Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

All week, I’ve been loading donations for The Dr. John P. Ruffing VMD Pet Food Pantry into my borrowed Land Rover that we’ve dubbed St. Gertrude or Gertie. She contains multitudes of cat food.

Now,there’s no interior light so I bought a head lamp. I added a USB port to the cigarette light – oh yes, a bona fide cigarette lighter.

But I’m not here to talk about Gertie who does truly deserve her own post. Or cat food, today.

It is John. My dear beloved friend whose life ended at 41, 17 years ago. I’ve written countless posts about him because I do not want to forget, for any of us to forget this wonderful human who walked among us.

Who was Dr. John P Ruffing VMD

John befriended me when I was 15 years old. His mom had recently moved next door. He quickly picked up on my loneliness, silently witnessing the horrors of my homelife. None of this was fixable, so he helped me to forge new paths where I was beautiful, competent, inspiring, and brave. He was the second out gay man I met. Then taught me how to live my own queer life out and authentically.

For so long, we did everything together – movies, buffet dinners, craft shows, tv marathons, swimming, dancing, bingo, and endless family events. It is fair to say that our lives simply meshed. Until they didn’t. At one point, John was my prom date and had taught me some of ‘Dirty Dancing’ routine for the theme of the dance.

John graduated from Cal State and then from the University of Pennsylvania veterinary school. He worked with Dravosburg Veterinary Hospital, Castle Shannon VCA, Fox Chapel VCA, and Pleasant Hills Pet Hospital. He was hoping to join Cheyenne Veterinary Wellness Center just before his disability made that impossible.

Here’s where I do, in fact, need to talk about cat food. John was a once-in-a-generation veterinarian who inspired undying loyalty among his patients. He often set on the floor with the critters. He wept with their owners. HIs intuitive understanding of pets was just magical. He was magical.

Still, John was dog man. He adopted Japanese Chins with medical needs. He took in strays. His wall was a color coded chart detailing which dog needed what medications. He also color coded the dogs. His enduring commitment to their welfare was resolute and steadfast.

But, he like cats. Just not as much as dogs. So his sister asked if establishing a pet food pantry centering cats was a good use of his name. We do have dog food. And I can think of no greater legacy than connecting pet people with resources.

That’s what John did every day. Often he found ways to make medication affordable. Then he regularly gave away leashes and harnesses and carriers. Across the years, he invested a gazillion hours tending to the pets of his beloved ones. He bought pet angel pins for every single client whose pet had died. He was a once-in-a-decade veterinarian. He slid onto the floor to comfort the frightened animals. He would have spent hours with every client if possible. He gave out his home and cell phone numbers, taking calls all of the time. Yearly people would drive, literally, from New Jersey for vet appointments.

Once a month or so, John would collect me and drive down the witches road, I mean Route 51, to a feed store. Sometimes we headed to Finleyville. Or up north. The feed store was a cacophony of the current holiday stuff – stakes, wind socks, garden decor, etc. We would wander around admiring the stuff other people might buy, soaking up a cultural experience where rural life fused to capitalism.

Ah, yes, the cat food. Well, we were there to buy our monthly supply of food, cats and dogs for me, dogs for him. Voluminous 50 pound sacks and the never ending parade of friendly farm boys carried to our car as if the bags contained precious gems. I learned how to carry 50 pound sack of food just so on my shoulder, relying on my hips to give me balance. It was a skill, but also a dance between those farm boys and me. And John.

My favorite were the endless barrels of build treats- bones of all sizes and colors, pieces of marrow poking out from a slice of hone, pig ears among the many self-serve scales, encouraging us to add just a few scoops more to our stash. He taught me about pet food as brightly colored miniature dog bones slid through out fingers, languorous moments connecting me to the farm boys and the cashiers and the land itself.

So not the land itself.

John taught me the joy of tossing a handful of miniature treats to my adoring canine audience, something I continued right up until my last dog Ana did. The lavish excess, the thrill of the bones careening across the floor in n a thousand directions, the unabashed joy of the dogs.

I still do this with my cats sometimes. Their level of indifference to bringing me joy requires some adjustments to the ritual.

When I close my eyes, I remember the aromas, the satisfactory final twist to secure a plastic bag brimming with delights, the giant metal scoops nestled into a pile of delectables spilling from the wooden barrels. I remember John staggering toward the cart, arms laden with sustenance and joy.

These are precious memories that I keep in my heart even now. Driving deep into Greene County to find the special food a patient needed. Getting lost in Bridgeville while searching for a pet store located in Finleyville. The fish tank place in Squirrel Hill. Somewhere in Butler County. He had no qualms, no fears about being an out gay man in isolated areas. He just started talking about dogs. Worked like a charm.

As I now haul 20 bags of food up and down stairs or spend hours trying to drum up donations, I think of him and smile. He would hate the attention on him, but appreciate helping people. John appreciated good nutrition, of course, but he was never a snob when people couldn’t afford higher end foods. He always told me that the dog or cat who was hungry was better off fed.

“Sometimes good enough has to be good enough, Susie,” he would say. He was one of the very few people who called me Susie.

John was my forever best friend. I will never share that relationship with another living human being. There’s no way to follow up on the magic and support. John helped me learn my capacity to love and to accept love from others. So I have many loving friendships, but he was my best friend.

I wrote this in 2019

I hate those final moments in the funeral home. That wasn’t you. When they creep unbidden into my mind, I think with fierce intensity about my final moments with your dogs. Never have I wished more for the ability to communicate with animals than that night when I couldn’t explain to them what had happened to you. They’ve joined you by now. I hope that helps all of you.

I hate these final moments in this post and each post I write to you. You aren’t reading them. It is just my own struggle to find peace with your death. And how could I? 12 years doesn’t make me less angry at the injustice of it all. I’m furious, John. This was our song in that quirky high school platonic bff relationship way. Right now, I feel like you have jumped off the stage and danced away from me and I try to believe you’ll turn around and dance your way back. Because I know that no one will ever love me like you did, my friend. But that’s for me to figure out.

I hope you are no longer hurting or sad or alone. I hope you’ve found peace and light and joy.

My hope on this sad day is to connect with his former coworkers, colleagues, clients, classmates, and friends. To let them know that this spark of John lives on in both his family (great-niblings) and now this project.

The Dr. John P. Ruffing VMD Pet Food Pantry is located in an actual pantry built in 1900 in Manchester. It has nooks and crannies. I am learning how to wriggle into the furthest corners. It holds endless bags and cans of food. I am trying hard to dub it ‘The Ruff’ (get it?) but much like ‘fetch’, it ain’t happening. Yet.

What is the Manchester Community Cat Garden?

This is the overarching structure of the PLC projects – the pet pantry, our start-up free pet stuff store, mass trappings, and a pet tool lending library, etc. While it doesn’t just serve Manchester, this is its home, rooted in the Fort Faulsey cat colony. The name pays tribute to the countless unnamed individuals who have cared for homeless domestic animals and urban wildlife on this land since time immemorial. Let’s give credit where credit is much overdue.

Where to Donate

• Two permanent drop-off spots at
  • 1213 W. North Avenue Pittsburgh 15233 (steps)
  • 1440 Faulsey Way Pittsburgh 15233 (backyard address)
  • Patio bins at both spots, Look for the yellow #PghCatFolx signs.
• Amazon Wishlist bit.ly/TheRuffList
• Financial donations
  • GoFundMe bit.ly/GivePghCatFolx
  • Venmo pittsburghlgbtq@gmail.com 
  • PayPalCharities paypal.me/PittsburghLGBTQ

What to Donate

Small, medium and large bags of all brands and flavors. Special diet foods welcome.  

• Dry food, cats and dogs
• Canned food, cats and dogs
• Treats, cats and dogs *Dental treats are high value
• Paper plates and bowls, any type or style. Reusable bowls welcome.
• Chemical hand warmers to keep food/water from freezing

I’ve written about John over the years, typically on this date and his birthday. I thought I had exhausted the stories until my brother sent me some long lost family photos last month. Among them was a 2000 photo of us in our finery at some event long lost to the vagaries of time. Given his propensity to avoid photos, it was a gift. It was snapped seven years before his death. I didn’t see it then, but now I can see the pain in his eyes and the way he carried his body. He didn’t know what it was either, but he knew it wasn’t good.

Rest in power, John. Your memory is a revolution.