I’m getting way too attached to Rosie, even though she’s completely gross, a farting, snoring, burping galoot. For f-ck’s sake, she eats poop, and I still adore her. Some of my attachment can be blamed on nothing more complicated than time. She’s been here almost nine months, longer than any other dog we’ve fostered.
But another reason why I’ve fallen so madly in love with that giant lugnut is because she’s unconditionally devoted to me. I haven’t been loved like that since Miss Annie died. I’d forgotten how good it feels.
Take the other night. The coyotes have been coming around a lot lately, meaning in the middle of the night the dogs often bolt for the backyard and have their now weekly howl-off. A coyote must have gotten too close to the house because while every dog was outside barking hysterically, Rosie marched back and forth across the bedroom doorway, like a soldier on high alert. In the nightlight’s shimmering glow, I saw the hair on her ruff standing straight up, her tail high and pointed. She was ready to throw down.
Which if you knew Rosie is actually hilarious, because in most public settings she acts like the cowardly lion, hiding behind my legs if anyone even tries to pet her. That’s another reason I love her. She’s nothing but a series of contradictions, a constant surprise.
Sometimes, I think about calling Donna and telling her I want Rosie to stay at the Farnival forever. But then, I remind myself about the practicalities of inviting another animal into our pack, and I know I won’t do it. I can’t…