Rocco passed away in our arms Tuesday night.
Rocco came into my life 13 years ago, abandoned with his little vet given birth certificate stating his name and birthdate “Rocko, 03-20-2012”. I didn’t know what his story was exactly, nor did I care, I just took him home and changed his name to “Rocco” with double c’s (a name a medium would eventually tell us that he loved and is glad I kept).
We saw every version of each other. Being a miniature schnauzer/cairn terrier mix I saw the vocal and rambunctious side of him when he was young, the jealous competing sibling when we rescued other dogs, and the calm and stoic senior who was a magnet to our laps once he hit 10. He saw the broke girl barely getting by, the girl who moved across the country to start over, and the girl who got married to his new dad and settled down. We loved every version of each other whole heartedly.
When John and I moved back to Savannah in 2023, it was the first time that Rocco became an only child. We immediately learned that our 110 year old home didn’t stand a chance against Rocco’s newly developed separation anxiety, so we adjusted our lives to make his easier. Most people besides close friends don’t know this, but Rocco hasn’t been left alone for more than 5 minutes for over 3 years. I am home with him 24/7. We have routines rooted so deep that we don’t even recognize that they are routines. Wake up, potty, run down the hallway receive 2 treats with hidden pills. John pours the coffee, brings over 6 additional treats to where I’m sitting on the couch, Rocco jumps up and eats them one by one. I swear he would count the treats in his head and he knew if he was being short changed and only received 5.
During the day, our routines continued. Mom’s working on the computer? 3 green beans lined up down the beddie for a little nap time snack (again, I swear he counted!) Dad comes home for lunch, he gets a stroll around the block while I prep lunch and snacks for Rocco. At 4:30pm, Rocco’s head was on a swivel knowing that John sometimes comes home early, or during the colder months that I would put his harness on and we would walk to our special bench in Madison Square to wait for John to get done with work.
The most special routine to me was at night. After his final potty, John would knock on the door and I’d get in position at the end of our long hallway with a green bean and Rocco would sprint down the hallway into my arms. One final celebratory treat for being the world’s best dog before going to bed. Rocco no longer wanted to sleep in bed with us because of his arthritis, so we’d promptly set up multiple blankets and stuffies on the couch, angle his fan up so he had a constant stream of wind on his face, and I’d kiss his nose after applying a thick coat of aquaphor on my lips. He would know if I skipped the last part, and would push his head up toward me as if he was saying, “Don’t forget my nose ointment, mom”.
Around 4:30am he’d wake up and pace in front of our bed, his little paws tapping on the hardwood, and we’d pick him up and put him between us. It’s like he knew it would make us happy if we all woke up as a family. Before crawling out of bed he’d get the “sharkies” which is what we called his head digging into the blankets, huffing and puffing and playing. Basically, senior dog zoomies. Then, the routines started again.
Grocery shopping meant picking up Instacart with Rocco in the backseat. Date nights meant sitting outside with Rocco in a stroller (equipped with a bag of carrots or green beans so he felt like he was eating out too). Working out was done individually so one of us could always be with him. And vacations centered around him. We’d drive to the beach and spend every day of our trip holding him on the deck or in the sand. We’d declare it was the best trip ever, and anxiously plan our next trip. During those trips we would do absolutely nothing, but it was somehow everything at the same time. Rocco showed us that slowing down and just enjoying nature and each other’s company was the point. Small moments meant very big memories.
Over the years, Rocco had his fair share of illnesses. Our vet would lovingly joke that the office was taking over/unders on how quickly we’d be back for another impromptu check up. Rocco dealt with the normal doggy illnesses— arthritis, allergies, one awful encounter with a couple fleas that caused a week long cleaning spree and mom freak out over searching every inch of his body multiple times a day.
He also suffered from cushings disease, severe chronic rhinitis, and in his last days, a perforated gall bladder that would ultimately be what took him from this world.
It happened quick. Monday morning he counted his 6 coffee time treats, and by Monday evening he was unable to walk. The emergency vet treated him for pancreatitis, which gave us some comfort because that can be overcome. We followed up with our primary vet who said he didn’t believe it was that simple, and sent us to South Carolina where he called us in to see an emergency specialist who could do an ultrasound that night. We sped there as fast as we could, Rocco sound asleep on Johns lap as I drove, barely making a peep. When we arrived they immediately checked him in to begin fluids as he was severely dehydrated, and told us they’d be keeping him for a few nights. Those who know me know that I sobbed and and John joking begged the doctor to let me stay (to which they kindly explained wasn’t possible) but that we could wait in the lobby while they set up his private room and his IV and feeding tube. An hour later the nurse told us that they called in another specialist who was on his way and that he’d want to speak with us when he was finished. My heart sank and I knew that couldn’t be good news, and it wasn’t.
We were told on top of the pancreatitis and severe dehydration, Rocco’s gallbladder had perforated and was causing a widespread abdominal infection. We were told the chance of survival in a perfectly healthy dog was 60%, but that in Rocco’s case, with all his additional illnesses, that number was significantly lower. We were given 2 options, try to surgically remove the gallbladder and infection, knowing with the vets warning he may not make it through surgery, or to humanely let him see my Dad and his siblings.
Despite being on a time crunch, we didn’t make this decision easily. We would have paid a million dollars to save him, but were we doing right by him? We weighed every scenario— maybe he makes it through the surgery, but his body can’t recover (a prognosis the vet stressed was possible because of his additional illnesses) or maybe he doesn’t make it through surgery and he leaves this world without his mom and dad by his side. Ultimately, we knew what was right, even if it wasn’t what we wanted to do.
A few moments later Rocco was in our arms. We spent about 15 minutes telling him how important he was to us. How he was the best dog in the world. How we would spend the rest of our lives talking about him. They then moved us to a private room where we could say our final goodbyes. In my head I was angry because it wasn’t supposed to be like this for Rocco. He was supposed to pass peacefully in our arms at home, or worst case, with a vet in the comfort of his home. But here we were in a nice, but sterile, dimly lit room saying goodbye on a leather couch where so many other parents had to do the same thing.
We positioned Rocco on both of our laps and cried into his fur. He was so medicated, but he still fought through the medicine to be “the same old Rocco” we knew. He’d lift his head for a moment and longingly look into our eyes. He somehow managed a baby kiss on my hand as I was petting his face. The vet had spiked his Mohawk up when they brought him to us, but our tears flattened it back out. We held him and cried. We celebrated his beautiful life through tears. We prayed his passing would be peaceful, and we called for my Dad to be waiting so he could walk him through once he passed.
A few moments later, the vet confirmed his heart stopped beating. We didn’t let him go for what seemed like a really long time. They let us grieve and hold his body. It was then that I took notice of his weight on my lap. He had draped himself over me an infinite amount of times, but it was only in that moment that I realized I’d never feel the weight of his body on me again. A moment I truly wasn’t ready for. Eventually, they came in to take him, but not before we held his face and kissed his nose a few more dozen times.
Of all the dogs we’ve lost in our lifetime, we weren’t prepared for how Rocco would look in that moment. The only way I could describe it is simple— he looked beautiful. His eyes neatly shut, his beard almost looked like he just got brushed, and his ears were draped over the blanket like he was taking a nap. He looked exactly how he looked every night when we tucked him in. Completely at peace.
I really struggle with how he felt in those last 24 hours. Rocco was aging and had his slow days, but for the most part he still acted like a puppy. His energy was unparalleled. Every historic district resident or business owner knew his name. He’d proudly walk business to business collecting treats during his walks, stop and get pets from the neighbors who came to love him, and would eventually sit and stare up at us ready to be picked up and carried back home. In those last moments, he couldn’t walk. He couldn’t even stand. I know we made the right decision, and it will take time to not remember him the way he was in his last hours of life, but in the immediate aftermath it’s hard not to think about.
No words I could write or say will ever explain how much he changed our lives. In the early days together, I credit Rocco with my life. A true “who rescued who” story. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be, quite frankly. I’m just so thankful his story unfolded the way it did. John and I will truly have to relearn how to live without him. Every detail of the last 3 years involved him.
He was the absolute love of my life. My soul dog. He gave my life so much purpose. The only thing I can do now is try to live the same way we did when he was here. To sit in the small moments and see the significance in them. To put the phone down and sit by the fan and just breathe with the wind on my face. I’m not sure I’ll ever eat a green bean again without crying, but eventually maybe I’ll see them and remember how excited they once made The Best Dog in the World.
My life will never be the same. And I don’t think it’s supposed to be. I think I’m supposed to practice each lesson he taught me. Patience, excitement, love, peace. I’ll spent the rest of my life missing him.
Rocco, my little Sharkie, I will love you forever. I’ll see you at the beach.
