There is a time for everything; and a season for every activity under the heavens.
Ecclesiastes 3:1
From April 2012 to March 2013, the Ussery Jr. household experienced a season of Roscoe.
And before you get weepy on me, please note that the sweet lug you see below has not died.
He is in his happiest state yet living with his original owner and trainer on a farm in North Carolina.
(Which "happens" to be about 15 minutes from my parents house!)
Here's the story of Roscoe and why he is no longer with us...
Roscoe came to us from family friends. He was in need of some human interaction.
And if there is something our household is good for, it's human interaction.
We were grieving Scout but were ready to fill the void in our lives that only a pooch can fill.
And my hair ball vacuuming biceps had atrophied greatly.
So, we saw Roscoe as a great opportunity.
But after a couple of months, his old age seemed to catch up with him.
And his hind quarters couldn't hold on to it's contents as well as one would hope.
And what I mean by that is......
he pooped in the house.
A lot.
In amount and frequency.
In his sleep. In Finn's bed.
And despite diet changes, veterinary consults, frequent walks and sweet talking, the poor guy continued to have trouble with this.
We considered an electrical fence so he could freely roam and relieve.
But while an electrical fence would keep him in, it would not keep our backyard reptile friend out.
So, we purchased a lot of carpet cleaner and forged on.
Until one day when this little tyke found a Roscoe treasure in the house and picked it up.
Ew. I know.
So, yes. Kids pick things up. Dogs lose control. These are two natural things in and of themselves.
But the two do not always mix well together.
After several weeks of prepping the kids and putting some feelers out there for a good home for our black beauty, the heavens opened up and we learned that Roscoe's original trainer (Roscoe was a hot shot hunting dog back in his prime) was ready for a companion dog.
So our season of Roscoe came to a bittersweet end.
I really wasn't excited to blog about Roscoe. Not because I'm bitter about the stained carpets. Or because Jack might see some pictures of him and cry (which he might and that's okay), but because I do feel like we failed him somehow.
And because I was excited to have a sweet, lasting relationship with him. And that was cut short.
(And because the pet adoption/rescue people will look on us with scorn. Much like the volunteer lady at the local pet rescue farm who heard about our situation and politely (sarcasm) suggested that we might best be suited to get a stuffed animal instead of a real, breathing, poop machine. Clearly she did not see the episode of "Strange Addictions" where the couple who couldn't have a baby started collecting Cabbage Patch Kid dolls and ended up hosting playdates with their "son" whom they spoke for in baby talk.)
We will revisit dogdom at some point.
Perhaps when we have invested in some hardwoods.
And maybe when Charlie exits the pick up everything and put it in your mouth age.
Until then...we will visit our ol' boy down at the farm!
We'll just watch where we step:)








