My first dog was a beagle that I named Rosie. She was the best dog ever; even if she wasn’t trained all that well. She used to roam around downtown Connersville when we lived in town, and she got knocked up by some deadbeat dad of a terrier. So she was a rough kind of girl, but always loyal to me.
She didn’t have a tail for very long. She had to get it bobbed because it got mangy or something. I was too young to remember. This is kind of rough for a pointer-hound like a beagle. For the rest of her life, he little stub would try to stick in the air when she caught a nice rabbit scent. When she first came into heat, she had to wear some of my old training pants to keep from bleeding all over the house. I thought that was funny, to see a dog walking around in underwear. Rosie was an expert at knocking over trash cans and rooting through them. Many many times when we moved out to the country, I had to pick up trash and put it back into the trash cans for every neighbor on Stonybrook Lane. Rosie would always follow me around when I would go exploring in the woods, or playing in the creek. At least, she would do so until she found a rabbit scent, and then she’d be gone for hours. I would have to yell and yell for her to come home. As she grew older she wouldn’t come home quite as easily. She’d roll in after dark, hungry and reeking of whatever dead animal she’d rolled around in. One summer it was really hot and dry and Rosie got some sort of rash. My mom had her put down without telling me. I never saw Rosie again. She was the best dog ever.