My mom just called me to say that they (my parents) had to put down my (our) dog, Rocky. Such a good dog! We got him just after we moved into the house my parents live in now, for Christmas 1995.
When we first got him I couldn't sit on the floor with him, until we established that I was higher on the 'chain of authority' than he was-otherwise he'd claw me until I bled. Silly dog.
I remember in grade 8 putting my hair in pig tails and putting elastic bands on his ears, so we matched!
Whenever we went swimming with him, we couldn't let him in the water otherwise he'd claw us, thinking he was 'rescuing' us.
When we first got him and my dad had to go to work, he would whine all day, until someone came home. My poor mom who worked nights had to put up with it.
Every summer when I came home from Switzerland he would attack me (in a good way). Dogs are a good example of what it means to love. When I came home, and my friends had gone different ways and I had to establish new friendships each year I felt unloved; my dog reminded me that I was loved-even if I abandoned him for 2 months every year.
Even after Bible school and immediately following, living in Switzerland, he would accept me. Sometimes it took him a little longer to remember my scent.
My dad always joked that if a burglar ever made it into our home, he'd make it away with everything, if only he could put up with Rocky sniffing and licking him as he ran around the house. My dad said that Rocky would be so excited, he'd probably show the guy where everything was-he was just that 'helpful'. Thankfully that never happened.
He loved playing catch, I was less of a fan of the slobbery ball-good thing we had Sheree, she would've stuck her hand down Rocky's throat if a game of catch required it, I think.
If you were home, he wanted to be with you.
I'll miss you Rockstar.