This post is a dog obituary. I know that pet death is a tough topic for most folks, but I’d love it if you took some time to read about one of the greatest mutts of all time. Rosie Puppins was a very good dog. Which is to say that she was very good at being a dog and often struggled to do the things that humans asked of her.
And it should be noted, sometimes she didn’t struggle at all. Sometimes she looked you straight in the eye and did the thing she knew she wasn’t supposed to do. And while I can’t say for sure, it did feel like she celebrated those moments where she was quick enough to get away with someone.
Long Live Rosie Puppins
Rosie Puppins was a pit bull-beagle-boxer mix who wandered up to our house one day and stuck around. Chris, my then-boyfriend and now-husband, was brewing beer in the garage with a friend of his on the day she showed up. And apparently she liked the vibes because Rosie stuck around.
We took two weeks to find her owners, but she wasn’t chipped. It seemed like no one was looking for this puppy, no matter how many times we called the city’s shelter to see if anyone had reported her missing.
That meant we had the choice to take her to the shelter, or to keep her. And even though she was an energetic mess of a handful, we kept her.
All dogs come with a learning curve. They’re living creatures and anyone who thinks dogs just behave or live to please their owners clearly hasn’t owned or trained a dog before. Rosie’s learning curve was a slapstick comedy punctuated by moments of sweet cuddles and furious head butts. She was more personality than puppy from the jump.
What follows is a selection of memories and photos from the life of a very good dog.
A Dog Obituary for a Very Good Dog
It’s hard to distill twelve and a half years into a blog post. And it’s even harder to remember all the details, especially when it felt like Rosie would always be right there on my heels, giving me flat tires and tripping me everywhere I went.
She was a dog with many names, including but not limited to:
- Rosie Puppins
- Rosalind Elaine January Brisco Funaki Puppins-Crockett
- Goose Goose
- Edward Stinkerton IV
- Stinky Beagle
- Sweet Baby Old Lady
Since her passing, Chris and I have cried on the couch and shared memories about our goofy girl. These are the stories that stick out to us.
Full Grown at 15 Pounds
The first few weeks with Rosie were a whirlwind of vet visits. We took her a few places to see if they could find a chip. Then, when she was officially ours, we knew she had to be spayed and to get her shots.
Our first vet visit was stressful and expensive. Chris and I hadn’t been in the market for a dog, yet we had one. But the vet gave us some news that calmed our nerves a bit. She said that Rosie was already four months old and likely wouldn’t get much bigger than the 15 pounds she already was. That was a relief. Smaller dogs were easier to handle, after all.
I would like to have a word with that vet, though. Because Rosie topped out at 60 pounds and when she sat on the couch with us, she seemed so much bigger than that.
Declared 100% Dog at Obedience School
Chris and I were both working full-time and had long commutes. That’s not ideal when you have a puppy. But we thought if we took her to obedience school, Rosie would be a little easier to train.
Honestly, we probably should’ve considered a lobotomy instead.
Rosie was very excited about everything all through her life. New people! New dogs! New smells! There wasn’t anything that didn’t pique her interest. And the obedience school was no different.
The trainer diligently recommended various types of leashes and collars to make the training go more smoothly. A few weeks in a row, we got to class early to let her run out her energy before it was time to learn. The trainer asked one of her classmate’s owners to come early too so Rosie had someone to play with.
And at the end of it all, Rosie was still Rosie. And the trainer said as much, declaring her to be 100% dog, and if we wanted, we could pay to attend the beginner class again and see if the training would take the second time around.
We didn’t sign up again. But we did accept that Rosie was 100% dog, and used that information to train her accordingly.
In the end, she could sit, shake, and high five. She knew was was expected of her on the leash, but she couldn’t always hold space for those expectations on the walk. And she knew that “no” was never the final answer if she was cagey enough.
Pretending to Be a Mole
Rosie’s love for food and play was only rivaled by her love of sleeping. Though, she didn’t always want to let herself sleep.
Every time a new season of Stranger Things released, Chris and I would settle in to watch it in a day. We’d order pizza or get Insomnia Cookies, and weigh down the couch. Rosie was happy to join, if not a bit angry that she wasn’t allowed to partake in the food.
Now, Chris and I aren’t perfect people. In fact, we’re the type of monsters that spent a lot of time narrating Rosie’s inner thoughts. (I’m sure her real thoughts were less silly than what we assumed they were, but Rosie never learned to speak English, so we’ll never know for sure.)
As we watched the kids from Hawkins, Indiana deal with beings from another dimension, we’d keep the curtains closed for the maximum cinematic experience. And Rosie would enjoy the atmosphere, sleeping through the noise of the Upside Down. But occasionally, she’d wake up, desperately trying to stay awake by sitting up.
She’d sit there, looking at us, her eyes closing slowly. And she’d stay sitting up like that. Sometimes her head would dip as she dozed off, only to wake up suddenly and look around as if Chris and I were responsible for it.
I’m not sure who started it, but one of us asked Rosie what she was doing. And the other responded with, “I’m pretending to be a mole.”
You see, in our minds, Rosie would never admit that she was falling asleep on the job. (She didn’t have a job, other than to be a dog.) And rather than say she was dozing off, Rosie would prefer for us to think she as pretending to be a little subterranean creature with discreet eyes.
Admittedly, this wasn’t something Rosie did, per se. But it was a little inside joke we had about her, and it’s something we still laugh about.
Too Happy
Rosie was a medically easy dog. For the most part.
She had arthritis and hip dysplasia, and would occasionally have some tummy trouble because she never met a puddle of water she didn’t think was drinkable, regardless of how many motor oil spots floated at the top. But other than that, she was pretty easy to take care of.
That is, until the day we noticed a sore on her tail. It started small, like a little bump, and soon swelled to the size of a grape. It was red and bloody, but Rosie didn’t really seem to notice it. Googling for a pet’s health issue is just as bad as googling for your own health because the internet wants you to believe you have cancer or some rare disorder that can’t be cured.
We tried to bandage up her tail as best we could, fearing it might be some sort of spinal issue that all the dog owner forums assured us it was. We headed to the vet, anxious hearts and minds running through all our worst fears.
But when we got there, we saw a vet we had never seen before. He was a kind, older man, and he was so reassuring. Way better than the vet who told us Rosie wouldn’t grow to much bigger than 15 pounds, or the vet who suggested the right thing to do was to pay $20,000 for an exploratory surgery so we could know more about her hip dysplasia. (The surgery would just give the vet a better look at her hips. It would not have fixed anything.)
This man spoke so kindly to Rosie, and was able to diagnose her immediately: She was simply too happy.
See, when a dog wags their tail a lot, they tend to hit things. And Rosie wagged her tail with the sort of fervor that could knock holes in drywall. So, the issue was that she was wagging her tail too much in enclosed spaces, like doorways and corners and her crate. And the repeated battering her tail did caused the sore.
We were sent home with directions to keep it clean and try to keep her out of small spaces. This was a feat because she loved to tuck under our desks or the kitchen table.
But eventually her tail sore went away. Her unbridled enthusiasm for life remained.
Armadillo Soccer
Living in Oklahoma means being close to wildlife way more than you actually want to be. So even though you live in the suburbs, you’re never far enough away from creatures that make your skin crawl.
Armadillos aren’t terrible, though they can spread leprosy. And for the most part, the only time I’d ever seen them in real life was in the form of roadkill. But one day, during the beginning of the pandemic, Rosie changed that.
In our old house, my office window faced the backyard shed, a small hut full of old lawn equipment and spiders. Rosie loved to run around it as part of her yard patrol. As I sat at my computer, I heard the unmistakable sound of something hitting the side of an aluminum structure. I looked up from the computer screen out the window to see Rosie with her hackles up, pouncing aggressively around the shed.
I stood and bolted to the hall, hearing the sound again. I knew whatever it was, it probably wasn’t good. And by the time I made it outside, I saw what looked like a soccer ball. Rosie was batting it against the shed with her front paw, moving to catch it as it bounced back at her.
And that’s when I realized it wasn’t a soccer ball. Though Rosie had a soccer ball at one point, it had long since been dismembered like every other toy given to her. The ball wasn’t a ball at all. It was an armadillo rolled up, trying desperately to escape Rosie’s maniacal game.
Sprinting like someone who learned how to run correctly while playing sports as a teen but hadn’t actually sprinted in the past 20 years, I made my way to Rosie and grabbed her collar. She pulled and pulled, nearly choking herself out in the process. But that gave the little armadillo time to run. Or more accurately, shuffle across the grass to a hole in the fence where it could escape to the neighbor’s yard.
And not for the first or last time, I was grateful for the block head pit bull and boxer genes Rosie had, because her head was never small enough to fit in any hole in the fence.
She spent a long time waiting at the fence though, hoping her fun little soccer ball buddy would return. I like to think that armadillo told every other armadillo in the tri-state area to give our Rosie a wide berth.
Poison Ivy
Poison ivy grows all over the place in Oklahoma. If you aren’t careful, it will take over your yard. And even if you are careful, your neighbor’s negligence can ensure calamine lotion has a permanent place on your shopping list.
Chris is more allergic to poison ivy than most people. And one summer, he had a case of it that wouldn’t go away. After months of prednisone shots, we couldn’t figure out why the poison ivy wouldn’t go away.
That is, until Chris realized that the poison ivy rash would pop up wherever Rosie had recently snuggled against him. From there, we were on the case to find where Rosie was picking it up. Dog hair prevents dogs from feeling the effects of poison ivy, but it doesn’t stop them from spreading the oils to others, especially people who are particularly allergic.
That led us to the back corner of the yard where there was probably one little vine of the plant on our side of the chainlink fence. But on our neighbor’s side? Well. I’m shocked their child wasn’t a walking rash.
From there, Rosie got a bath and we did everything we could to functionally firebomb the poison ivy in our yard. And Chris, a man who loved our silly dog, wondered if Rosie had actually been trying to destroy him.
Admiral Skronkington
In her twelve and a half year life, Rosie had four encounters with skunks: two at our hold house in Norman, and two at our new house in Oklahoma City.
In all of these encounters, Rosie couldn’t be called a winner. Nor could Chris and I. Skunk smell always lasted for weeks, and no matter what we tried, it didn’t seem to help fast enough.
There was something about the smell of a skunk that turned Rosie into a certified crazy dog. Like once that terrible funk was in the air, she had to seek out the creature and roll in the stink. Most of the time, if Chris or I could smell a skunk, we’d keep her inside until the threat to our olfactory system had passed. But sometimes, early in the morning, when Rosie would go out just before the sun rose, she’d be the reason the stench of skunk was in the air.
This is one of the things that Rosie didn’t actually do, but we built into the Rosie lore. See, Rosie was a freedom fighter trying to keep the world safe from evil. And Admiral Skronkington was the leader of the evil skunks.
(Skronkington because I assume a slur that dogs use for skunks is skronk. I know this is ridiculous. But this is my blog.)
Rosie lived a righteous life, ensuring our family was safe from the advances of Admiral Skronkington’s army.
(I know that admirals are in the Navy, and generals are in the Army. Skunks have a different hierarchical structure though, so this all checks out. Again, this is my blog, and Rosie was my dog, so like, read the story or go away.)
When we’d open the door to let her out at night, but the smell of a skunk stopped us from doing it, Chris and I would share a knowing nod and say, “Skronkington’s army advances.”
Rosie never did defeat Skronkington. In fact, there were a few times she whined at the window as a fluffy little skunk bounced around the yard. But I like to think she was welcomed like a warrior into Doggy Valhalla nonetheless. Even if she never bagged a skunk, she took down enough bunnies, lizards, and other small creatures to be considered a barbarian raider.
Campus Corner Chicken Wing
For a time, Rosie and I lived near the University of Oklahoma campus. I walked to work, and I walked Rosie a few times a day around the Miller District and Campus Corner. We’d make it all the way to the university or downtown sometimes too.
Rosie loved her walks and even though she had arthritis and hip dysplasia, she was ready for adventure. She loved to cross the train tracks or to gingerly sniff a cactus in a neighbor’s xeriscaped lawn. We spent hours walking up and down The Legacy Trail, and we were both in better shape than we had been for a very long time because of it.
After home football games, Rosie really enjoyed our walks. Tailgaters left all manner of treats along the sidewalks and in gutters, as if football games rendered trashcans unusable. I tried my best to keep her from eating what she found, but it was impossible. Half a slice of pizza here. A whole hotdog there. I knew that some people food wouldn’t kill her, so I tried my best to keep an eye out for junk to steer her clear of it.
But one day, as we walked by an empty lot near Boyd Street, it happened. Rosie stuck her snout under a bush and came up with a whole chicken wing. My face must have conveyed the terror I felt because when her eyes met mine, she swallowed the thing whole.
My mind raced. I knew chicken bones were terrible for dogs. I also knew that I didn’t have dog surgery money.
We went to the vet. I told the vet tech what happened. The tech went into interrogation mode, asking all the details and if I had been able to pull any bits of the wing from her mouth while she chewed it.
“But she didn’t chew it,” I said, trying not to cry. “She swallowed it whole.”
The tech breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Oh, that’s perfect. She will likely pass it in a day or two.”
Because if you don’t splinter the chicken bones and they’re still encased in meat, they can slide right through. You will have to be extra diligent though, in making sure the dog doesn’t have an opportunity to find the wing again and consume it after it comes out.
That was not the only time that Rosie nearly gave me a heart attack. But it was the only time a vet tech looked at Rosie while scratching her head and admonished her to have some self-respect.
Kitten Fight
Rosie wasn’t dog aggressive. Not really. While in obedience school, she did bat a yorkie across the room. But that little fluff ball came at her first, purebred snout yapping checks his tiny ass couldn’t cash.
Rosie was very cat aggressive, though. And not in the way that she wanted to attack cats. In the way that she wanted to bark at them to scare them off, and hide behind me while she did it. Vet trips were always harrowing for this reason, because we seemed to be stuck in the waiting room while every feline patient was too.
On walks, Rosie would bark at cats, and they would stare her down like they knew they could take her.
And it turns out, they could.
While living near OU, I let Rosie out in the tiny backyard behind the house one morning. It wasn’t even 6 AM yet, and the sun was threatening to crest over the horizon with a warm, orange glow.
Rosie stepped off the concrete landing to sniff around. That’s when I spotted the kitten. It was a small ticked tabby, sitting on the top of the fence, about eye-level with me.
I tried to shake the sleep out of my head, but I wasn’t fast enough. The yard was too small, and the kitten was backed into a corner. Before I could grab Rosie and pull her inside, the kitten’s nervous system chose fight instead of flight, much to my chagrin.
Limbs splayed, it jumped and landed right on Rosie’s head, little claws sinking into my poor girl’s ears. Rosie yelped as I came to her rescue, pulling the tiny creature from her head and gently letting it fall to the ground where it streaked through a hole in the fence to escape.
I rushed Rosie back inside the house, her breathing the shocked and labored huffs of a dog in distress. She shook several times, the kitten claw gashes in her ears spraying blood across the white tile of the little kitchen.
For the next hour, I worked to calm Rosie down, cleaning her little cuts with peroxide and petting her. Just when I thought she was ready to chill, her breathing would get all worked up again and she’d look at me as if to ask why bad things like that happened to good dogs.
Snoring on Zoom Calls
Rosie was my protector, even though I really didn’t need her to be most of the time. That meant she was in my office when I was, and she didn’t really seem to find the work I did all that stimulating. So, she spent a lot of time in my office asleep.
Sleep didn’t evade our good girl, and when Rosie passed out, she passed out hard. It wasn’t uncommon for her to hit a deep sleep less than five minutes after collapsing on her bed. Her snores were legendary and often kept me up at night. But when she snored while I was working, it meant everyone on the Zoom call with me got to hear her.
It always made me smile when someone would ask if the snoring they heard was Rosie, because honestly, it would’ve made more sense for it to be a grizzly bear with how loud it was. And I would always smile with pride knowing that Rosie was such a remarkable snorer to others, and that she felt safe enough to sleep that deeply with me.
Friendsgiving Turkey Wing
In August of 2021, Chris and I moved into our current home. For the most part, Rosie liked it well enough, though she did miss all the wild life she encountered in our old house. (She did make up for that with two skunk encounters at the new place.)
Feeling very grown up and capable, we decided we would host Thanksgiving at our house that year. But, before we did the big event for family, we needed to practice with a Friendsgiving. So we invited our friends and watched every YouTube video we could about preparing a turkey.
The day arrived, and so did our friends with their offerings for the friendsgiving potluck. It was such a happy day, and Chris and I felt a combination of pride and honor that our friends would come and share that meal with us. There’s a warm comfort in knowing that you’ve found your people and that your community is happy to share space with you.
So we ate and drank and chatted. Rosie always loved when people came over. To her, these people were there to see her. She took all the pets and scratches and attention she could. And she deserved it all, of course. At this point, she was eight years old. A very distinguished older woman of a dog. Her arthritis and hip dysplasia were becoming more pronounced, and even though she’d still jump on every person who came to visit, you could tell that it wasn’t easy for her to do so.
After dinner, the leftovers sat on the counter, pushed far enough back that one would assume an older dog like Rosie couldn’t reach them.
But Rosie lived to defy expectations.
Neither Chris nor I were in the kitchen at this time, But our friends Steven and Aaron were. And they watched in awe as Rosie trotted right up to the counter, put her front paws on the blue Corian countertop, and reached her snout as far as her neck would allow to grab herself a turkey wing.
She didn’t get to keep the wing. But I like to think she stole it as a way to remind us that she could do whatever she wanted, and her good behavior was a gift she could take away at any time.
Long Live Rosie Puppins
Rosie slowed down a bit toward the end. She was a good dog, and it was hard to keep her down. Her naps became longer and walks became shorter. But she still loved us and made sure we were aware of all the threats our family faced on the daily. Like the old man across the street who checked his mail.
Or the vacuum said little old man left on the curb for big trash day. He set it out a whole week early, and Rosie made sure to scare it away with very loud barks every single day when I opened the blinds.
She was a steadfast companion to me during pregnancy, never leaving my side during every afternoon nap, and resting her head on my belly often. She wasn’t one of those dogs who was aware of the baby like you see on social media. She was simply a dog who was grateful that I had slowed down enough to cuddle her more often.
When we brought the baby home, she was not interested, and the more mobile the baby became, the more clear it was that she wasn’t a fan. Though, the baby was very interested in her and loved how soft her fur was. Even so, we put a bed for her in the baby’s room, so when we rocked him before nap time, she could be near us.
That’s when she liked the baby most. I think she truly respected how much sleep he needed, and if she didn’t snore so loud, I would’ve let her sleep in the same room with him.
Rosie did her best to abide a baby, while still making sure I knew I was her priority, and she would take care of Chris as well.
One morning, after she came back inside to eat her breakfast, I noticed some blood around the house. Little drips here and there. I traced the source to Rosie, and found her mouth was bleeding. She also didn’t try to eat her food at all. I wasn’t too worried, simply because she was an action dog through and through, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to chew on something in the yard, like a stick or fence post. She’d cut her mouth open plenty of times in the past.
But not eating? That wasn’t who Rosie was.
No matter how long she lived with us, she still had the temperament of a stray. She treated every meal and snack like it could be her last, and she didn’t say no to food of any kind, even if it wasn’t technically food.
I made a vet appointment for her later that day.
Chris came home to sit with the baby, and I took Rosie to the vet. The appointment lasted for about three and a half hours. And that was the first time I would cry in that vet’s office.
It wasn’t the last.
The vet was so kind and young, the vet techs so helpful. They were always mindful of Rosie and couldn’t stop talking about how great she was. And they were also very clear about the cost of her care, something some vets don’t share until they’ve already done the treatment.
An x-ray revealed a mass on her liver. And since she was twelve and a half, that meant there wasn’t much we could do. Rather than put her through the stress of surgeries or chemo, we made the choice to make her as comfortable as possible for however long we had with her.
The vet gave us an antibiotic to help stop her mouth from bleeding, and we went home.
In the end, we only had about two more months with her after that.
She was more lethargic than normal, though she loved her evening walks. I’d take her as far as we could go, and she made sure to bark at all the other dogs just to let them know she was Rosie Fucking Puppins, and she wasn’t going to take any shit from them.
As the mass on her liver grew, so too did the inflammation in her abdomen. Six days after my fortieth birthday, her back legs became swollen and she couldn’t walk anymore. That’s when we knew it was time.
My mother-in-law came to watch the baby, and Chris and I loaded up Rosie into the car to take her to the vet one last time. They were so kind to us and gave us all the time we needed. And when it came time to put an IV in her paw, they brought her a plate of treats: blueberries, chicken jerky, and peanut butter-covered chocolate chip cookies.
Rosie ate what little she could, and we sat with her as she took her last breath.
Life After Rosie
Rosie’s ashes are home with us now in a little carved rosewood box with a nameplate. We haven’t found the best place to keep her yet, mostly because the places she loved most, like behind the couch or the entryway to the kitchen, aren’t ideal for keeping a box of ashes and a little paw print.
It was hard to come home to a house without her. Tumbleweeds of her hair rolled across the wooden hallway floors. I had never been able to keep up with the amount she shed. Her water bowl sat there in the kitchen, waiting for her to come get a drink. Treats she hadn’t been able to consume in her last days sat in her bed or on the living room floor where she left them.
We have since cleaned up those reminders. But she’s a dog that won’t ever be forgotten. I find myself rushing through dinner prep so I can have enough time to walk her before the sun sets, only to remember that I don’t have to walk her anymore. Our 11-month old still drops bits of his food from the high chair, leaning over the sides and waiting for his big sister to amble over and clean up his mess.
I know she wasn’t a purebred, or even the sort of dog that people seek out when they get a puppy. But she was the one who found us, and she knew we needed her as much as she needed us.
If anything, Rosie taught me about the love mutts can have for their owners, and how necessary it can be for the dog to choose you.
It’s a relationship that I don’t take lightly. And it’s one that I will miss every single day.
May All Dogs Be as Loved as Rosie
I know all dogs have the potential to be special to someone. I also know all dogs deserve way more than many of us can afford. Sometimes I feel guilty about not doing more for Rosie’s hips, or getting her into some kind of canine physical therapy.
I also know she didn’t really have the temperament to do much more than what she wanted to do. She was ornery to a fault.
Even so, if you have some time or money or stuff that can be used to help other dogs, I encourage you to give it to those who need it.
All of Rosie’s beds, waterproof blankets, leashes and harnesses (of which there are many because we were told so many awesome things about how each one would make her a better dog on a walk and not a single one actually worked for her), her crate, and leftover food will be going to the Oklahoma City Homeless Alliance. They have a very simple donation process, and I know those dogs and their owners will make good use of those items.
And the next time you see a wily stray running through your neighbhorhood, take a second to say hello. Maybe the dog belongs to someone who is looking for them. Or maybe you’ll get lucky like we did, and that dog is simply looking for you.
Oh my, what an awesome girl Rosie was and always will be! I didn’t miss an adventure of hers and what a beautiful, warm hearted obit. She will always be remembered. May she rest wonderfully in the paradise of Puppy Valhalla. 🐶
Thank you! She would’ve really loved to know that people she never met knew about her. She very much wanted to be everyone’s favorite.
Reading this made me feel like I got to “meet” Rosie. There’s no doubt how loved she was and how much she brought into your lives. All those moments will live on forever through you and these stories. Dogs weave their way into our hearts and leave a trail of laughter and love like nothing else. I’m so glad you got to have Rosie in your life. And she’s so lucky she got the kind of love that fills up a room and expands out forever and ever into the abyss.
Thank you. ❤️
Oh Marisa I’m so sorry about Rosie! I loved her and always enjoyed sightings of her on your streams. Such beautiful words you have written to honor her. May she rest peacefully in puppy heaven. ❤️❤️
Thank you so much, JC! I really appreciate it, and Rosie would love to know that people she never even met remember her.