Rosie, our English bulldog, died the night before last.
She would have been two years old on Thanksgiving.
She was running around in the park, where we take the dogs to play. Nothing unusual, until she couldn't catch her breath, more so than usual. We got her in the van, and went immediately to the vet. My husband started CPR on the way, but to no avail.
The vet said perhaps a heart attack, or a congenital lung problem. We opted not to have a post-mortem done. To what end?
Godspeed, Rosie. By far the happiest, friendliest, sweetest dog I've ever known. She never met a stranger, never went anywhere, ate anything, slept anywhere or played with anything that she didn't absolutely love and jump in 110%. My son's three pound puppy could literally crawl inside her mouth, and did so, and Rosie just wagged her tail. A gentle lamb in a linebacker's body. The perpetual puppy, the 70 pound lap dog.
The house just is not the same. Rosie was the cult of personality in our pack, always the one underfoot, in your face, in the way. Always the curious, happy, friendly one saying, "Whatcha doing? Want some help? Let me see!" It's just unbelievable how much we miss that dog.
