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In Memory of Rosie
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By Celene Adams
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She was the color of love. She had rose-tipped ears and a slant-eyed, foxy little face. And beneath her juicy, blackberry nose, her long, pointy muzzle was trimmed in white fur, fine as dandelion silk.
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She was so graceful! And oh so decorous. She didn’t jump up against the door of her cage. She didn’t pant, or whine, or bark. All around us, the other dogs in the shelter begged for release, their tails all thumping the same refrain, “Let me out! Let me come home with you! Let me live!” But this languid beauty just laid on her thin, bunched-up blanket, her delicate forelegs stretched out before her on the cold, hard concrete, her head resting resignedly on cream-dipped paws, her eyes downcast.
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She was breathtaking. Undemanding. Self-contained. Scared. And sad. She would not come to me when I tried to coax her. And when the attendant opened her cage and slipped a leash onto her collar, she did not so much as look up. She simply rose obediently to her feet and followed him outside. But when I folded down onto the ground and held out my arms for her, she pressed herself into the circle of my embrace, crawled into my lap, and nuzzled her nose into the crook of my armpit.
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I remember cradling her, feeling the warmth and weight of her against my chest, pressing my face into the velvety tufts of her ears. “How would you like to be mine,” I whispered, “How would you like to be my own special one?”
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“You have three days to decide,” the attendant said when I finally tore myself away. “After that, …”.
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But I already knew that if anyone was a goner, it was me. And I’ll never forget how, as I drove her home, a trucker, perched high above us in his caboose, looked down and smiled at the sight of her muzzle resting on my forearm, and a fierce joy and ferocious determination to protect her flooded my soul.
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It’s been 15 years since I first fell for the red-headed Collie mix I called Rosie – or “needle nose,” or “Snuffleuffamousse,” or any of the other pet names I gave her over the years. And my love for her never waned. Not once. Every morning, waking up to see her sweet, expectant face, her expression anticipating the delight of yet another walk, I fell for her anew. “Okay, okay, Rosie,” I’d say as she waited by the door, shiny eyes fixed on my every move, “Let me make some coffee at least.” But soon I started setting the alarm earlier and wearing my walking clothes to bed so we could leap up at the crack of dawn, hop into my old Kia Rio, and head out to the hills.
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“What a happy dog!” people would say when they saw her prancing along. And with her cinnamon tail fanned out behind, she did indeed look a picture. My heart would burst at the splendid sight: her coat, so lustrous in the sunshine, her open-mouthed grin, her goofy, bubblegum tongue.
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And oh the wonder of her trust! The sheer, breathtaking honor of it! That this sweet, shy, docile creature, who started at the skittering of a food dish across the floor and stood shameful and cowering if she had an accident in the house, would ever give another blundering human a chance! It shattered me. I could not conceive of ever hurting her, and whoever had would not want to cross my path.
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For she brought me happiness. A happiness as simple as holding a furry pup in my arms. She awed me with her beauty, taught me the joy of seizing every glorious day, and inspired in me a love that will never leave me, even as she departs this world.
