Rocky (1987-2000): May you eat scraps from the table in the halls of Valhalla forever.
Is it wierd to grieve over the loss of a dog for almost 4 years? Then again, he was more than that to me. He was my greatest friend. He was a member of my family...and for a long time he was my only family.
I raised Rocky from when he was a puppy, barely old enough to leave his mother. He was a timid puppy who was always afraid to sleep alone, so he slept on the foot of my bed. Lightning and thunder were always his bane, and it was a fear he never grew out of. Even though he weighed in at slightly over 110 lbs, he always considered himself a lap dog, and never grew out of that fun loving playfulness inherent to puppies.
Rocky was a Pit Bull, and Pit Bulls have a horrible reputation, some of it well deserved. But Rocky was the friendliest, most benign animal I've ever known. He would never intentionally harm a human being, and on the (not so) rare occasions someone did get hurt while playing with him, he was outwardly and obviously remorseful. The injuries were never severe, and pretty much consisted of large bruises from an accidental nip during the heat of the moment. I can personally attest to the fact Pit Bull's jaws are as powerful as everyone says they are, seeing as a tiny nip could easily result in a softball sized bruise.
Like any other "human being", he had his bad habits. He didn't care for stray cats (and the feeling was obviously mutual), and would kill them any chance he'd get. I scolded and reprimanded him for this, so he sought to do it covertly. After the unfortunate deed was done, he obviously knew he would be in trouble, as he repeatedly tried to conceal his crime by hiding the evidence. He wasn't very good at this, but I think the thought process and the attempt serves to prove his massive dog-like intellect.
A pit bull is a hard dog to find toys for...at least ones that will last longer than thirty seconds. A solid hard rubber ball and a braided rag bone did the trick, and such was his love for these simple objects that he cared for them as well as any intellegent child would care for his/her favorite toys. He always knew where both of them were, and if he decided that he didn't want you to play with them, rest assured that you wouldn't. Prying either object out of his jaws proved to be a monumental, and often times futile, task. He was even smart enough to know the difference between the two when you told him to go and get one of them. You could speak to him in full sentences about the somewhat limited subjects he knew something about (playing, going outside, eating, not killing cats, so on and so forth), and he could actually understand you, and occasionally participate in the conversation (or at least express his overwhelming enthusiasm).
Another inanimate object he found unlimited amusement with was an old bowling ball my uncle gave to him. He would spend hours upon hours rolling that ball from the front yard to the back yard and back again by placing his front legs on it and "walking" behind it as he rolled. On several occasions he would try to pick it up by grabbing it with his teeth in the holes.
In 1998, an asshole shot Rocky with an arrow while we were on vacation in West Virginia. The arrow penetrated his right hind leg, struck his pelvis, and exited next to his tail. Rocky didn't take to kindly to this, and in spite of his injury (and being 11 years old...which is about a year longer than pit bulls live on average), he chased his assailant down and gave him about 20 stitches in the back of his leg. The asshole sued, insisting that Rocky be put to sleep. I agreed, with the condition that the guy who shot him would also be put to sleep...seeing as how Rocky wouldn't have bitten him if he hadn't shot him in the first place. The judge, not having all that much to do in the little West Virgina hick town, came out to visit with Rocky while he was recovering from his injury. It was easily aparent that Rocky was a harmless, friendly animal (he licked the judge's face and at one point during the visit, hobbled over and put his head in his lap...almost as if he understood the gravity of his situation), and dismissed the case...and raised a charge of cruelty to animals against the dipshit who shot him. And who says there's no justice in the world?
In the summer of 1999, Rocky started showing obvious signs of arthritis. He still got around well for the most part, but he didn't have the same enthusasum for playing I had come to love about him. Play sessions were short, and the wrestling he enjoyed so much had become a thing of the past. It was hard to watch him deteriorate the way he did, but his company was valuable to me, and he didn't seem quite ready to give up. All that changed March 23, 2000, when Rocky suffered complete kidney failure. The vet told me there was absolutely nothing that could be done for him, and being completely unable to make the decision, I called my mother. She immedately got in her car, and drove 200 miles to Cleveland so she could help me decide what to do. I know it seems like a no-brainer...I just couldn't do it.
The vet told my mom the same thing she told me, and my mom asked me what I wanted to do. I didn't want to see him suffer anymore, but I couldn't bring myself to give the order to put an end to it. I told my mom to do what she thought was best. She immedately told the vet to put Rocky to sleep.
I stayed with him during the process. He never whined, he never whimpered. I hugged him just before the end, and he licked my face, and almost seemed glad it was over. At about 4:45, on March 24th, he inhaled deeply, exhaled...and then there was nothing.
I don't know why I wrote this. Maybe I just want someone else to know what a great friend he was to me...and how my life seems somewhat diminished by his absence.
Is it wierd to grieve over the loss of a dog for almost 4 years? Then again, he was more than that to me. He was my greatest friend. He was a member of my family...and for a long time he was my only family.
I raised Rocky from when he was a puppy, barely old enough to leave his mother. He was a timid puppy who was always afraid to sleep alone, so he slept on the foot of my bed. Lightning and thunder were always his bane, and it was a fear he never grew out of. Even though he weighed in at slightly over 110 lbs, he always considered himself a lap dog, and never grew out of that fun loving playfulness inherent to puppies.
Rocky was a Pit Bull, and Pit Bulls have a horrible reputation, some of it well deserved. But Rocky was the friendliest, most benign animal I've ever known. He would never intentionally harm a human being, and on the (not so) rare occasions someone did get hurt while playing with him, he was outwardly and obviously remorseful. The injuries were never severe, and pretty much consisted of large bruises from an accidental nip during the heat of the moment. I can personally attest to the fact Pit Bull's jaws are as powerful as everyone says they are, seeing as a tiny nip could easily result in a softball sized bruise.
Like any other "human being", he had his bad habits. He didn't care for stray cats (and the feeling was obviously mutual), and would kill them any chance he'd get. I scolded and reprimanded him for this, so he sought to do it covertly. After the unfortunate deed was done, he obviously knew he would be in trouble, as he repeatedly tried to conceal his crime by hiding the evidence. He wasn't very good at this, but I think the thought process and the attempt serves to prove his massive dog-like intellect.
A pit bull is a hard dog to find toys for...at least ones that will last longer than thirty seconds. A solid hard rubber ball and a braided rag bone did the trick, and such was his love for these simple objects that he cared for them as well as any intellegent child would care for his/her favorite toys. He always knew where both of them were, and if he decided that he didn't want you to play with them, rest assured that you wouldn't. Prying either object out of his jaws proved to be a monumental, and often times futile, task. He was even smart enough to know the difference between the two when you told him to go and get one of them. You could speak to him in full sentences about the somewhat limited subjects he knew something about (playing, going outside, eating, not killing cats, so on and so forth), and he could actually understand you, and occasionally participate in the conversation (or at least express his overwhelming enthusiasm).
Another inanimate object he found unlimited amusement with was an old bowling ball my uncle gave to him. He would spend hours upon hours rolling that ball from the front yard to the back yard and back again by placing his front legs on it and "walking" behind it as he rolled. On several occasions he would try to pick it up by grabbing it with his teeth in the holes.
In 1998, an asshole shot Rocky with an arrow while we were on vacation in West Virginia. The arrow penetrated his right hind leg, struck his pelvis, and exited next to his tail. Rocky didn't take to kindly to this, and in spite of his injury (and being 11 years old...which is about a year longer than pit bulls live on average), he chased his assailant down and gave him about 20 stitches in the back of his leg. The asshole sued, insisting that Rocky be put to sleep. I agreed, with the condition that the guy who shot him would also be put to sleep...seeing as how Rocky wouldn't have bitten him if he hadn't shot him in the first place. The judge, not having all that much to do in the little West Virgina hick town, came out to visit with Rocky while he was recovering from his injury. It was easily aparent that Rocky was a harmless, friendly animal (he licked the judge's face and at one point during the visit, hobbled over and put his head in his lap...almost as if he understood the gravity of his situation), and dismissed the case...and raised a charge of cruelty to animals against the dipshit who shot him. And who says there's no justice in the world?
In the summer of 1999, Rocky started showing obvious signs of arthritis. He still got around well for the most part, but he didn't have the same enthusasum for playing I had come to love about him. Play sessions were short, and the wrestling he enjoyed so much had become a thing of the past. It was hard to watch him deteriorate the way he did, but his company was valuable to me, and he didn't seem quite ready to give up. All that changed March 23, 2000, when Rocky suffered complete kidney failure. The vet told me there was absolutely nothing that could be done for him, and being completely unable to make the decision, I called my mother. She immedately got in her car, and drove 200 miles to Cleveland so she could help me decide what to do. I know it seems like a no-brainer...I just couldn't do it.
The vet told my mom the same thing she told me, and my mom asked me what I wanted to do. I didn't want to see him suffer anymore, but I couldn't bring myself to give the order to put an end to it. I told my mom to do what she thought was best. She immedately told the vet to put Rocky to sleep.
I stayed with him during the process. He never whined, he never whimpered. I hugged him just before the end, and he licked my face, and almost seemed glad it was over. At about 4:45, on March 24th, he inhaled deeply, exhaled...and then there was nothing.
I don't know why I wrote this. Maybe I just want someone else to know what a great friend he was to me...and how my life seems somewhat diminished by his absence.