a most-boopable snoot
The Latin term euthanasia means “good death,” making it a fitting way for a creature like Rocky Dog to leave this physical realm. He led a good life—possibly even two or three—and this week was his time to move on. A wise man once said that euthanasia “is the last kind act you can do for a close friend.”
To all of us, but most especially Mimi, Rocky was more than a friend. He was a lively and entertaining family member right from the start. The day Mimi brought him home we discovered he had the same name as the new cat. One week, two pets, both Rocky. What are the odds? Probably as unlikely as finding such a wonderful doggo.
The dueling Rockys brings to mind the story of my twelve-year-old grandmother, Fredericka, and the birth of her little brother. Her parents named the newborn Frederick and changed a bewildered Fredericka’s name to Faye. Perhaps they thought girls, like cats, don’t need a name as much as a boy. Soon after the Rocky duo arrived, Rocky the Cat became Pouncer, and Rocky Dog got the sole heavyweight title.
As a medium-ish nine-year-old dog, Rocky was already considered elderly by most standards. Compounding matters, Mimi soon discovered he had heartworm and required immediate, lengthy, and dangerous treatment. The fact that he went on to double those nine years—that he became old enough to be drafted into the U.S. Army—is truly astounding.
After the heartworm treatment, Rocky’s true youthful vigor emerged. Thanks to diligent, watchful care on Mimi’s part, it was a total success. Soon he was chasing squirrels and cats, regulating the Brock Road sidewalk, and escaping into the neighborhood for occasional jaunts. Even this year, he never seemed old. His graying face of the last few years was, like, the Sean Connery of old dogs.
Rocky was a constant friend to Mimi. He was by her side through years of intense grief, years of lonely pandemic, and years of radical transformations. Rocky Dog encouraged Mimi toward more vigor and more fresh air, enhancing her life and health as surely as she added to his.
He was a very manly sort of dog. As the backyard bouncer, he evicted creatures at his sole discretion. As front-yard surveillance, he made sure that strangers of all species knew he was in charge. As house hedonist he got up to some things best left undescribed—let’s just say he was seen enjoying himself up until the very end.
Rocky always dreamed big for all to see, and in recent months his dreams were the last place he could still frolic. He would lie on his side, eyes closed, all four legs at a gallop, head tossing about and making happy little snorts. One could almost picture the scene: a sun-dappled forest, Rocky glossy and tan, his hips at the peak of fitness, quickly gaining on a pack of terrified squirrels. Perhaps there is a waft of bacon in the air.
Thank you, Rocky Dog. Thank you for being Mimi’s companion for nearly a decade. Thank you for being such an easy and lovable presence. Even if I disagreed with you on the matter of cats, it was your house, your rules. Thanks for doing more dishes than Jon and I combined. Thanks for cleaning up after messy eaters such as small children and myself. Thanks for staying with us for so long and giving us a lifetime of memories.
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