humans while allowing me to tell the reader about my interesting and unusual life.

      Although the book begins with my first memories as a puppy, it was written over the past two years, beginning just six months after I discovered D’s diary entries and ending with this Foreword.

      To all of the dog owners who read this I hope you enjoy my autobiography and learn something about your dog in the process. To all of the dogs who will never read this but nevertheless will benefit, you may thank me at the Rainbow Bridge.

      White Rush

      February 6, 2006

1. My human parents consist of Fred Evans, my father, and Natalie West my mother. Our family is close and I consider their relatives my relatives and their friends my friends. As I grew up, however, I ceased calling them “Mom” and “Dad” and referred to them instead as “M” and “D.” I’m not totally sure why I did this, certainly not because I thought less of them as an adult than as a puppy. Perhaps it was because of the security, navigation, and other responsibilities I had implied a more equal relationship than is typical between a human and a dog. In life I began calling them M and D about the age of two. In the book I refer to them as M and D throughout.

      A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR’S ASSISTANT

      Helping Rushie write her autobiography has been an amazing experience. She is nothing if not an exacting taskmaster. On weekends we began the day at 6:30 a.m., sharp. I never needed to set my alarm. Rushie woke me with a gentle paw to the shoulder, which became less and less gentle until I actually got out of bed. She monitored my progress as I showered, dressed, ate breakfast and read the paper. She listened attentively while I commented on the day’s news. After I finished my cereal, Rushie licked the remaining milk from the bowl and we went to work.

      When we began the project we lived in Fresno, and we would move from the kitchen to the den where she would guard the house and dictate while I typed. On weekends we usually worked four hours straight. Rushie’s powers of concentration and ability to multitask were impressive. It was a side of her I had not known previously.

      During the week we would write in the evening before dinner. These weren’t as intense as the weekend sessions, but were nonetheless productive. About a year into the book, we moved to Northridge, California. Rushie’s health began to deteriorate rapidly. She slowed physically, but not mentally. Through sheer determination she forged ahead on the book, completing it just before she died.

      Start to finish completing the first draft took two years. At the conclusion we both felt a great sense of accomplishment. And by working together so closely for so long, I felt that I had a far more profound and intimate understanding of Rushie than previously. Our bond was closer than ever and based on a new level of mutual respect.

      I’ll never forget when Rushie first became aware of my diary. One evening my wife, Natalie, and I were talking about how Rushie had refused to walk with her earlier that day. Natalie was exasperated. I laughed and said I thought I’d add the incident to my diary. I went to the study, retrieved the diary, returned to the living room and began to read some of the previous entries about Rushie out loud. Natalie and I were having a great time at Rushie’s expense when I noticed Rushie sitting upright looking at me sternly. After reading a few entries I took the diary back to the study, made the entry about Rushie’s refusal to walk with Natalie that day and returned to the living room.

      Later when we sat for dinner Natalie noticed that Rushie hadn’t joined us. This was very unusual. She called Rushie. Nothing. She started looking around the house (did she somehow get locked outside?) and finally found her in the den.

      Natalie called, “Fred. Come here. You have to see this!” I walked in to see Rushie sitting on the chair staring at my diary, as it lay open on the desk. “Did you give Rushie permission to read your diary?” she asked. We laughed and walked back into the living room while Rushie stayed put. Twenty minutes later Rushie joined us, but seemed unusually subdued.

      I couldn’t stop thinking about Rushie’s reaction to my diary. Then one evening Natalie and I were talking during dinner at our favorite Japanese restaurant. The conversation kept coming back to Rushie and the diary. We wondered what she would say in response to some of the entries. “Why don’t you write a book that features Rushie’s responses to your diary entries?” Natalie suggested. “Let her tell her side of the story.” The idea for My Life was born.

      As I proceeded to write the book, I began to wonder, and still do, whose idea it really was. At first, there was no question in my mind that it was Natalie’s

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