The Dog

I have told you a bit about my hundred-pound lapdog, Rocco.  Part husky (or malamute) and part Shepard (just a guess), he is a hefty chunk of the purest love.

Rocco has his faults, to be sure.  He sheds for a few months of the year, mostly from March till the following  February.  His clumps of white undercoat cling to my black pants, turning them to tweed.  The stiff black hairs from his back stick to my white sweats.  There is a reason our carpeting is a black and white Berber.  Oh, yes, he drools when he sees a little white bag with donuts or McD's breakfast enter the house.  He adores pancakes and pastry.  And of course, his inner clock is set so he badgers to go out at 6:30 in the morning..EVERY morning.

We are convinced that Rocco is not just a dog.  We swear he is an angelic being with fur.  He came to us shortly after we lost our fifteen year old companion, Amica.  For six months we said we would never have another pet.  Then, through  a string of unbelievable circumstances, I met Rocco.  He raced around the home of his old family, stopping in front of me.  He licked my chin.  It was love at first sight.

My father had died shortly before Rocco came.  The emptiness could not be filled.  Rocco's rambunctious presence took the edge off the sorrow.

Outdoors, Rocco is a roughneck. It is great sport to charge my husband like a linebacker, knocking him to the ground, standing with a paw on Steve's chest, grinning from ear to ear.  Then it's off again, doing laps around the yard.  The  chase begins yet again.  He seems to relish the laughter he causes.

Indoors, he becomes the perfect gentleman.  Climbing on my lap for an ear rub, he makes a "singing" sound of contentment.  He was never a chewer  nor a toilet bowl fanatic, never a garbage hunter.  He will sit patiently for a morsel, preferring a piece of candy to a piece of steak.  He will watch for Steve to put on his work uniform.  When satisfied that Steve is really leaving, he will assume his rightful spot on Steve's chair.  He is not spoiled, not at all.

He likes to sit on the picnic table, surveying his dog-dom.  He will demand that every living thing who enters his space pay him homage with a biscuit or at least a pat on the head.  He, like me, does not accept rejection well.  He must be acknowledged.

Rocco turns nine this week.   He will get his favorite chews (Busy Rollhides, the short ones) and Nawsomes, the little ones.  I will move my feet to give him room at the foot of the bed.  If I don't, he will growl in disgust.

Yes, I love that big hairy mutt.  He makes me laugh when I feel like crying.  He listens without judging.  His love isn't about pounds or talents; it is unconditional.  When I say, "I love you!",  he licks my chin.


 He is not spoiled.  He is THE DOG.  Happy birthday, big boy.