Day Twenty Seven

Rocky

Don't ask me why but I've been thinking about Rocky lately. Not the Sylvester Stallone character, but a Boxer we had about twenty five years ago. The kids were little and I thought it would be fun to get them a puppy. My husband used to tell tales of the Boxer, Nicky, he grew up with in Pittsburgh, PA. To hear him tell it, no dog before or after the amazing Nicky can compare to his awesomeness. I think part of the mystique surrounding Nicky was that, back in those days (1950's - 1970's) dogs could pretty much roam free. There were no leash laws back then. Nicky would leave the house in the morning and maybe come home at night. He wasn't around long enough to make a nuisance of himself.

Our kids were in elementary school and I would wait with the other moms to pick them up every day. We gathered at the front of the school. Quite often, one of the moms was accompanied by her dog - a Boxer - who was a really cool dog. She (the dog) was laid back and all the kids loved to see her and give her hugs. One day, she (the mom) let us know the dog was pregnant. The wheels started spinning in my brain, and I got the idea to get one of the puppies. I probably didn't discuss this with my husband. I learned early on, with him, it is better to ask forgiveness than permission. When it comes to more pets, he will always say, "no." In this case, we should have had a lengthy discussion. Something to the effect that what do we do if the dog is insane?

The day finally arrived when the puppies were born. Not long after, the kids and I went to visit and pick out our puppy. Even though the owner tried to steer us toward another puppy (something about this one being deprived of oxygen at birth,) I was undeterred.  I can't remember what it was that attracted us to this puppy at the time, but he was going to be ours. Suffice it to say, we made the wrong choice.

Rocky was a cute puppy. Cute but stupid. He quickly grew into a monster. Rocky would eat anything - socks, money, eyeglasses, underwear, shoes, toys, the pool screen - anything. When he first came to live with us, we were in the process of building a new house. Rocky spent time in various places - the house, the porch, the garage - but nothing made him happy. When he was inside, he wanted outside. When he was outside, he would bark to come back in. Many mornings would find me chasing him around the yard with a broom, frantically trying to corral him so I could get the kids to school and myself to work. One time, my husband went to put Rocky out and the crazy dog jumped at the door, sending it ricocheting back at Andy. Since he was bent over trying to get control of the dog, the doorknob hit him in the temple, knocking him out cold. Another time, the kids and I returned from errands to see my husband running frantically down the street. The next thing we saw was Rocky flying through the house, with Andy close behind. There was blood everywhere. Rocky had gotten loose and was hit by a car. Being the intrepid creature he was, he shook it off and ran home. The inevitable trip to the emergency vet revealed he had bitten his tongue. Other than that, he was fine. Rocky always caused more damage than he received.

I was especially nervous moving into a brand new home with the Rockster. Somebody stupidly put me in charge of decorating the house, and literally everything was pink. Pink tile, countertops, carpeting, and walls. Pink. One day, my son, who was notorious for springing things on me at the last moment, declared he needed "Lederhosen, a German dish and a report on Germany" - by the next day. Now, mind you, I worked full time as well. So I did what I always did - pulled a miracle out of my - hat. Don't ask me why, but we actually had a pair of Lederhosen - I just had to find them. While Andy was helping our son write the report, I ran to the store and bought a German chocolate cake, which I left on the counter.  Lederhosen - check. German dish - check. Report - check. I went to bed that night thinking all was right with the world and I was a pretty amazing mother...

Right. Sometime during the night, Rocky found the cake, pulled it down from the countertop and dragged it through the house into the living room. He had a grand old time with it, too. There was chocolate, as well as cherries, smeared all over the pink carpet and up the pink walls. Rocky was covered in chocolate and cherries as well, so we couldn't blame it on a Poltergeist or one of the kids. We had no "German dish." I think I sent my son to school with a can of sauerkraut.

We did try to rehome Rocky once. Some very nice folks, who had a lot of property, were very excited to get him. Andy dropped him off and came home very pleased. He said their place was great. They even had a large portrait of their former Boxer hanging above the fireplace, with a spotlight on it. Andy swore he heard angels sing when he looked at the painting. Apparently, our Rocky was the spitting image of their beloved pet.

Rocky was back with us the next day. The guy came to the house, rang the doorbell, handed us the leash then ran to his car and drove away. Rocky looked at us like, "Wow! That was close! They tried to keep me but I showed them! What's for dinner?" A phone call revealed that Rocky had gone ballistic once Andy dropped him off. He tore through their house, up over an antique desk, literally up the walls and pulled down the curtains. In a matter of a few minutes, with the Boxer of All Boxers watching down on him from his place of honor, Rocky destroyed their home.

The final straw came when I returned home from work one day to discover Rocky had torn all of the screen off the back porch. I had nothing left in me to cope with this crazy dog. Rocky had to go. I can honestly say we gave it our best shot. Now, I am a hoarder of sorts - I keep everything. Especially a living, breathing something. But Rocky was not right. Cesar Milan was still a kid, learning how to deal with dogs like Rocky. There was nowhere to turn. From that point on I made sure any creature that entered our home had received plenty of oxygen at birth. Believe me, it's important.

How could anyone resist a face like this...



What we hoped for..

What we got - a wild-eyed maniac!