By Lorry Myers
I heard the click of her nails on the kitchen tile before I saw her face. I didn’t get up and rush to meet her because I feel like I have done this all before. So, I just sit in my chair and wait for her to make an entrance.
Rosanna Rosanna Danna is back in town.
Rosie peeks around the corner and glares at me; she knows something’s up. She is an Old English Bulldog with slobber on her jaw and lazy in her walk. My son loves all living creatures but especially he loves this dog
I am trying to do that, too.
I am not an animal person and animals are not that crazy about me. I never had childhood pets and limited my involvement with the adopted kittens my daughter talked her dad into letting her keep. Over the years, there was only one dog we ever called our own.
And she wasn’t even our dog.
My son is the dog worshiper in the family and is faithful to the Old English Bulldog breed. Taylor loves their quirky personalities and steady devotion and the fact that they’re content to lie on the couch and watch football. Taylor doesn’t mind that he has to lift Rosie to get her into his truck or that taking her for a walk means carrying her most of the way.
He’d do anything for Rosie.
Now, Taylor’s job is taking him out on the road. Even though there is a boarding kennel near his Memphis home, he wants Rosie someplace where she gets a good night kiss, a morning belly rub and daily one-sided conversations.
Someplace like home.
This is not the first time we’ve taken in my son’s dog when his job took him away. There was another dog, a long time ago, that came to us at the end of her life and we loved her to death. Rocks Ann walked through the door, just like Rosie, her nails clicking on the kitchen tile as she wiggled her way into my heart. Me, who had never loved an animal before and vowed never to do it again.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
