Roscoe

Roscoe and I first met on an icy night in Sewanee Tennessee, just another stray dog on the Sacred Mountain. He was skinny and had icicles hanging from his ears and appeared on our doorstep around dinnertime. We already had a dog (and a parrot, several parakeets, and two young children in a very small house of 740 square feet.) We certainly couldn’t take in another dog. But there was something about this dog that was special. He struck me as a particularly handsome mutt, with the enormous square head of a Newfoundland, a pink polka-dotted tongue, and long black hair. I put out some food for him, but didn’t allow him inside. The next morning he was still there and we still had 740 square feet of living space. 

I persuaded a neighbor to take him and for several weeks things seemed to be working out. Then one day Roscoe decided to eat the leg off one of their antique chairs, which prompted them to drive Roscoe “down the mountain” – about a 45-minute drive and more than a 3000 foot descent to another Tennessee County, where they set him loose. We learned of it from another neighbor who was as horrified as we were to learn of it, but for many people in this part of the world, dogs are just dogs. They’d better serve some higher purpose, like protection or herding livestock or at least companionship. Otherwise they are disposable. I was devastated. We should have kept him. I NEVER should have given him away to THOSE neighbors.   

Three days later Roscoe appeared on our front doorstep. He’d only been to our house once before and I never even let him in, and yet there he sat. The trek UP the mountain must have taken him every minute of the three days since he’d been dropped off. The pads of his feet were bloody and he was a skinny mess again – on our front step. Our house was still only 740 square feet – but now the choice was easy. We had to take him in. That was eleven years ago and he’s been with us ever since.

We’ve just learned Roscoe has liver cancer. We’re told he’ll have to be put down in the coming days. I hate that expression, “put down.” I thought we believed in life not ending – just changing. Being put down sounds so final. I don’t think it’s final – even for pets. Where loving relationship exists, there is eternity. God preserves and makes whole all that has been blessed by love in this life, and keeps it forever. So maybe when my time comes, Roscoe may be among those who meet me. I hope for that. Even if it sounds childish, I hope for that. For now I’m content to offer him a little fresh boiled chicken and enjoy a few more days with him, and watch him pee on my new azaleas. Go get it Roscoe!