Folks, I was planning a video blog on 2x12 combinations with the new Invader
and Liberator models for this week. I
promise that will be posted soon ... it’s already "in the can", so to speak. But today I write with a heavy heart. My best pal of the last 16 or so years,
Rosie, is gone. As much as I love
speakers, guitar tone, and all that jazz, my poor little heart just ain’t in it
right now; I miss Rosie too much. She
was a really good dog, and a great friend.
Humor me if you will and read on as I tell Rosie’s story.
I found Rosie in a busy intersection near the Radio Station where I was
working at the time. She was tiny,
scared to death, and terribly lonely looking.
I coaxed her out of the road and into my arms, then I took her home;
what else could I do? My daughter Ashley
was just a tiny little gal then (she’s 19 now).
Ashley named the little pup Rose Bud.
When I took little Rose Bud to the vet the next day, he informed me that
she was very young, too young to be weaned, and possibly too young to survive. But she not only survived, she thrived!
Rosie was an amazing athlete as a young dog. She excelled at Frisbee and tennis ball
catching. She liked to show off and
would leap into the air, catch the Frisbee upside down, and continue to rotate
until she landed perfectly back on terra firma on all fours. She especially liked to perform this little
stunt when there were new people around that she was trying to impress. It was a real crowd pleaser.
Her stamina was insane. You would
throw your arm out long before Rosie tired of catching and returning balls and
Frisbees. When I went out on my dirt
bike, she would chase beside me. She
could maintain a constant 30-35 mph.
Rosie was the textbook definition of a true friend. Even when I was a total selfish jerk, she
loved me and stuck by me. My wife may
put up with me when I’m a jerk, but Rosie loved me. And I loved Rosie. Still do.
At many years beyond the life expectancy for her breed, Rosie’s heart was
still beating strong, and her eyes were still bright this morning, but over the
last several years she had slowly lost the ability to digest food. Her coat was still luxurious with hardly a
hint of grey, but Rosie had withered to just skin and bones. She was starving to death. It had been long and cruel. Today I stepped into God’s shoes, and I gotta
tell you that I hope to never have to make another life and death decision for
as long as I live. The x-rays told the
story very plainly: an esophagus so
enlarged that it engulfed her entire throat and half her stomach. There is no treatment, just more decline and
eventual death from starvation and/or pneumonia. So I did the right thing, or so I’m told.
I buried Rosie in the back yard with a tennis ball; I hope she’s chasing it
somewhere right now.