Rooster.
He has been part of our lives for over eleven years.
He went everywhere with us for quite some while: trips, tailgates, the store, basically anywhere they would let him come with me. I remember crying most of the weekend the first time we boarded him. I cried the first time he was groomed, too–they butchered the top of his head!
He had a Houdini stint (which I actually wrote about six years ago to the day yesterday) that ended in lots of drives home due to our doggie door we thought we had done so great by purchasing.
The day we unpacked the pack ‘n play for the boy, Rooster barked his head off at the musical light that attached to the corner of it. (There’s a video somewhere, but I’m not exactly sure where that might be at this point. I can see it so clearly in my head.) The first time we laid that boy in it and he heard him cry, though, Rooster knew that was his boy.
I wish I had a video of our boy calling, “Doo-stah! Doooooooooo-stah!” in his tiny toddler voice. I hadn’t thought of it in years until this week, but now I can hear it plain as day.
I think I said it all best this morning:
Shortly after that post, he made his way out on his own terms, just as he always had when there was a gun shot, a vacuum cleaner, or a power tool making more noise than he cared for. As my sweet husband dug a hole for him this afternoon under the tree outside our bedroom window, it started to rain. “Remember how he would always run away in the rain and come home completely wet and muddy?” I asked. He did. We laughed.
I’m not sure how long it’ll be before I stop seeing him out of the corner of my eye or wondering why I don’t hear his tags jingling toward whatever room we’re gathered in. I know I’m grateful for the years we had, the memories made, and the time he was ours.
Fitzgerald’s Blue Eyed Rooster
June 16, 2006-January 19, 2018
