I miss my dog. He died on September 21, 2023 at roughly 4:45 am. I think he may have been the best dog ever; he certainly merits consideration. I know there have been many other great dogs over the years, so it is a lot to claim that Rocco is the best of them all. Nevertheless, I’m going to humbly make that claim. Not to diminish the exceptionalism of anyone else’s dog, do I make this claim. I only do it because my love for him won’t allow me to imagine that any other dog could possibly be so special, as he was to me; or that they could be so uniquely wonderful, in all of the myriad ways that Rocco was, for me, over these past, nearly eleven years.
“I know every hair upon your head,” God tells us in scripture. We are that important to Him that he knows every detail about us. I understand that. Rocco has white hairs that grow across the bridge of his nose and then cascade over the upper ridge of his nose and then lay flat just above his nostrils. After grooming, these hairs are trimmed away, but they always return, and I enjoy examining them as he sleeps in my arms or in my lap. And he actually has eye lashes, long black ones which curl up and down from his eyelids and encircle his wide, round, deep brown eyes. Unfortunately, since the time he was a puppy, he has had a problem with inadequate tear production so that his eyes created goop at an alarming rate, which if not cleaned daily, and often twice daily, it would accumulate on the hairs around his eyes and would dry into globs like super-glue, that became nearly impossible to remove, which could eventually begin to seal his eyes closed. So for eight years or so, we cleaned his eyes every morning and every evening, wiping the hairs clean of this goop to keep his eyes clean. In later years the vet prescribed cyclosporine drops which we gave to Rocco twice a day, and this nearly solved this problem. But Rocco was also very prone to getting ear infections so we also had to clean out his ears every day or every other day. The vet gave us all sorts of different ear drops over the years and several kinds of ear cleaner, and medications for the infections, but eventually we landed on a daily regime of witch-hazel applied to a cotton ball and rubbed throughout his ear to clean the wax from the hairs which thickly covered the opening to his inner ear. It was a source of pride when I could remove all of that wax and return his ear hairs to their clean, black and shiny glory. I would place him then on the floor and he’d shake his head violently for a moment, or possibly run to the rug and rub one side of his head across the rug and then turn and rub the other, and then run back to me and ask to be picked up and held again, or ask me for a treat.
His hair grew very quickly so we had a monthly visit to our groomer, so that the hairs around his eyes could be kept short to help us with his eye-goop issues and his ear infection problem. This was also the time to trim his paw hairs shorter, since they would grow thickly from between the pads of his paws and erupt out and over the pads, covering them so that he would lose traction, then slip and slide across the floor when he ran. Even so, these thick white mats of beautiful hair which grew from his paws were satisfying to comb and to massage. He enjoyed having the pads of his paws rubbed and to run our fingers in-between these pads to massage the deep creases between them. His infections were not confined to his eyes and ears, but he had them throughout his skin as well—in the hot, moist creases of his body especially, such as between his paw pads or on his belly where his hind legs began. These places he loved to have massaged and itched for him, since he was so small and his legs were so short he couldn’t reach any of these places on his own.
Rocco was good at asking for what he needed or wanted. After we learned how much he enjoyed having his inner legs rubbed, he learned to walk up to me, sit down and simply extend his leg to the side until I would come down to the floor and begin to rub it for him. Anytime of the day or night this could happen. Often, at midnight or in the early hours of the morning I could feel him stir from the spot on our bed where he slept, just to the right of my feet and then feel him walk up alongside me and then with his front paw tap me on my side, or on my leg, or if I ignored him when he did that, he would walk all the way up to my face and begin politely tapping my cheek. Once he got my attention he would then extend his leg to the side so that I could rub it for him. It really didn’t matter to him that it was two in the morning. And it really didn’t matter to me either. I found it amusing and I loved helping him. This became an understanding between the two of us. He asked and I complied.
Years ago Rocco also discovered that he preferred to drink his water from my glass. For this he asks me with a subtle movement of his eyes; a quick glance at my water glass and then back to me. I found this highly amusing when he first tried it, and I put my glass on the ground in front of him and he shoved his tiny head down into the opening and began to drink. From that time forward he has refined his method of request and has trained me to know when he wants a drink, without even needing to look at my glass much of the time. I’m not certain how I know, but there is something in the way he approaches me that I understand is a desire to drink from my glass. So I give it to him and he drinks contentedly. Again, this may happen any time of the day or night. Three in the morning is oftentimes when he’ll stir from his place to the right of my feet, walk up the length of the bed, and tap me on the shoulder, whereby, even in the dark I can sense that he is looking at my glass on the bedside table. I place it before him and hold it at an angle so he can reach his head far inside to get to the water at the bottom. When he’s finished he pulls his head out, and dribbles drops onto my arm from the hair around his mouth, and then he walks back down to the foot of the bed and returns to sleep. I get up and pour a new glass of water for myself.
I have never known another animal that took so much interest in keeping me clean as Rocco did. He could spend up to twenty minutes, if I let him, licking my forehead, my scalp, around my ears, across the bridge of my nose, over my eyelids and down both cheeks; and he did his work with determination and focused intent. What prompted this, is anyone’s guess. But in his characteristic manner, he would run up to me and stare at what he wanted; not at my water glass, or my food, but just slightly above and to the right of my eyes, he simply looked at my forehead to tell me to lay down so he could begin a cleaning. He began on one side or the other and worked his way around me, up and over to the other side, jumping onto my chest to enable his little body and his busy tongue to reach the peak of my nose. It was a funny little ritual that wasn’t always timely, but I never wanted to deny him because he took it so seriously and he applied himself to his task with such gusto. I miss this now a great deal. All of the peculiarities which made Rocco the particular little dog that he was, are the things which I most miss now, and which form the greatest loss for me since his passing.
Maybe it is an indictment of my emotional state that I’ve never loved anyone like I have my dog Rocco; but in my defense, nobody has ever needed me as completely as he did. Perhaps that is why; and not that I prefer dogs to people. Vulnerability, need and trust are ingredients that can unlock the heart and call it to action, causing one to love more fully and devotedly, regardless of the object, whether it is human or other. When Rocco was a puppy he was tiny and could fit in the palm of my hand; and even full grow as an adult he was small and often needed assistance. We folded a large towel at the step leading from the garage up into the laundry room so he could climb the step on his own. We placed three of the sofa cushions on the floor, placed against each other as steps, so he could walk up onto the couch by himself. Every night when it was time for bed I came downstairs and picked him up and brought him up to bed with us; and every morning I roused him from his spot near my feet, and after rubbing his chest as he rolled from side to side, snoring and making tiny contented sounds, I picked him up into my arms and carried him back downstairs for breakfast. Ten years of this, every night, every morning.
Rocco was independent and brave but also found strength in our presence. He was always an explorer, roaming and discovering things, and typically barked with his hoarse, raspy voice at the neighbor dogs to protect our home. But for all his bravery he felt safest when he was close to my side, or even better, in my arms. Fritz, his brother always ran on ahead when we went on walks at the beach or through the neighborhood, but Rocco preferred to be close beside me, never venturing too far before returning to my side again. And after brief interactions with other dogs he had enough, and always came to me and looked up at me with his dark saucer eyes, to ask to be picked up. His favorite perch with his front paws over my left forearm, and his back legs and bottom cradled by my right hand. He could sit like that for hours if allowed, and if I could tolerate holding him for that long.
He loved to eat; he wasn’t particular, but he had many favorites and special things that we fed him. One of the many nicknames we had for him was ‘Hoover’ because he was just like a vacuum as he patrolled all of the baseboards searching for crumbs. He and his brother had sardine juice and sardines broken up over their dry-food every day, for the nutrition and to help with their teeth. They got a dental chew toothbrush each afternoon at roughly 3pm. One of the words he most loved was, “toothbrush”, he came running every time for that. And I sang, ‘toothbrush time is here, happiness and cheer’. Also a favorite of his were green beans, which we kept in the fridge for his treats, as well as blueberries, and pumpkin puree to help with his digestion. He could eat spaghetti like a professional, he sucked it down with a slurping sound and his tiny jaws pumped up and down as he inhaled strand after strand, so quickly it almost seemed impossible. He loved kale, cabbage, carrots, corn, bok choy, and beets, among any kind of meat, of course. He also ingested wood chips and pea gravel on a regular basis; though I became proficient at pulling these out of his mouth before he could swallow.
I feel guilty that I let Rocco die. I know I’m not God, and I have no ultimate control over life and death, but my feeling is not rational, it is purely emotional. I spent almost eleven years trying to keep him happy and safe, devoting myself to his well-being, and in the end the greatest danger of all finally took him. Not that I could protect him from that danger, but because death is the greatest danger, I felt most responsible to save him from it. Doesn’t it make sense that once the primary threat to his existence is recognized, death, then it becomes incumbent upon me to do everything I possibly can to guard him against it? No other danger compares, therefore it is the one I’m most responsible to fight. Certainly in the case of death this is impossible, and ridiculous, but knowing that fact doesn’t make it any easier. I simply do feel like I let him down in the worst way. In my mind’s eye I see his trusting eyes looking up at me, trusting in me explicitly, having no doubt that I will do anything for him, that he is safe with me. And yet, he began to have uncontrollable muscle convulsions and tremors throughout his tiny body, and he began to go blind. All of this happened extremely quickly, over the course of just a couple of weeks. He began to fall off of the bed at night because he couldn’t control his body. I placed pillows all around the base of our bed to soften his landing. The final days of his life I didn’t sleep; for seventy-two hours. I’ve never gone that long without sleep. Holding him in my arms always. And propping up his back legs in my hands, as he tried to drink water, or eat from his dish, or as he went potty. I am trying to convince myself that I did everything I could—perhaps I did—but still, when I think how much he trusted me and how much I wanted him to live, it just ends up in my mind as a failure. We tried various drugs, we tried a natural cooked diet that last month. I prayed, and prayed I wouldn’t have to make a decision to take him to the vet for his final journey. I didn’t want to make that decision; I just wanted it to be natural. But in the end he lost control of everything, he convulsed, he couldn’t stand, he crawled and relieve himself on the floor, and I could do nothing for him. Early in the morning, at the emergency vet we tried a few more things to help ease his pain and struggle, but with no effect. It was likely merciful to let him go. I don’t know. I’m just sorry I had to make a decision, and it seemed the only possible one left to make.
Little Rocco left this world on September 21, early in the morning, before sunrise. I drove his little body home, my hand on his belly, still warm, still soft and supple, still cute and pink beneath his white hair. And I took him to the kitchen sink for his final bath. He really didn’t like baths, but we gave them to him every week, sometimes more often, to help with his skin infections. This time he didn’t complain, he didn’t struggle to get out of the sink. I bathed his body and then dried him on the counter, with one of his favorite towels, and I brushed him, every hair in just the right place. And I placed him on a clean white towel, brand new and never used. I stretched him out in his favorite sleeping position: his front paws stretched forward and his head cradled between them, with his chin propped up on a little brown squeaky toy—he always liked to sleep with his head propped up on something—and with his back legs stretched out behind him, his paws facing upward, the tiny black pads framed by soft, silky white hair, and his tail laying peacefully between his legs. I brushed him and pet him, enjoying how soft he still felt. He was still warm, just a little, but becoming cold now too. I wrapped him in the towel and tucked him in for his final rest.
We buried Rocco in the backyard. I dug a hole deep beneath a weeping cherry tree, in the midst of several sword ferns. Patty planted an evergreen huckleberry near his head, and we placed two planters over him and filled them with chrysanthemums. I look out my back window every night and every morning and say a little prayer for him; I talk a bit with him, calling him one of his many names: ‘mister funny-bones’, or ‘mister muffin’, ‘black and whitey’, and ‘Rocco choco-milkman’. We have so many names for him, he needed all of them, each name expressing something true about him, or something about how we felt towards him. There aren’t enough names, probably, to express everything I feel about him. There aren’t enough words to express it, not really. I hope I don’t forget everything I know and feel about Rocco; though I hope I do forget, lest it be too sad to live without him. I need to remember; and I need to forget. But I hope I don’t forget. I love that dog so much.
Prayerful Life 