Indiana Rocky and the Anal Glands of Doom

In honor of the new Indian Jones movie that just came out...

Well ladies and gentlemen, it seems that stories of Rockstar seem to have touched a heartstring with my loyal readership, so in the absence of “real updates” to post, I will attempt once again to amuse you with tales of Rocky lore. Sadly, while it might sound like a lot of artistic license is being taken with these stories, I caution you that so far, they are all true. Yes, this REALLY did happen…

Many people have asked me about my sanity at the idea of being in close quarters with Rocky for weeks on end. Fortunately, given my ADD’ness and general ability to forget most anything relevant, I’ve been thinking that it can’t be THAT bad. Of course, I’m wrong. See, Rockstar has an amazing ability that MOST biologists would tell you reside only in the Mustelid family. For those unsure of just what a Mustelid is, thank your stars that you don’t know. See Mustelidae is a large family of animals that encompasses such cuties and minks and ferrets. It also contains other not so cuties like wolverines, skunks, and apparently the very elusive and rare North American Tiger Striped Retarded Boxer. To learn more, continue on!

Rocky and I had been living here in Johnson City for about four months when I learned of Rocky’s somewhat unique ability. At the time, I was renovating my house pretty much all at once, so I was living in the back bedroom. I had gotten goofball his own little bed to sleep on in the hopes he would stop attempting to use mine anytime he thought I might not notice. This pretty much meant anytime I wasn’t actually IN the bed. No one ever explained the concepts of forensics to Rocky and it probably would have been a moot point anyhow. Besides, I didn’t exactly need world class training at the Body Farm, blacklights, and a back up team from CSI: Miami to identify the thick coat of dog hair and 3.4 gallons of drool spread liberally across my pillow. Somehow, Rocky has yet to figure this out, and this is a struggle that continues to this day. Anyhow I digress… So RTD was asleep in his bed, as I was in mine. Copious amounts of drool were to be found at either place, being it was about 2:30 in the morning. Anyhow, I awoke to the sound of Rocky growling.

Now while Rockstar might be only sixty pounds, he has a growl that’s reminiscent of a crate of bowling balls turned loose in a cement truck. “Menacing” is a word that comes to mind. So is “coward” but that comes later… Well RTD growled, then got up and wandered the house, growling the whole way. I continued to attempt to sleep, and eventually he came back and began making sweet sweet doggy love to his bed again, and all was well with the world. After about fifteen minutes or so, I again woke to the sound of Rocky growling, and this time I was slightly more concerned. By slightly I mean I only cussed at him a little while rolling over and trying to get back to the land of superchargers and clapping (both things I’d like to do…)

Well I have to say now that the neighborhood I live in isn’t exactly crime ridden. The worst I have to personally experience is somebody came by and egged he Pinto Bean once. Of course I found this to be hilarious, and felt kinda bad that youth around here wasted their egg on the bean. The stain is still there today. Outside of a few random eggings, I think about as bad as it gets might be one old man going and peeing on another’s petunias in the interest of sabotaging their “Yard of the Year” award. Luckily for me, I have no petunias, and the weeds and clover I’ve so carefully cultivated here aren’t in the running this season. I tell you all this to make the point that growl or no growl, there ain’t a whole lot here to worry about. That being said, back to the story!

So Rocky again decided to get up and wander the house growling while I contemplated locking him out of the bedroom. Again. While I was busy looking for a coin to flip, I hear him come back down the hall and stop. He then growled once more much louder, and I gave up on the coin and decided to just lock his little arse out there. It was at this time that all hell broke loose! Rocky suddenly went ballistic. I suddenly went concerned. Rocky then started barking, scrambling, and huffing, all while deploying his secret defense mechanisms and going straight to DEFCON 5. North Korea crossing the DMZ would not have elicited THIS much of a response from the Rockstar. Well I immediately flipped on the light while yelling loudly at whatever was going on in the hall. In my minds’ eye I pictured Rocky fighting valiantly against masked intruders while trying hard to keep them from getting to me. I knew that my boy could be counted on to sacrifice himself if it only meant buying me and extra second or two. I also thought about the fact that my sole line of defense right now was my one good arm and the now possibly soiled pair of underoos I had on. Things might be about to go badly. Oh how right I was…

I finally got the lights all on and stepped out to the hall, where I encountered quite the site. Rocky was in full offensive glory, sixty pounds of attacking teeth, muscle and bone. At least this is what I would like to have seen. Instead RTD was sixty pounds of quivering and quaking fear, curled up wide eyed and shaking in the corner farthest from my room. My sole comfort was taken in the fact that HAD there been an intruder, they would likely be laughing so hard at this point, they might be easily overcome by the one armed man. It was at this time that my senses came face to face, so to speak, with Rocky’s last line of defense. There in the middle of the hallway was a neat circle of moisture. As I approached this little fairy ring of funk, my sense of smell was overcome by a powerful odor. This was an odor unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The great poo ponds of Afghanistan couldn’t hold a match to this. For that matter a match held to this might have caused a global catastrophe…

I ambled over to the ring of droplets and did the most regrettable and stupid thing I could think of, I touched one and took a little whiff. After my color vision returned, my nose stopped running, and my overall sense of nausea went away, I realized what I’d encountered. Rocky had forcefully, violently even, expressed his anal glands. If anyone HAD been in the house, they were likely outside burning their clothing by now, and wondering if they’d ever smell again. Rocky was still quaking in the corner, my little hero. Well I then spent the next twenty minutes or so trying to bleach and Lysol this off of the floor, much to no avail… I then went ahead and showered, hoping to at least get the smell off me. Finally, I notified the United States Geological Survey that no, we weren’t the epicenter of a great new quake, nor was the EPA really all that necessary but thanks anyhow, and headed back to bed. I looked around the next day, but never was able to find the source of RTD’s little episode.

Well anyhow, I mention all this because as I’ve learned, this has become a relatively regular Rockstar occurrence. While he no longer chases bogeymen through the house, he does make a point about every other week or so of expressing his glands. Unfortunately, he now does it while lying in bed, usually during my most peaceful nights of sleep. I now will awaken to repeated long, slow sluuuuuuuuuuuuuurping sounds of RTD attempting to either cover up the evidence, or freshen his breath. At that sound I just get up and boot him out of the room, then bury my head deep into a pillow and cry a little. Rocky just goes out in the hall, hops on the couch where he’s not supposed to be and happily goes to sleep, mission accomplished.

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.”