LAST Words
ANN OWENS IS A WRITER, CREATIVE GENIUS, ENTREPRENEUR, MOTHER, AND
WIFE WHO ENJOYS PONDERING WHAT MAKES THE WORLD CLICK.
The Mysterious Rocky
Sometimes a woman’s best friend is her dog.
Living in the country, we’ve had our
share of transient and drop-off animals.
For the last 12 or so years, we’ve had
Daisy, a mutt that we rescued from
the shelter that could use some CBD
gummies due to high anxiety. We’ve had
Lily for 8 years, a sort of dachshund
looking thing with weight issues,
seizures, breath that will melt your face,
a high-pitched bark that will give YOU a
seizure, feet that smell like Fritos, and
the life of a Kardashian. But my guy, my
dude, my spirit animal, and the object
of my affection is Rocky, a/k/a The Most
Mysterious Dog in the World.
Rocky showed up at our house in the
spring of 2014; just wandered up like he
owned the place. He was ridiculously
affectionate and liked to sleep on the
outdoor chairs and on top of the picnic
table. The first time I sat outside with
him, he crawled up in my lap and rested
his head on my shoulder. That was it,
folks, he and I were officially tight.
It became immediately clear that he
was not to be contained. I mean, we live
on what once was a dirt road with just
a few neighbors, so we have always let
our dogs ramble a bit. But this piece of
work would stay gone
for days on end, so we
assumed he must have
a permanent address
but was also digging
being with me. It
wasn’t too long before
I found out that he
was hanging out with
several of our country
neighbors and going
by the names of Black
Dog, Earl, and Buddy.
I’m not gonna lie, I
felt betrayed. Here I
was, feeding this guy,
worrying about him
when he was gone,
loving on him when
he came around, and
I find out that I’m not
the only woman in his
life, to say the least. He didn’t live with
any of these people, he was just showing
up and charming them for food and
affection just like he did with me.
See, here’s the thing I’ve learned
about my friend–he’s a total free spirit.
I don’t know where he came from or
how he ended up in my neck of the
woods, but he will never be a kept
dog. I am convinced that he smokes
unfiltered cigarettes, has a Thursday
night poker group that he never misses,
has a mouth like a sailor, is a frequent
flyer at the local tattoo parlor, and that
his ultimate weakness is fast women
and cheap liquor. He has been known to
kill a rabbit or fifty, small deer, medium
deer, and I shudder to think what else.
He enjoys the company of a local goat,
and steals toys, hats, and shoes from
the residence across the road–leaving
them all in my yard so that I will look
like the bad guy. He has come “home”
after nights of debauchery with various,
nasty, bloody holes and gashes in his
body that have cost me a fortune in vet
bills. Honestly, he’s been prescribed
more antibiotics in the last 6 years than
I probably have in my lifetime. We had
him spayed early on when someone
took it upon themselves to tie off his
man parts with a rubber band and left
him to suffer. Of course,
he didn’t go to where
they call him Black Dog,
Earl, or Buddy, he came
to me because he knows
that I’m a sucker for his
face and I’ll always take
care of him, regardless.
It wasn’t until 2016
that we had our first
complaint regarding his
behavior, and a neighbor
threatened to do him
in. I won’t go into any
details, but let’s just
say that chickens were
involved along with
allegations of chasing
an old woman into her
house and scaring her
half to death. Pretty sure
he just wanted a couch
to rest on, but I didn’t blame them and
was very grateful that they didn’t unload
a shotgun on him when they had the
chance. We had a talk, he and I, and I
cried, knowing that his days were now
probably numbered, and I officially put
him up for adoption on Facebook but
had no takers, thank God.
In 2017, he apparently decided to
settle down and brought home a young,
beautiful black lab to meet us. They
were a thing for almost a month, but
then she wised up and dumped him
because, chances are, she figured out
she wasn’t his one and only. He was
seriously and truly depressed, moping
around for almost a week, and then he
disappeared again to drown his sorrows,
I’m guessing.
I don’t mean to sound like he’s
totally selfish and ungrateful for what
we’ve done for him. One day, in the
wee hours of the morning, he got into
an awful growling, gnashing fight with
a large animal right outside of our
bedroom. I still have no idea what that
animal was, but I’m pretty sure Rocky
got the best of him. He escaped with a
nasty gash, took a trip to the vet, and
got to come in the house to convalesce
where he slept for 12 straight hours.
Then there was the time that little,
fat Lily thought she could take on the
big dogs from across the road (she was
so wrong), and Rocky appeared from
absolutely nowhere to her rescue,
beating both of those dogs to a pulp and
sending them home crying. He got to
come in the house then, too, and he
earned an entire can of chicken soup.
Much to the dismay of my husband,
Rocky has earned many days and nights
in the house–when it’s too cold, too
hot, bad weather, or just whenever the
prodigal son finally decides to come
home again. I am forever amazed he
has lived this long. I will continue to
get nervous when he’s gone for awhile
because I know, with the life he leads,
one of these days he just won’t come
sauntering up my driveway, looking
tired and walking with a limp that he
seems to only have when I’m looking. I
keep hoping that, before it’s too late, we
can retire together, and I can convince
him to write his memoirs… because
that has got to be one hell of a story.
144 TOOMBS COUNTY MAGAZINE