A very long time ago, when my children were still little, a neighbor bought a Pekingese dog. He was all of fifteen pounds, with long taupe hair tipped in brown. His eyes stayed hidden beneath his silky fur unless tied back, giving him the look of a tiny, secretive lion. He waddled everywhere, his short legs carrying him in a gleeful bounce that made us laugh.
That neighbor soon asked us to babysit the dog while he went away. When he returned, he surprised us by saying he no longer wanted the dog. Then he asked if we would take him as a gift. Gee whiz, I thought—this little fellow was a very expensive dog.
I had never owned a dog before, but my children adored him instantly, and he adored them right back. We named him Gizmo. His personality was calm, steady, and sweet, yet he was fiercely protective of all of us. He was, in every sense, a marvelous family dog. Gizmo lived with us for thirteen years, and I cherished every single one of them.
A few years later, we had the good fortune to welcome another puppy—a rottweiler mix we named Rocky. He was black, big-pawed, and irresistibly adorable. At first, I thought caring for him would be as easy as it had been with Gizmo. I quickly learned I was mistaken.
Rocky came to us at just six weeks old, and in those early days he chewed shoes, gnawed on table legs, and left puddles on the floor until his bladder grew mature. But his mischievousness was softened by his sheer cuteness. We loved him fiercely, and he loved us with his whole being.
As Rocky grew, so did his strength. He became powerful—sometimes more than I could easily handle—but he remained loyal and deeply protective. He did not take kindly to strange men and was wary of children outside our family, but his devotion to me and my kids was unshakable. Anyone who dared threaten us would have faced his wrath. He lived almost nine years before passing, and losing him broke our hearts all over again.
Both Gizmo and Rocky left pawprints on our lives that can never be erased.
Georgia
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