It was a Saturday afternoon in March when I stepped inside the Humane Society looking to rescue a dog to make a part of my family. I was living in an HOA community at that time, so there were rules about how large and heavy this new family member had to be. Walking up and down the aisles of dogs waiting behind clear, plastic doors I realized that there were not many small pups needing saving. I was told small dogs don’t last very long in shelters – they get adopted quickly. So, I was surprised when I came across a black and brown 10-pound Chihuahua. I didn’t know anything about the reputation this breed carried, but when he stuck his paw out from under the door towards me, the decision was clear.
The caretakers set up a one-on-one meeting with Rocky and I in a quiet room. He was very alert and pacing around in circles. He eventually jumped up onto the bench and settled down on the windowsill to stare outside for the rest of our meeting. I was nervous about the lack of concern he had for me. He was uninterested in letting me hold him. He didn’t care to be petted. He didn’t even answer to his own name. I couldn’t help but wonder if we were a good fit or if he had any interest in coming home with me. But my friend who came along for the ride assured me that he would warm up to me. That he just needed some time. I was grateful for that encouragement because it helped me make the adoption final. And I would soon realize how right she was.
Rocky was 9 years old when I took him home that weekend. I had received a handful of praise from vets that first year for adopting such a senior dog. But anyone who would meet Rocky would quickly realize his age was just a number because he had the heart and energy of a puppy. He never missed the opportunity to jump up to greet me at the door each time I would return home – no matter how long or short my absence was. He had a basket full of toys that he would play fetch with all around the house. At the end of each day, every toy would be scattered around our home as evidence that joy lived there. He was able to jump up onto beds, couches, chairs and even right into my arms. His height clearance was so impressive, one time I came home to paw prints stamped across my glass stovetop. The mystery of how he managed that one remains unsolved…
He wasn’t a typical Chihuahua who snipped at ankles or chewed up shoes. He wouldn’t spend all day barking at the wind. He actually almost never barked. He was more of a silent killer – an actual nickname given by an earlier neighbor of ours. Another neighbor would later on give him the nickname “Fang”. He didn’t get along with other dogs – no surprise there. So, whenever he came across one, he would attempt to attack without a warning. We would be on a walk, and he would pretend to be minding his own business – even though I’ve already spotted the innocent canine from across the way. When Rocky thought you weren’t paying attention he would sprint away in the direction of his enemy. Only to realize he had a harness wrapped around his entire torso so it would always end up with him laying himself out on the ground. Surprisingly enough, it wouldn’t keep him from getting back up and trying again. And the size of his opponent never mattered – the bigger the dog the more exciting the fight. To end the whole dramatic scene or to avoid them entirely, I would have to pick his little body up, thank him for trying to protect me and assure him that if he had the chance, I knew for certain he would win the battle each and every time.
Rocky was the most loyal dog I’ve ever known. He followed me around the house as if it was his job to be a witness of my every move. Something I oftentimes felt guilty of because I never knew how to sit still. He was my shadow as I cleaned the house, organized rooms, folded laundry, and even as I simply got up from the couch to fill up my cup of water, he was there. But once I did finally settle down, he took his curled-up position on my lap. At last, we both could rest. Not only did he follow me around the house, but he followed me across the country – and back again. He was my adventure partner when we moved to Colorado. It was just the two of us on trails, road trips, sightseeing and sunset seeking. He was the best companionship a girl could ask for. He was my best friend, and my days were less lonely because of him.
Rocky was relentless. He never really needed much, but for the things he was determined to achieve, he never gave up. It’s my husband’s favorite trait of his. When we were first dating, we attempted to teach Rocky that his bed was the couch. That did not last long. My husband quickly learned that Rocky would spend all night scratching at the bedroom door or trying to jump on our bed until we allowed him to take his place by our feet. We went as far as getting him his own set of stairs for the bed so he could come and go as he pleased. Many mornings we would be surprised to find him lying on his side, head rested on a pillow and body tucked under the covers like a human. He was definitely spoiled, but with one look at his tiny face, how could we not give him his small requests of being close to us?
It was just the three of us for years. He was like the third leg on a barstool. An integral part of our team. We did everything together. He traveled more during those years than most people do in their entire lives. He had been to Florida, Colorado, Texas, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, Pennsylvania and all the states in between. He’s traveled in cars, on boats and on planes. But his favorite mode of transportation was inside his bright green hiking backpack as we took him snow shoeing, hiking and on bike rides. He’s seen all four seasons, winter being his least favorite. His only way of surviving the cold was in the security of his navy-blue puffer jacket. He always preferred the summer months. I know for certain that his heaven is lying somewhere on a warm patch of dirt, napping in the sun with a close eye on me.
As our little family grew, Rocky learned how to share the love and attention in the household. He never really complained but he was slow to show interest in his new sibling. She was oftentimes fonder of him than he was of her. It would light up our hearts to see how much excitement and laughter Rocky brought out of her. Particularly the fun she had from trying to run him over in her walker – this torture along with the pulling of his ears is probably why he kept his skepticism about her. But that light in our hearts would quickly sink at the thought of him having to leave us one day – and how sad it would be to see our daughter lose her little furry brother.
Rocky was old ever since I brought him home, even though it never felt like it. So, he had been struggling with one health issue or another for a handful of years, even though he barely ever showed it. I always knew his days were numbered. It’s unfortunate how little time we have with our pets. But knowing all of this, it never makes it easier when you do approach those dwindling days.
I try not to look back on my time with Rocky and think of his toys collecting dust, how much longer his naps became or the day he stopped being able to walk up the stairs. I avoid the thoughts of the evenings he was missing from our daughter’s bedtime routine as he continued to snooze on the couch downstairs. I try not to remember how sick he became or the day I had to make one of the most heartbreaking decisions of my life. Instead, he lives on in my heart as the Chihuahua who was always down to join me on any adventure – excited to get in the car with me no matter where we were headed. The little dog who jumped up and down and wagged his tail furiously every time I came home – letting me know how much he loved and missed me. He is remembered as the little shadow I saw under the bathroom door as he waited for me to emerge. And the warmth of his little body snuggled in my arms each night will forever be felt when I close my eyes and think of him.
The love from a dog is like no other. It is genuinely unconditional. They don’t have expectations of who we ought to be. Who we are is more than enough. Their presence feels like home. Nothing in life is more important to them than the time they get to spend with us. They’re not here one day and gone the next. They’re by our side through and through. One long hug from them can cure any of our bad days – Yet somehow on their bad days we struggle to feel like we can do any good for them. This pure form of love is why it is so hard to let go of them when their short time on earth comes to an end. I can’t help but wonder why give our hearts to our furry friends in the first place knowing the unavoidable ending. But the answer is always clear: “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” Our lives are richer when it is filled with love, no matter how long or short that love is.
Beautiful. Miss that little guy!
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