Rusty has been my happy thing since seventh grade. Seventh grade is a dark and terrible time when mean girls tell you that you're a "tag-along" or make fun of your overalls. In my defense, overalls were in. Playing the french horn and Roller Coaster Tycoon probably wasn't...
Anyway, I convinced my parents that we needed a dog by being incredibly annoying for about a month. That's what thirteen-year-olds are best at, after all. So, we took a trip to the humane society. All the puppies and dogs were barking their little, forgotten, heads off, but Rustle just looked up at me and smiled. I said, "Hello Bubba" and we fell in love.
I changed his name from "Scraps" as quickly as possible. Scraps? That name is just tragic.
Rusty still goes up to my room when he's afraid of thunder or fireworks. Rusty used to sleep on my feet all the time. I have to put a blanket there now, because I can't sleep without the weight. Whenever I pack up my car to move to far away places, he circles around sniffing and looking for a spot to sit. He looks up and says, "I'm coming right?"
He's home with my parents now--they're taking care of each other. Rusty is busy tracking the progress of the squirrels in the backyard and taking trips to the Uintas.
Rusty is going to run out in the front yard, when I come home next week and say "Hello Bubba."
1 comment:
Cute! i love this post because I totally understand. I feel the same way about my dog Chevy. I've lived away from home now for four and a half years (with the exception of a couple summers) and every now and then I STILL come home and expect there to be a dog when I open the front door to greet me. I'm always sad and dissapointed when there isn't. Freshman year I'd wake up at least once a week expecting there to be a dog sitting at the edge of my bed just waiting for me to move...
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