For those who weren’t around when I fostered Stinger, he is roughly the inspiration for Roscoe in Portia’s story. He was eleven months old when I began fostering him, and the seven months he spent in my household were tumultuous at best. I actually found Krista, my next foster who was eventually adopted by my parents, to be a little dull after the sheer personality of Stinger. Scary thought of the day is that both these pups hit seven years old this year!
The other pit bull love of my life is T-Bird, who is now living the good life after being rescued from a huge multi-state fighting ring. He is now known as Farley and lives on a ranch/farm property near Marble Falls.
This past weekend was also Pit Bull Awareness Day, and it was great to see so many people out and about on Sunday for the parade and festival in Austin! It wasn’t as huge a turnout as past years, but it was respectable. It’s always good to see people who are proud of their dogs.
On to the story:
Integrating Roscoe into my life started smoothly since he slept heavily for the first week, as Aunt Jo had warned me might happen. He eagerly looked forward to our morning walks/runs and evening fetch sessions, but the extreme energy level I’d seen at the shelter appeared to be mellowing dramatically. Roscoe had been so well-behaved that the crate I’d reluctantly purchased lingered in the box, and I began debating returning it to the store since my dog obviously didn’t need it.
About a week and a half After Roscoe I came home midday to let my new best friend out and save money by cobbling a lunch together out of the leftovers in my fridge. My imagination created a scene of enjoying random salad while snuggling with my blissfully relaxed dog. My oxytocin levels would rise pleasantly, and I’d return to the office refreshed and relaxed after my dog break.
I unlocked my front door and stepped into Sofapocalypse. Snowy drifts of stuffing covered the living room floor, the entire back of the sofa gaped open, and there was no sign of Roscoe anywhere. I gasped in horror and grabbed the door handle to keep from giving into the urge to sink to the floor.
“Roscoe!” I bellowed, fighting the twin emotions of anxiety and fury. “COME HERE!” No black pittie head appeared, and I fumbled desperately for my cell phone and hit my first pre-set number.
“Aunt Jo?” I gasped when I heard the phone pick up. “I need help with the dog…”
“What’s the problem?” my aunt asked with her no-nonsense and this will probably turn into a lecture voice.
I took in a ragged breath and, to my frustration, felt hot tears running down my face. “My living room is covered in stuffing, there’s a gigantic hole in my new sofa, and I can’t find Roscoe!” I cringed as my voice cracked with sobs. “What if someone took him or he choked on stuffing or he ran away?”
Stifled laughter filtered through the line. “Why didn’t you crate him, Portia? I warned you that Roscoe’s real personality wouldn’t come out for a few weeks.”
“He was being so good I thought it wasn’t necessary!” I protested. “Until today Roscoe just slept while I was at work!”
“I’m trying not to strangle you through the phone, dear,” my aunt chided. “He’s a young active dog, so the most logical conclusion is that he’d chew on something…although a sofa is quite ambitious. By the way have you investigated the full damage yet?”
I scratched my head. “Isn’t the immense pile of fiber fill a big enough clue?”
“Just do it,” Aunt Jo advised. “If you still can’t find Roscoe afterwards give me a call back.”
I reluctantly disconnected and pushed aside mounds of filler to make my way to the couch. I carefully watched my foot placement just in case Roscoe had curled up to nap underneath the protective white covering, but no black pit bull magically appeared as I shifted the disaster.
“Aunt Jo must be crazy,” I muttered as I moved to inspect the hole in back of my previously beautiful sofa. “Roscoe?” My nervous call was met with the soft thumping of a dog’s tail against the interior workings of a piece of furniture. I pulled back the loose fabric surrounding the hole in the couch and found my crazy dog curled up inside a dark, cozy cave created out of my sofa and a blanket dragged off my bed.
Relief flooded me, and I rocked back on my heels while I laughed hysterically. “You crazy dog!” I spluttered. “Come’ere, boy.”
Roscoe wagged his tail eagerly but didn’t come any closer. I stuck my head further into the hole and began laughing harder. My lug of a dog had figured out to climb forward to get into his hole, but he didn’t have space to turn around. As a result the doof couldn’t figure out how to get back out of his hiding place.
“I’ll get you out of her, big guy,” I said soothingly. “Then we’re going to set up your nice, safe crate.”