How Rocky Got His Name

I come from the desolate, thickly wooded back roads of Jackson County, Ohio. My house sat atop a slightly sloping hill among the wispy fields of weeds and the crunch of gravel roads. I was tucked in between two small towns, with a lonely two lane interstate connecting them (and me) to civilization. Fireflies and stars were the only sources of light on the road. No street lamps around there.

Romantic as that sounds, this location also came with its own set of troubles. It was not uncommon for the residents of my road to be left to our own devices once winter struck and roads needed snow plowed; Or for deer to crash into the hoods of unsuspecting drivers, sometimes totaling the car of unfortunate soul to find themselves fallen prey to an aggressive, charging deer. This lonely, quiet location also meant that there were no onlookers to witness petty crimes, such as abandoning unwanted pets along the roadside for someone else to find and deal with.

Enter, Rocky.

“Girls, come out here!”

My sister and I hear our mom call from the living room. We look at each other quizzically, but do as she says. In the kitchen, my mother stands by the front door, groceries thrown haphazardly onto the counter and a pair of large, brown eyes peeking out from behind her legs.

“He followed me home!” My mom exclaims, reaching down to pet the small, black dog. He looks nervously from me to my sister, unsure what to think of the two teenagers gawking at him from the hallway. He had a strange face with pug-like round eyes and a strange under-bite that was too small for his face. He was mostly black, with two brown rottweiler-esque dots above his eyes.

My sister's eyes widen and she immediately asks, “Are we going to keep him?!”

“Wait,” I say. “He followed you?”

“Yes, all the way from Evans Road,” she replies, ignoring my sister’s question. “He was by himself in the road. He chased me all the way up here.”

Evans Road is a back road that led to the even narrower, dinkier back road that we lived on. It was at least a mile away. I was impressed his awkward little legs carried him that far.

“Do you think he has an owner?” I ask cautiously, but even so, I already knew the answer. He has no collar, and he was alone on an abandoned back road. No microchip, no tags. My mom knew it, too.

And so, after plenty of cajoling from my sister and I, we had ourselves a new pet. “Rocky,” My mom christened him, after Rocky Balboa. I imagined the little dog trotting behind our faded red Town and Country van, following close behind despite the dust that the tires were undoubtedly throwing up at him. All he needed was a sweatband around his forehead and a theme song playing in the background. The name fit him perfectly.

As it turned out, Rocky was not always the brave, stoic soldier that he led us to believe he was on that first day. He jumped at loud noises and hid under the bed during thunderstorms. He got so excited when he saw pepperonis that his teeth began to chatter and he frothed at the mouth. Tennis balls made him truly rabid. And when he walked, his legs moved independently of one another -- making for a goofy, clumsy gait.

Despite this, he had the name and history of a champion. He had turned his abandonment into a choice: Hide, wait for someone to find him, or take matters into his own hands (paws?).

And he chose us.