We adopted Rocky two years ago. Not because we believe we're Saints saving the world's problems one rescue dog at a time but because we saw his face on an internet search (back when camping out in a pub for a Saturday afternoon was normal) and something clicked. We'd been talking about finding a dog to keep after fostering and having both grown up with dogs in the home. He was odd looking, mainly due to his underbite, and super chubby. His blurb made him cheeky but a tad mysterious.
We didn't know where he'd come from or how old he was, and we still don't know why anyone would give him up. We went to meet him the day after we got engaged and the deal was done. There was not a single doubt he would be coming home with us. He's not perfect but since then he's slid into our household like part of the brick-work and I can't even remember what it was like before.
He's fought his way through four mast cell tumours and operations to remove them, and now has a wonky face due to a tumour on his skull causing muscle wastage on one side of his head. He came with a few scars due to what we can safely assume were scrapes with other dogs and that's also clear from his anxiety towards some dogs when out and about.
Rocky always thinks a birthday celebration is his own and is first to open presents on your behalf. But, now that we have found out his birthday from the magic of the microchip he will finally have his day. He turns 11 on 1st December.
On a personal note I have my ups and downs, as we all do. Some days can feel particularly hard but not once have I refused to get out of bed to toddle downstairs and open the door to a cheeky grin and a butt wiggle from my tiny friend. Most days I'm actually not sure who rescued who.
