My Dog Forgets to Go to the Bathroom Sometimes
And other times goes inside
I wonder if he’s capable of feeling nostalgia. Does he look into rooms and go “ahh, this was where I first got into and ate all of the candy in my brother’s stocking.”? The dog counts as one of us brothers, right? Or is that insane behavior?
Rosco is fifteen now. He’ll be sixteen when we get to November. But, for some reason, I cannot see him in any other form than the one he currently resides in: skin tags and all. I know at one point his face was not this gray - as evidenced by photographs on the walls in the kitchen - but my memory paints him just as white in the face as I am.
We got Rosco in April 2011 when he was a year and a half old. My dad wanted to change his name to ‘Houdini’ the first day we had him because, as his neck and head are the same width, he easily escaped his first collar as my dad gave him a bath on adoption day. I came home from sixth grade that day and heard barking in the backyard and I think the “holy shit!” I yelled in the driveway was the first time I’d sworn at my house.
I’m writing this while eating mac ‘n’ cheese and Rosco sauntered into the room get a whiff of the place. What a legend.
I have a routine when I get home from work as I’m sure we all do. I take off my badge and leave it in the car, unlock the door, put my Yeti next to the sink and wait for Rosco to realize I’m home. He can’t hear anymore (or, I don’t think he can. Either he can’t hear or he forgot all of his commands), so it takes until he smells me for him to realize he’s no longer alone in the house.
Some days, especially when it’s sunny out, I feel terrible for him being left inside. I let him out as soon as possible so he’s always striving and prospering. Rosco’s leash is on the farmer’s porch out front. It’s wrapped around one of the columns so he can’t escape but can still walk into the yard a spell. I stand in front of this porch door, waiting for the bastard to figure out I’m here.
He watches me flip the lock on the deadbolt and bolts his shit almost dead into the door. It’s 2:00 pm. He hasn’t peed since the morning if at all that day. The firehose he calls a red rocket smatters the grass so hard that it is no longer able to grow in front of the steps. He may even crap a turd if he’s feeling for some afternoon delight.
After he pees, he still gets the zoomies and I think that this is vitally important. It may be harder for him to get off his bed with his deteriorating hips, but the kid can do laps like Secretariat…for five minutes around the kitchen before he plops again for the next foreseeable future. And, as the zoomies reminded me of this, I can tell you that Rosco, whether it’s October 2015 or March 2025, eats his dinner in maybe (maybe) four bites. The entire can of wet food goes down in a single swallow (no homo) as if he’s eating a small passerine songbird. Some dogs are able to have food in their bowl all day. Not here.
Sometimes, Rosco forgets to go to the bathroom, though. I have come up with a new strategy of following him onto the porch and chanting “go potty! Go potty! Go potty!” It sounds like “go party!” (with the “accent” my college friends say I have) at times and this saying may be more appropriate depending on how he feels about peeing - whether it’s a shindig or just a bowel release.
He will forget to go to the bathroom and, instead, will stand at the top of the steps barking at children getting off the school bus if I don’t follow him into the yard. I know he forgets because, three seconds after I bring him in, he’s done a lap around the kitchen and deposits his ass right back in front of the door, begging to go to the bathroom. And then, because he’s walked through a doorway into a new environment, he’s instantly forgotten his goal, instead enthralled by the wind and possibility for deer to be around the woods.
There are times when, before my afternoon siesta (see, it’s not laziness if you can blame it on Spain. It worked in Spanish-American War), Rosco wants to go out on the back deck and I caution to do so. I know this excitement to see the sun is from being cooped in a dark bedroom (he has full range around the house, yet stays in my parents’ bedroom all day. When I get home from work, if I make it upstairs before he can go to the bathroom [before he notices me], he will sit at the top of the steps and whine, waiting for permission to be released to his bed in the living room or the couch in the basement. He’s 105 in human years [like Sister Jean; shout out the ‘Blers] - he’s allowed to lay down), but his eyes are too big for his stomach oftentimes. He’ll make it to the promised land above the shed and, after wandering around the deck furniture for a moment, whine to come back to his bed.
What he really wants is a bed outside, which we will sometimes do during the summer. He’s asked for it for every Christmas he’s been here for. But, it’s always too cold in December, so we have to wait to gift it to him. If my mom/dad and I are reading outside on the porch during the summer, as the cicadas or whatever that annoying ass bug is that hums incessantly with the heat haze, we’ll drag his bed out so he can comfortably chill and not complain to go back inside.
He gets lonely quickly now. He was much more independent when he was much more spry. If we let him inside like I just described, he’ll soon whine on the other side of the door once he realizes we are not following him into the house. The same thing happens when he goes downstairs to lay on the couch. He desperately wants to be in the cooler base[d]ment but, when no one follows him down, he comes back upstairs, does a stroll to each of our laps, and then tries to go downstairs again in a futile attempt to be followed like Joseph Smith. I will not be going to Missouri, Rosco! [The Mormons went to Missouri first to find the Garden of Eden. Look up the 1838 Mormon War].
I hope Rosco is capable of nostalgia. At the end of my life, I think I’ll find enjoyment in looking around, thinking “ah, yes. That’s the rocking chair where I wrote my great American novel.” I’ve got to wonder, though, if he knows he’s coming to the end of his life. Does he feel the itchiness of growing skin tags and the lackluster range of motion in his hips and understand that these are not the same spry body parts of yesteryears? “Yo’ dog is so old, he remembers the Mormon War of 1838” is what the kids harass me with at school. Too soon? (I’ve been talking about Mormons a lot lately and it’s 100% Trey Parker’s and Matt Stone’s faults).
I think I have a lot of regrets regarding Rosco. There were for sure times when I could have put my minor inconvenience aside to walk him down the street. We could have given him more treats. It’s hard not to think about these things when you say “my dog is fifteen.” I don’t care what breed it is, fifteen is old. Rosco is a mutt of German shepherd and labrador retriever with what my mom says in greyhound because of his white belly. I’m not so convinced of that third one, but the vets have told us the other two. Rosco has remained silent on the issue of his past and origins like Tommy Wiseau.
So, yes, sometimes Rosco forgets to go to the bathroom. But, we still have (and I say “we,” but I mean “I”) time to make sure he goes out with a bang. Let the little stink have a piece of meat from the counter, drive him to the park to walk around, and for God sakes brush his smelly breath. He may forget to go to the bathroom, but we can’t forget to love him. Soon enough, he’ll be gone and all of us around him will start breaking down - as a way to pay tribute to Rossy Coco’s last years.
I will say though, I find it very annoying of him to open my door when I leave it cracked. I leave it that way in case anyone wants to come in, but he takes advantage of this private olive branch. Perhaps I can stop getting so angry with him and let him do what he wants. He can even pee inside if he wants (do NOT tell my mom I said that).
We’ve been placing bets on when he’s going to die for years now. It started probably with “he’ll make it to 2022. Thirteen is a good life” to now saying “well, he’ll obviously be here immortally until 2040.” I, again, say “we” when I mean “I have been pressuring everyone to remember that he’s going to die to which most of the ‘bets’ being placed boil down to ‘John, stop! Don’t say that!’”
I love the little goober. He’s afraid to go downstairs unless someone else is there to protect him from the off-putting and spine-chilling Amazon driver or the harrowing random extended family member visiting my grandmother next door. He licks his lips as if they’re more chapped than a camel’s rectum and it annoys my mom. It’s white noise to me. And he might not be able to hear, but he’s damn fun to sneak up on. He tried to bite me the other day when I woke him up upon getting home from work. And that’s just about my dad - wait until I tell you about the dog’s habits. Just kidding, my dad yawns way louder than Rosco does.
Rosco is now begging to go pee for the fifth time in the last hour. Bladders, whether you’re a dog or a decrepit old person, seem to dwindle in strength with age no matter the species.
Oh, and Rosco says he put money on Wilyer Abreu to win AL MVP after his two home runs this afternoon. I’m not saying to do that, Rosco is. Yeah, he’s questionably capable of nostalgia, but he’s a shark on FanDuel. “Bitch, I’m a dog, woof (grr). Beat the ho’ walls loose” - Migos
If you want to send a coffee to me or Rosco, feel free to follow the link here.
If you’re more of a cat person, reassess.
This was a fun read. Good stuff. Also, I had to Google Wilyer Abreau. Either he's a rookie or I haven't paid much attention to the Red Sox.
Damn, this hits hard. Nicely written. I have a dog turning 14 in a couple weeks.