In my mind’s eye, Rocky lies sprawled on the backyard lawn in a fit of canine rapture. One ear flops down; the other’s up. His pinkish-black nose bobs as if aiming at birds in flight. He smells everything. Curiously strong odors come wafting up that snout of his. Ah, the sweet scent of a deer peeing in nearby woods! It’s enough to make his tail fly at half-mast.
But Rocky is gone now. He was with us for 14 good years until his arthritic body wore out. So the vet put him down. Among other incurable ailments, Rocky had trouble walking. Over Christmas, his rear legs quit on him.
Being the intrepid dog that he was, he made his front legs do the work of four legs. It was painful to watch, though he never complained. After delaying the hard decision for months, my wife and I agreed it was time.
That was weeks ago. It was tough. I don’t mind telling you that I cried. Even on this crisp sunny morning, with a view of freshly powdered Grand Mesa in the distance, there’s a lump in my throat.
You’d think the death of a sick old dog would not be a big deal at my age. Having long ago lost my parents to lung cancer, my little brother in a car wreck, and one of my best friends in a house fire, why does Rocky’s passing leave such a hole in my heart?
It’s funny how a shaggy-haired beast with bad breath can insinuate himself into the lives of two adults and two kids.
It happened so fast. Back in the 1990s, I took our son, then age 10, to visit a family whose German shepherd had a litter of pups sired by a big chocolate lab next door. Nick watched four brown and black puppies before grabbing a blond ball of fur. He named him Rocky.
Rocky and Nick slept in the same bed, wrestled wherever, made a racket whenever our house seemed too peaceful. He learned to share Rocky with his big sister, Angela, who loved Rocky in a way that only girls can express. (It’s a mix of the same exasperation, tears and affection they reserve for their little brothers.)
Humor being the best medicine, Rocky, with his beatnik beard and his 80 pounds of kindness, would go hide under the table at the first snarl from one of our no-nonsense cats.
He was an awkward bundle of twitching muscle fibers that more agile squirrels noisily poked fun at in our backyard. This never kept him from trying in vain to catch one of those varmints and wring it by its neck. (I suspect he was ADHD like me.)
When Rocky was about 4, he went jogging with me. I should’ve known better than to take a dog on 10 miles of gravel trail. The pads of his paws were bloody. It was as if somebody had sandpapered them. My kids and wife were outraged and gave me the grief I deserved.
Not Rocky. He had every right to hate me. Instead, he licked my hand until he fell asleep, probably dreaming of Milk-Bones and squirrels.
In his prime, Rocky galloped fast but usually his legs went in a different direction from the one in which his head and body were galloping. It was all us four (slower) humans could do to hide our laughter. But he could tell, of course. I think that was his intent, to keep us amused.
As a young pup, he came within an inch of dying. He contracted parvovirus, which often kills puppies. Thanks to my wife’s intuition, we got him to animal hospital at 2 a.m. on a Sunday in the spring of his first year. Rocky was so weak he could barely stand. The vet shook his head, saying, “He’s got a 50-50 chance.” It was a terrible predicament for all of us, especially him. But intravenous fluids worked magic.
Rocky never forgot that it was my wife who saved his life. He adored Monica until the day he died.
His temperament was good-natured even when mine was not. He never held it against me when I lost my temper and yelled at him for scaring a little kid with his loud bark. “I’m a dog,” his look said. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do when we get excited?”
He was right, as usual. That’s why it’s hard now. When I go home, he is not there in the front window, tail wagging like I’m the lord of the manor. He had a good life. But as much as our family did for him, Rocky more than paid for it with his love for each of us.
If he could see me now, his head would tilt and his eyes gaze upon my sorry presence. He would stretch out on the floor next to me and let out a big sigh as if to encourage me to do the same. Pretty soon we’d both be sound asleep, just dreaming of Milk-Bones and squirrels.
Eric Sandstrom (esandstr@mesastate.edu) teaches at Mesa State College.
