Dear Rosco
You were a gift.
Bethany and I had been together for about 7 months. I had moved into my new apartment after recently getting hired on full-time at Clear Channel. My salary was barely above minimum wage. I was "borrowing" internet from one of my neighbors and cable TV that the company never turned off from the previous resident. The days dragged into adulthood. Having wrestled with depression for years, the empty walls rekindled a past I thought would creep back way too soon.
I was coming home from a church conference in Oklahoma. Bethany told me she had a surprise. I had no idea at this time she was driving back from Mayflower with a 2-pound dappled weiner dog whose name was tentatively "Meow Popsicle," because, well, I thought it was funny. He was chirping in the backseat more like a bird than a canine. "Who Let the Dogs Out" was the only song she could think of to make you calm down. But I've been in the car as she's driving, so I know what those yelps really meant.
You were the runt.
Meow Popsicle didn't fit your handsome, rugged looks. Rosco seemed more fitting. Let me be honest when I say this: You were the most precious thing I had ever seen. Men don't speak this way, but the truth hurts. You sat there looking at me, while I laid on my stomach in front of you, probably thinking, "Umm...please don't tell me you sing, too!?" You had the puppy stink that you kept your entire life. The gray dappled spots on your black and tan fur made you look like you had seen quite a lot in your short time. Some people would even ask, "Is he supposed to look like that? Is he okay?" One of your eyes was like looking through a glass holding cumulus, while the other was brown and curious. You then pooped and peed everywhere, giving me insight into your future plans.
I had dachshunds like you in the past. Elvis and Pepper were both adorable in their own ways, but you sir, were in a league all of your own. How does a tiny pup figure out how to unzip his crate, while yelping like a lunatic? Then, after I thought I thwarted your evil plan by locking the zippers together, you threw up a big middle finger and decided to just chew through the vinyl prison.
My bedroom was unused for the bulk of the time we lived there. Our bed became the couch. We would fall asleep on it together every night, as you inched deeper and deeper into the crevice my chest left with the cushion. Like clockwork, you woke me up at 4AM to take you outside to greet the paper man, smell the tiny piece of grass that the complex had, chase Hillcrest roaches--pretty much do everything but go outside and use the bathroom so I could get a few more hours of sleep before work. After the first few weeks, it became a routine. Our routine.
After deciding to marry Bethany, you know, Mom, as you called her, I felt it was the adult decision to move back home with my parents to save money. My stepdad Tommy came over one day to move a few things back for me. You were always curious about anything and everything. You just happened to be underneath the avalanche of Tommy's foot as he jumped down from the tailgate of his truck, landing on your tiny back, breaking your leg. You peed everywhere and your screams were the sounds I will never forget, but hope to never hear again. Only being a few months old, you toughed through the pain, wearing a huge cast that we had to cover with a Ziploc bag because you hated it way too much. I was sad that it happened, but I have to admit, you walking outside awkwardly with that plastic-covered cast raised your cuteness factor to another level.
When Mom and I had to move out of the country, we weren't able to take you with us. We both worried that you might forget about us, but knew you would have fun running around in a big yard with your older brother, Elvis. Elvis was old, grumpy, and losing teeth on a daily basis. He was a loner. You didn't care. He was your big buddy. He taught you how to dig. He was a professional at the art of using both paws in a doggy-paddle motion to find the gophers. You watched and learned, only never quite grasping the two-paw approach. It's okay buddy, I didn't judge you. We would call my mom on Skype and she would pick you up and let us say "Hi" to you. You always looked around curiously, not totally grasping the technology of 2010. When we returned home, you ran into our arms like we were only gone for the weekend.
You were home.
We were able to build a life together, finally. You made everything in the apartment yours. Oh, and here's a little secret. Your mom didn't want you to sleep in the bed with us. A few whiny nights and she folded like she was holding a queen high against my pocket aces. Our bed became your bed. Your three-step process for sleep became a nightly routine. One: you would get under covers for a few minutes before your mom would grab you to squeeze you like Elmira on Tiny Toon Adventures. She got that from her mom, which you found out pretty quickly. You would grunt and growl as she squeezed you and blew breaths on your face. She swore it was a game you guys played together, but I knew how much you loved your sleep. Two: you would squeeze out of her arms and come lay next to me. Maybe you felt it was appropriate to show your mom, "Hey now, don't make me tell daddy you're crazy." Three: you got up and walked to the end of the bed and burrowed undearneath your covers. You slept through the night, unlike when we used to sleep on the couch. You flew like Superman off the tall bed, hurting yourself in the process, so as to not use the bathroom where we slept. We wish you didn't injure yourself so much, but we did appreciate the sentiment.
You had a thing for big women. You didn't know how to show your affection in any other way than to peck like a chicken to dogs you were infatuated with. Maybe you got that from us because of how we kissed you. We showered you with more kisses than we do with each other. And your breath smelled way worse, believe me. Damn, you were handsome. A collar with a dapper bow-tie and a smell like Fritos, you were irresitable to lovin'.
Rosco, you were your mom's study buddy, keeping her feet warm as she typed papers and sent letters to students. When I wasn't home, you kept her loneliness at bay by cuddling up to her as she watched Gilmore Girls for the ten-thousandth time. Oh, and by the way, I think you made her feel really crummy after I would come home after a long day at work and you would totally forget about her to come sit with me. That's okay, little guy. I'm a pretty cool guy to be around.
You left us so suddenly. So tragically. No longer do your mom and I have conversations with you about the new vocabulary words you've just learned. No longer can your mom read her books to you out loud as you slowly fall to sleep. No longer do we get to take you on road trips, sticking your head in a cup for you to throw up when you get car sick. No longer do we get to chase squirrels together, begging for them to just come out of the tree to play. No longer do we get to hold you like a baby, not giving a care in the world for those other humans that look at us funny.
It's been less than a week. Your mom clutches your blanket, inhaling your scent as if you were in her arms. I take the trash out, realizing that you're not running in front of me to lead the way. We put the dishes in the dishwasher together without you getting the chance to lick the dirty plates.
Your water and food bowl still sit on the kitchen floor. Empty. You know, little booger, it's hard to come to terms that you're gone. I hope you never got offended by me calling you booger. I find it adoring, but I would understand if you never liked it. You were our son. You were our joy. Packed into just 10 fully-concentrated pounds of bad-assery, you brought us more happiness than we could have ever imagined. You were the best thing that ever happened to the both of us. You weren't just a dog, just a pet, or just a part of our family.
