Rosie was our tea-drinking, garbage-stealing, naughty former foster dog, who came into our family like the only thing it was missing was her. A version of her story is being included in the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Soul book called Lessons Learned from My Dog. You can find it here.
Because of Rosie, I learned that when you eat raw pizza dough, the yeast reacts to the warmth of your stomach and creates a $2000 vet bill. It was Valentine’s Day and my family had made our annual homemade pizzas. I was putting them in the oven and when I turned to get the last sheet, one pizza was gone and so was Rosie.
That is how she was. Quick like a ninja and smart like a criminal.
Rosie was a nine-year-old rescued basset hound, a breed known for their long ears and short legs and made famous by the sleepy dog, Flash, on The Dukes of Hazzard. Unlike Flash, Rosie was anything but lazy. They are big dogs with short legs, which is why it was a mystery how she could get onto the kitchen table so deftly. It wasn’t just crumbs and napkins left on the edge that disappeared. She could snatch a sandwich off the counter and vanish without a trace. One Thanksgiving, after walking our guests to the door, we found Rosie on the dining room table unapologetically licking plates. When we caught her, she ate faster, getting every morsel before being whisked off the table.
She wasn’t tall enough to jump up on the table. So how was she doing it? It was a mystery until one day, when I was working, I heard the scrape of a chair sliding across tile. I shot up to find Rosie under the kitchen table pushing the chair out with her nose.
She was a problem solver. No puzzle was more enticing than the childproof locks on the pantry or the cabinet that held the garbage. One by one, Rosie defeated every child proof cabinet lock we found, even the ones the humans had a hard time opening. She not only relished the challenge of breaking into the garbage, but she also enjoyed spreading it around. There’s nothing like coming home after a long day to clean up a tapestry of coffee grounds and half eaten garbage from living room and kitchen. When she needed a challenge, Rosie would hit the pantry, which was more difficult because its lock was higher up. We still don’t know how she got in there. Maybe she used our other dog, Sully, as an accomplice? While we were gone, Rosie would liberate cereal boxes, pasta boxes, bread–whatever she could reach stretching up on her short basset legs, and they would feast. We’d come home to empty, chewed boxes on the floor, and garbage scattered across the kitchen and one dog looking guilty and the other looking proud.
She struck fast and stealthy. Not even my morning tea was safe. It’d set it down and come back a few minutes later to find my mug of tea completely empty, the cup still upright with not a drop of tea spilled on the table, and no dog anywhere. I learned she liked peppermint tea the best, especially when I added cream and sweetener. But when I made Rosie her own cup, she wasn’t interested. She liked my tea. Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.
The thing about Rosie was that she knew she was a queen, despite being run through a few foster homes and rescue groups. Over the years, we’ve fostered (and adopted) many dogs. None have walked into our house like Rosie. Usually, foster dogs are skittish. They hang back until they figure out the routine and their place in the house. Rosie came into our house like the only thing it was missing was her. She was right. Rosie was unfazed by impromptu light saber battles and the antics of two small boys. She wasn’t bothered by the erratic, loud energy of kids or their little faces in hers. She fit right in and became an instant member of our family, and when nobody applied to adopt her, we made it official.
Outsmarting her became a family activity and one we failed at over and over. I’d heard of treat puzzles keeping dogs busy when they’re alone. The one I bought had twelve compartments that all had to be opened a different way. Some had doors that slid to the left, some to the right. Some had dependencies on each other. It was not an entry-level treat puzzle, and I thought it would be the key to keeping her out of trouble. Sully went after it first for a solid fifteen minutes, carefully working each square before giving up, satisfied that he’d gotten all he would get out of it. I filled it up again and set it down in front of Rosie. After studying it, she picked it up and banged it upside-down against the wall and when all the treats fell out, she scarfed them down and waited for me to refill it. Thirty seconds and done.
When cancer made her skinny and tired, she never stopped getting into mischief. We still had to keep the garbage on the counter and the childproof locks in the pantry. Her tail never stopped wagging. Having mastered the pantry, the challenge that kept her busy was finding the pill hiding in treats and spitting it out triumphantly on the floor. I tried everything I could think of, including smashing the pull to dust and mixing it with peanut butter. Nothing worked. Then, I had an idea. I left a bread-wrapped pill in the middle of the kitchen table and left the room. In less than a minute, she jumped up on the table and ate it. I watched from the hallway, proud and excited that after all this time, I had finally outsmarted the dog.
Saying goodbye to Rosie was one of the hardest things my family has done. Years later, stories about her are legends and we still feel her absence in our house. She lived in the moment, found joy everywhere, even when she was in pain, and she didn’t let things like childproof locks stop her from getting what she wanted. Rosie taught me that a little audacity goes a long way and because of Rosie, we still keep the cereal boxes on the top shelves in the pantry.