The Rocky Chronicles:

The Rocky Chronicles: A Star is Born... A Special Star... Like, Should be Wearing a Helmet. A Special Helmet

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A Rockstar is born…

Well, quite a few of you, my newfound fans and devoted supporters (ok… both of you, Hi Grandma!), have e-mailed wanting to know more about the four-legged furball that will be occupying the copilot seat for this great tragedy on wheels. Being that I will certainly cave to the whims of my readership all in the name of glory, your collective wishes shall now be granted!

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Name: Rocky Apollyon (The Destroyer, in Greek)

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A.K.A: Rockstar, HEY!, Come here you!!, What in the?!!, Oh I can’t believe this!, or most any noise that seems to be made in his direction…

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Age: Maybe 3?

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Weight: 60 lbs

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IQ: The scale started at 1. He didn’t make it that far.

When I first retired out of the Army, I did what most twenty something males with no life/direction do and promptly moved back in with my parents. While there, it came time for my OTHER dog (Chip) to move on to that great fire hydrant factory in the sky. I decided that in order to make up for the fact that I was another loser living at home, I would quickly seek out another companion to make me look more normal. Sadly I failed miserably and ended up with the Rockstar. If there is ANYTHING in the world that can make a one armed dude appear even less normal, it’s a completely retarded boxer. I went above and beyond.

I first heard of Rocky through my parents, who I think may have mostly been hoping to get me out of the house long enough to change the locks. He belonged to some west Tennessee locals of the reddened neck variety, and nobody was really QUITE sure what the deal with him was. I headed down to the local gas station where his owner was busy selling 40’s just as fast as they could, and inquired within. I l was told that Rocky was supposedly a full-blooded boxer, aged two, and was currently residing in their basement. The translation was “he looks a lot like a boxer and he’s kinda young, and oh yeah, he spends a little time in the basement.” I got directions to the house-o-rocky, and headed on down to see this amazing little dog.

I pulled in and was immediately met by quite possible the meanest boxer I’ve ever encountered. Now for those not familiar with the boxer breed, they tend to be pretty sweet. Anxious and excitable, but sweet. Cerberus, the three-headed hound that guarded the gates of Hell was a lapdog in comparison to the snarling, snapping, mouth foaming ball of joy that was tethered just out of reach of my oh so tasty arse. I was becoming a little suspicious at this point, but against my (or anyone’s) better judgment, I headed for the door. Those who know me well know that this is pretty much par for the course for me. “My God! That sounds like a HORRIBLE idea!! I’m in!”

I knocked at the door and turned back to make sure the hellhound hadn’t gotten lose and waited. After a moment, the door was answered by the mister of the house, and he didn’t seem amused. I let him know I was here to see Rocky, and decide if I wanted him. He returned after a moment with the antithesis of Satan-on-a-string just a few feet away. He explained that Rocky was the spawn of The Beast to my right, yet wasn’t much like him. He calmly explained his attempts to make Rocky a more worthy dog, and the failure that had ensued due to a possible slightly below average intelligence level. He then politely asked if I might like to take Rocky with me then and there. I believe the actual wording was; “This dumass dog is the son o’ that one right thar and I’ll be dammed if he ain’t crap like him. I done put this dog in the basement fer the last two years an’ it ain’t made him mean at all. Matter o’ fact he’s about the dumbest dog I ever seen. You taking him with you now right?” Meanwhile, Rocky was running around in circles at approximately just below the speed of sound while alternately drooling, self asphyxiating, and jumping all over me, the bushes, the car, and things only he could see. I was skeptical, to say the least.

I went home to explain to my Dad that Rocky was a bust, and ask for a new key because mine didn’t seem to be working now for some reason. Dad and I then had a long talk about “potential” and “latent ability” and a lot of other key words I don’t remember anymore, and it was decided that I would bring Rocky there for a few days before I moved, as a test run. There may have been a little more discussion about my planning to move. The words “expedite”, “soon”, “before sun-up” might have been mentioned too, but my memory is foggy in my old age. Anyhow, long story short, I went back to the shanty the held my newfound little buddy, braved Cerberus again, and loaded Rocky into the car. Twenty-five minutes and six gallons of drool later, we were home. The Rockstar was mine. Damn.

Anyhow, it was only a matter of days before I loaded up my u-haul and headed east. It was decided Rocky would ride in the truck with dad, mostly b/c he was the only one with the patience to NOT strangle him. To give you an idea of the “New Rocky”, picture a four year old kid, hopped up on chocolate, Pepsi, and oh maybe a little crystal meth. Now double that, and attach never ending spittle cannon to one end, and spin it in circles. For eight hours. I think that gets the point across.

Well we made it to Johnson City in mostly one piece, and no matter how hard I tried to leave Rocky at truck stops along the way, someone always got him back in the truck. Well once here, Rocky and I had a few growing pains, to say the least. First, we had to establish WHO was in charge. After living for two years in a basement, Rocky was a little slow on the uptake on “how things work”. We quickly settled on an understanding that as long as he quit peeing all over everything, I’d remove my foot from his hind end. By quickly, I mean about a month. In Rockyspeed, that’s pretty danged fast. Things progressed well for the summer whilst I worked on the house, and Rocky came to realize a few things such as which one of us sleeps on the floor, insulation, while being tasty goodness, is not for digging, and most importantly, the poles downstairs were NOT trees even if they are covered in wood.

The trouble, and the last name, came about when medical school started. Surprisingly, the school expects their future doctors to spend a lot of time there doing such things as “learning”. It took me a bit to adapt to this, but I did. Rocky on the other hand was now left at home to his own devices for hours on end. It was at this time that his breeding as the Spawn of Satandog took hold, and he rose to his full glory. Rocky developed what the vet termed “separation anxiety.” The only separation I was concerned with was my foot from his rear. Rocky would systematically destroy all the fit into his drool filled mouth. He was meticulous in his work to destroy everything. Nothing was safe, not even the toilet plunger. The vet recommended Xanax. I think she meant for me. I however was undeterred because I knew which one of us was smarter. I went out and bought “Time Out”. For those unfamiliar with this witches brew of evil, you spray it on stuff, and it stops animals from chewing it. In theory. Anyhow, the stuff tastes a lot like pure evil mixed with unholy goodness. A mere drop will ruin your palate for about three hours. Two drops will have you retching, and drinking jalapeno juice just to taste something better. Don’t ask me how I know. Remember I’m the smart one here!

I returned home with what was to be the Bane of Rocky in my bag and went about preparing the house. I was excited. Never again was I to return to a house that looked like the Tasmanian devil got into a fight with a pack of cracked out badgers again! With a smug look and a pat on the head, I left Rockstar and headed off to school, giggling at the unholy goodness that awaited my little canine buddy’s mouth. All day I daydreamed of Rocky licking the floor just to get the taste out of his mouth. I pictured him dry heaving around the house in pure misery. Mostly, I smiled. Classmates thought maybe I’d won the lottery, but no, I’d done better. I’d conquered the beast!

At the end of the day I drove home as fast as I could hoping to be able to still see the lasting effects of Curious Rocky’s encounter with the one-armed man. I threw open the door ready to see my living room in undamaged glory, my dog with his tail tucked, and maybe even happy fairies. Instead I was met with destruction. Utter chaos. My eyes finally came to rest on the ultimate insult. There, alone in the middle of the room, lay the bottle of “Time Out”. The top was chewed off, the contents spilled onto the floor where they were eagerly lapped up. Yes, due to some unknown genetic flaw, chromosomal rearrangement, or just plain retardation, Rockstar thought this stuff to be Doggy A-1 Sauce. A single tear of defeat rolled down my cheek. Actually I think it was drool slung onto me by little Mr. Sunshine. That day, I went out and bought a 100’ dog run. This was also the day I learned the two trees in my backyard were precisely 100’ 8’’ apart, but that’s another story.

Finally, Rocky has settled down a little, and spends a lot of time on his dog run. The stories of his complete lack of intelligence are astounding, but not to all be told at once. Most people who meet him agree that a special helmet is in order, or at the very least, so Xanax. For us.

Next time: The Day Rocky ate Four Pounds of Fudge. Either that or The Day Rocky ate Two Pounds of Trail Mix, which might be retitled as “The Technicolor Poo and the Big Red Lawnmower.”