Rosie and Wrigley

When Rosie met Wrigley, she was smitten.

Rosie is a Chihuahua mix—tiny, cheerful and quite certain that everyone she meets is already a friend. Wrigley was a Catahoula hound dog—big, steady and considerably more reserved.

Rosie would stand on her back legs to give him kisses.

Wrigley tolerated this.

And that pretty much tells you what their friendship looked like.

I met Rosie in 2018, when she was just two years old. I walked her five days a week, and before long, we became besties. Walks turned into occasional sleepovers and weekends at my house, and Rosie became part of my life.

Wrigley was already part of it.

His parents are some of our closest friends and live in the cul-de-sac next to ours. We built a little path between our houses so we could easily go back and forth. Wrigley didn't particularly like being home alone, so when his people were away, he usually hung out with us.

Eventually, he didn't need an escort.

His parents could simply say, "Go see Scott and Brenda," and Wrigs would mosey down the path to our house and bark at the door.

One of us would open the door and greet him. He would stroll inside, take a quick look around to make sure all was as it should be, then make himself at home.

If Rosie happened to be there, all the better.

She always welcomed him with open arms. And maybe a little kiss too.

Wrigs was pretty well known around the neighborhood. Once, he got out and took himself for a short stroll. He wandered into a neighbor's yard, where the response was simply, "Hey, Wrigley. What's up?" After his short visit, he wandered back home.

He was the cool dude in the neighborhood. He didn't require much. Give him his people, a comfortable spot and some fresh running water, and he was pretty content.

Especially the water.

Wrigley preferred his water fresh and running. When he was younger, he would actually climb into our bathtub when he was thirsty and wait for us to turn on the faucet. Never mind the perfectly good bowl of water in the kitchen. As he got older and climbing into the tub became more difficult, he simply stood beside it and waited for service.

Rosie, on the other hand, is perfectly happy with her water in a bowl. She just prefers that it stay away from her person. She is a lil lady, after all.

Rosie had her own priorities on our walks. She knew which yard had chickens and always wanted to stop by to say hello. We made regular visits to Squirrel Village to see Mr. Squirrel and his family. And she loved walking near the high school, where the kids had a habit of leaving behind all sorts of treasures—discarded pudding cups, hamburger wrappers and the occasional chicken bone.

One street offered such consistently good pickings that we named it Smorgasbord Lane. I spent a fair amount of time convincing Rosie that not everything she found on Smorgasbord Lane belonged in her mouth. Rosie remained unconvinced.

The two of them made quite a pair. Mutt and Jeff. One big boy and one little girl. Out in the field, Wrigs wandered around investigating whatever needed investigating and finding interesting places to leave his mark. Meanwhile, Rosie stayed close to me, watching her friend run with abandon.

We had dinners and sleepovers, trail walks and afternoons at the park. We stopped at Starbucks for treats, rode in the car and spent countless hours together.

But before Rosie, there was Sam.

Sam was our little guy and he and Wrigley eventually became best friends. They met when Wrigley was just a pup. I wanted them to know each other before Wrigley became the big boy we knew he would soon be. By the time he towered over Sam, it didn't seem to matter. Their relationship had already been established. Sam was the older and wiser one; Wrigley was still the new kid. That remained their rhythm through the years.

A few days after we said goodbye to Sam, Stephanie brought Wrigley over. He came inside and looked around for his buddy. Then he stood beside me for a moment before walking over to Sam's little bed and lying down.

He didn't remotely fit.

But he stayed there anyway.

Then Rosie came along.

Their friendship was different. Rosie adored Wrigs. And he seemed perfectly content to allow it. This time, though, Wrigley wasn't the new kid. Somewhere along the way, he had become the older and wiser one. Rosie was the newcomer now.

Rosie also had absolutely no problem making herself comfortable on Wrigley's enormous bed at our house. She would settle herself right into it, leaving its considerably larger owner to find somewhere else to lie down.

Wrigs did.

Eventually, we had to say goodbye to Wrigley too. His absence was felt far beyond his own home.

Rosie knew his house. She knew his people. She even knew the car he rode around in—the Wrigley mobile.

One day, Rosie spotted Miss Stephanie and the Wrigley mobile and immediately got excited. She hurried over to greet them, looking around as she went. Then she went straight to Stephanie and gave her a kiss.

Stephanie cried.

After Wrigley was gone, I began noticing Rosie settling into some of his familiar spots around our house.

Including his enormous bed.

I have a photograph of Wrigley, far too big for Sam's little bed, curled up in it anyway. And I have another of little Rosie, almost disappearing into Wrigley's enormous bed.

My relationship with each of them has been different. Sam was mine. Wrigley was about as close to mine as someone else's dog could be. And Rosie? If she ever needed me, I'd be there in a heartbeat.

Each love is its own.

Rosie and Wrigley were friends. In their own way. In their own world.

And I simply got to be the one who held the leash.