Oh Hi There, Rocco
Striped ribbons of brindle converging into rings like a turtle’s shell expanding and contracting rhythmically; the space between ribs and waist decreasing on the exhale and increasing with each breath.
Back paws extended like a rotisserie chicken, bat-ears perked up at all times, unless pulled back when using their pig-shaped faces and bulging, inquisitive eyes to drill deep into your soul — imprinting like a firstborn (4-legged) does.
Within moments of staring at his 16-week-old self, a little old gremlin stared back; just on digital print, I could tell this one was special. Dubbed Romeo by the first set of humans responsible for spawning him, shortly thereafter christened as Rocco.
Sourced from the Amish like a piece of furniture, he was exchanged for the equivalent of what I assumed could secure a few horses to pull their buggies. By the end of the day, he’d survived the horrific traffic to the Chicago airport, the first oohs & ahhs from passersby, and cush, broad seats arranged 2-2 toward the front of the plane.
From Amish farm to the streets of DC, his hay-padding turned to feather-down. He’d made it: a DINK (technically) household of two millennial, gay men projecting what modern life has come to. He became the most prized possession and began to assume he must be one of us — at least the human parts.
Navigating a foot off the ground has its advantages, especially through big, bright places with fresh smells and the occasional tiny morsel of edible bits. When I don’t leave the liquid inside me, or the big mushy piles of non-absorbed nutrients in the “warm place,” I get these salty, crunchy, circular bits and chewy strips that fill my belly. Different from the little pebbles that taste all the same. We prefer that which comes from Him, and sometimes even the high-up place I can’t see or reach.
The metal poles pointing up — try as I might, I cannot jump over them. Only He makes them move. When they move, I get to run, and jump, and smell all the moving creatures.
Sometimes the smells have layers — lots and lots of layers — and that’s when I stay still, and take deep breaths in. It’s all so overwhelming. I feel connected to echoes of memories; with my eyes closed, I see black and white moving and swirling all around. He comes to my rescue — small little taps on my rear, and then on top of my head. They break the spell of smells.
He has always been there. As far back as I can remember. There were once other smells, the first smells. I miss those, and I haven’t smelled them since the beginning, but when I close my eyes and drift off to the dark warm place, it’s meek, but I remember warmth, darkness, nuzzling into something that felt like me. Exactly like me. Now it’s Him, and the way I feel about Him. It’s more compelling than all the other smells combined.
It’s the feeling of lying on my back, exposing my soft tummy up to what’s usually above me —
It’s the feeling of warm, salty morsels from the high-up place that makes me drool —
It’s when I look up while relieving myself, and our eyes lock — I know I can continue, and He’s got my hindside.
He brings me everywhere. And once He took me to a magical place — the ground was soft, it melted under my paws until it didn’t, otherworldly, wet, and cold. He took me up to where the sounds were coming from, and my nose glued to a spot where little hard-shelled creatures, smaller than the hard tippy part of my paw, surfaced from the melty ground. I sniffed it, and that’s when I knew I loved this place. Almost as much as Him.
When we take adventures, I stay closeby Him, always touching a part of Him. Sometimes He steps out of reach and I feel it — a pull, taut and invisible, the umbilical cord that still ties me to Him. I strain against it as hard as I can, the way I once strained toward that first warmth. He is Me, and I am Him. Sometimes I feel something spike in Him — a smell and a memory combined. That’s when I jump onto his lap, lean against him, and we connect eyes. I lick him to make sure He knows I am there.
I am Him, He is Me.
It’s a weird concept to love a dog so much. It’s equal parts fantasy of what parenthood looks like and acknowledging what might be the same if this were a human child. There are parts of my childhood that shine so brightly I want to unlock what holds me back and create another. It’s never been the right time, but great things come to those who wait.
I know my experience with Rocco is shaping me for what’s to come — though the same is true of all our experiences. I’ve toyed with getting him a companion, one like Him. His separation anxiety is real, and the idea of Him never being alone is alluring. My finances and parental guilt would, without a doubt, be impacted.
He’s lived a good life, and He better stick around for many, many, many more years. Our bucket list: an international trip to Palermo, buying a home where he has his own yard, and finally bringing all our possessions to one place that is Ours. I’d like him to meet my first human child, too. I think patience on this front will pay off sooner rather than later.
Rocco’s field notes — if you’re local and four-legged-inclined:
Activities: Channel Islands Harbor · Ventura Promenade · Arroyo Verde · Harmon Canyon · Botanical Gardens
Food & Beverage: Topa Topa (Colt Street) · Beach House Tacos · Cronies (Camarillo) · Tony’s Pizzeria · Dargan’s Irish Pub · Ten Tiger · Finney’s (Main Street)
A Loving Pawrent,
Nate a.k.a. He/Him
