Rocky moves on

Man’s Best Friend, My Best Friend

It was early morning, and the October chill permeated everything, including me. As I labored at my task I could feel it; not the chill, it was something else. A sadness, a feeling of being empty. With every thrust of the shovel I felt it pressing down on me, like an ocean of memories. The task I had set about was to provide a final resting place for my best friend of sixteen years, Rocky. Tired and breathless, I glanced over my shoulder and there he was.

Time had certainly had its way with my beloved friend. The beautiful tan and black markings that had adorned his visage, and which gave him a stately appearance, had given way to white and gray lacings around his jowls, back, and legs. He looked as though he had drunk deeply from the milk pail. His strong and youthful stride was absent, in its place were the trembling, unsure movements indicative of one who has lived far past his prime. His final years were marked by an ever decreasing ability to see his surroundings. Life and time, it seems, are extremely cruel taskmasters. As if trying to steal his very essence, they attacked with vengeance, first stealing his ability to see the beauty of life and then his quick puppy like agility. As a final blow, these cruel villains took from him the ability to hear the magical sounds around him. Left with his sense of smell only, he wandered aimlessly.

What a strange and macabre scene it was. I was digging the grave of my best friend while he gazed on in ignorant bliss. It reminded me of scenes from a Hitchcock movie. Reluctantly, my mind was drawn back to another October morning. There was Guess, my beloved German Shepherd following me around as he always did. As with Rocky, I was spending my last few hours with my friend.

Guess? Who names their dog Guess? He was apparently named after Guess jeans, like that made it a more sensible a choice. He too was a beautiful specimen, but had sealed his own fate when he lunged through the fence and grabbed a visitor’s arm, tearing a gash in it. Who knows the reason for his aggression. Perhaps he was just guarding his home, or it could have been the beginnings of Hip Dysplasia, toying with his fragile psyche. Whatever the case, he could no longer remain on this mortal sphere.

A short trip to the Vet and he was no more. That is a story for another time. The days passed, and it seemed increasingly difficult to manage my way through the day. I’d look to the backyard and all that greeted me was emptiness.

It was while picking up my daughter from her friend’s house, that the miracle took place. As I waited on the front step, two large hounds came bounding up the walk toward me. One was a large white mutt with shaggy hair. He looked horrid and smelled worse. My attention was not on him, however. I was gazing, with rapt attention, at the beautiful German shepherd who had thrown his lot in with this stinky white mongrel.

“Excuse me, whose dogs are those?”

My Daughter’s friend’s mother had come out on the porch and so I posed my query to he.

“Oh, those mutts? They have been running around the neighborhood for at least two weeks now. I ought to call the Pound”. That they were homeless mutts was clear, however only one of them fit the description of a mutt. As I approached the two dogs, the white mongrel ran for the hills, but the German Shepherd simply cocked his head to one side, eyeing me with interest.

“Come her boy, come on.”

It took little to persuade the animal to respond, as he bounded toward me, tail wagging. As I scratched his ears, I was appalled at his physical condition. His skin was stretched tight across his ribs, making him appear to be a victim of the Holocaust. From what I saw, it was obvious he had not eaten in weeks. I bid farewell to my daughter’s friends and put the poor animal in the back seat of my truck as we headed for home. On the way, we stopped at the store and purchased a few cans of dog food.

I remember how incredible it was, watching this poor, half starved, animal devour those cans of food. He was a beauty. I canvassed the neighborhood looking for his owner. Signs posted on poles, and questioning residents, yielded nothing. Finally, we decided he must be a Jacob. He was ours.

The years raced by, and Rocky was faithful through them all. He was the most intelligent animal I had ever seen. He responded to voice commands as if he actually understood the meaning of what I was saying.

“Go get on your rug”, or “Rocky, go Downstairs”, yielded a quick and obedient response. Off he would go to fulfill my stated commands. Oh, he wasn’t perfect; he had a definite attitude, especially when he wanted something. He would find a way to get it, no matter what. Hmmm, that sounds a lot like me.

It was shortly after the demise of my business and our eventual migration to Utah that it happened. I had constructed a most excellent home for Rocky out of the trailer we brought from Vegas. It was the Ritz Carlton of dog houses. It had an enclosed section in the front, with wall to wall carpeting, Microwave, Sleep Comfort bed, the works. It had wood rails along the sides and back that allowed for casual viewing of his surroundings, yet prevented his escape.

We had gone out for dinner and returned to find blood all over the back of the trailer, well drops of blood anyway. What had happened? Was anyone hurt? It seemed all was fine. That night, Rocky slept beside our bed. As I reached down to stroke his face, I felt something hard.

“Rocky, are you eating a bone? You know you don’t eat in here.”

I turned on the light and looked at him but there was no bone to be found. Upon closer inspection, I discovered what had peaked my attention. He had dislodged his main tooth and it was now sticking out perpendicular to his face. It all made sense; the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

Rocky had become extremely agitated at our absence, and in a terrified fit, he hooked his upper tooth on one of the boards of his new home. He tried to use his tooth as a wedge to pry off the wood plank. He succeeded in creating a hole big enough to exit through, unfortunately, he also succeeded in pulling his tooth from its socket. The swollen gum prevented the tooth from returning to its original position. One Vet trip, and $90 later, we had our happy puppy back, sans one incisor tooth.

Such were the events that made up this animals existence. My mind slowly returned to the task at hand. The hole was nearly complete. I looked at my watch and realized time was vanishing. I quickly finished the grave and went to look after Rocky.

It is one of the oddest paradoxes in life that things work fine when you take them in to be fixed. How many times have you taken a vehicle to the mechanic, only to have it work perfectly. So it was this morning. As I brushed his fur he wagged his tail and gave my face a lick. He was happy; I was miserable.

That it had to be done was beyond discussion. He could barely move; his eyesight was gone as was his hearing. Winter was on its way. He could not negotiate stairs and so had to be carried in and out of the house. Once inside, he paced around with his tail between his legs, shaking and trembling with fear. He wouldn’t even go in the garage. It rained and hailed yesterday and he sat in the rain and sleet with a look of misery that broke my heart.

So it was and now the final hour had arrived. As I fashioned a wooden marker for his grave, I could feel the hot tears run down my cheeks. They blurred my vision and made the work so much harder. Finally it was time. I walked Rocky to the Bronco and hoisted him into the rear compartment. Again, his puppy like demeanor returned. It was as if I could hear him say,

“Oh boy, oh boy. Where are we goin Bob? For a fun walk in the park? Maybe for a walk in the Canyon? Oh, boy…”

I knew of course that it was just the joy of doing something different, but that did little to ease the pain I felt. I closed the back door, and slowly pulled from the driveway. It struck me hard that this would be the last time my Rocky would set foot in his home. I gazed in the rearview mirror and saw his excited gaze; again I felt the familiar pain and tears begin to flow.

Like a Hearse slowly winding its way to the final resting place of its passenger, so it was with me. I drove slowly and cautiously. Rocky was standing and a fall would only add more pain to the drama. It seemed to take hours, even though it was only five minutes away. At length, we arrived and I again hoisted Rocky from the truck. As before, his ears were alert, listening for any sounds of potential fun and excitement. His eyes darted back and forth in a futile attempt to take in some shred of movement. I patted his head and he turned quickly to look at me and licked my hand, as he had done countless times before at the beginning of a fun experience. This would not be that experience, however.

We walked into the hospital and took a seat. It only took a few minutes and then we were off to the next stage. The excited and playful demeanor of my best friend had quickly fled. In its place was that familiar trembling I had seen so often as of late. I could tell he was trying to be brave. However the smells and sounds around him sent home the message “something evil this way cometh”. I held him close as he was weighed, then it was off to the room that would be his final destination. Waiting for the Doctor was a brief experience, thankfully. Rocky decided it was time to lay down. I laid down behind him with my arm under his head like a pillow, my other arm cradling his body and soothing his trembling muscles. He was panting heavily, mostly from the fear of what was happening. I am sure his panic was exacerbated by the fact that he could see nothing, and hear even less. All he knew was that he was in a place that smelled bad; it smelled like death.

The team entered and shaved his leg and set the catheter. They were extremely kind and gentle, which helped greatly. As I sat and stroked Rocky’s head, my mind was again taken to the past. How many times had he fallen asleep in my lap, in this very same way.

The doctor finally entered and administered a sedative and pain killer. As Rocky drifted off to sleep, I felt his pulse slow, his breathing relaxed, he was at peace. Absent were the subtle tremblings of muscle and bone. Then the medication; clear with a purple hue. It seemed like so much to be put into a small dog’s body. Slowly she injected the liquid into the waiting vein. His breathing slowed, slower, slower, then… nothing. He was gone.

In less time than it takes to stand, Rocky leapt effortlessly from this mortal sphere to a loftier plane. He crossed into the next world effortlessly, to be met by Guess and a host of others who would now be his guardians and care givers. Like a ship departing and then coming home again, my loving dog had completed his journey. His lifetime of faithful service would be rewarded by an eternity of peace and happiness. Yes, he was at peace, I knew it. The pain and burden of going on was with me alone, he was free.

I loaded his lifeless body into the truck and set out for home. I was sad to be sure, but not inconsolable. I laid his remains upon a towel in the bottom of the hole. Gently I covered his face and body and proceeded to replace the dirt that would be his tomb; it was done.

In an effort to heal my heart, I struck in the Pipes and played. The melody carried high into the air, strong and loud. The Irony was, he actually hated the pipes, but it wasn’t for him anyway, was it? No, it was for me. I need the healing balm of the Celtic strains. Like a miraculous balm, the tones lifted me up and eased the sense of loss. Life would go on; wounds would heal; for now at least I had the pipes.