Phil Major

There was not supposed to be another animal in the Major household.

After we lost Sam’s 12-year-old Boston terrier in 2012, Lesa and I agreed that we were getting too old for that kind of heartbreak.

But we didn’t choose Rosie.

Rosie chose us.

It was July 4, 2015, almost three years since Bevo, the terrier, passed away.

It was hot as usual, and we were getting some much needed water on the lawn. It was mid to late afternoon, and we had gone out to move the sprinklers. We wouldn’t have been outside for more than 10 minutes.

Lesa thought she heard a “meow,” which wasn’t that unusual as the neighbors, who lived about 75 yards away back through the woods, had a couple cats who sometimes wondered over near our house, and we could occasionally hear and see them on the edge of the woods.

But this was different. It was in the opposite direction and seemed to be more insistent.

I’m not sure who spotted who first, but once Lesa and Rosie’s eyes met, it was all over.

This little gray ball of nothing scampered through a clear path in the woods and ran right up to Lesa.

Although she couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old, she apparently had been around people because she was not too skittish.

Our theory is that she had been dumped, based on her direction of travel. We had been told when we bought the house six years before that it was a popular area for pet-dumping. But we had had no such misfortune – only a couple stray dogs who wondered through and kept going.

It would have been understandable as it was down a county road a little way out of town, but not too far, and sparsely populated, but not too sparse.

I’m convinced there is a special place in hell for people who dump animals.

So Rosie got some water, and something to eat – milk and bread maybe.

Soon after there would be kitten food and toys and rugs and blankets, and shots and – you know the drill.

Now she had to be an outdoor cat, because Lesa is allergic to them.

Except of course at night, she could not be left to fend for herself against the occasional copperhead that appeared.

She got her name by hiding under a large rosemary bush at the corner of our back patio. Sam has some great photos of her there.

She did what all pets do, work their way into your heart with equal parts of too-funny antics and unconditional love (more on that later).

And perhaps most telling of all, this bobtail manx exhibited many of the same personality traits as that Boston terrier. Made me rethink my position on reincarnation.

Unfortunately, late last summer, she stopped eating. After a several hundred dollar trip to the vet, we learned that cats can suffer from pancreatitis. There are various causes, and recovery can range the gamut.

I have never put much stock into the saying that cats have nine lives, but Rosie sure used up several of hers. I don’t remember how many times we thought she was on her last legs only to watch her bounce back.

A couple of her recoveries were near 100%.

It was during her convalescence that she became our office cat as we had to watch her more closely and stay on medication schedules.

It was evident the last few bounce backs that she was not coming back as quickly or as strong, and then the past few weeks it reached that inevitable point that you have to say you don’t want to see your loved one in any more pain.

I don’t think it’s over simplistic to say that if each of us displayed the kind of unconditional love for each other that our pets show us, getting past the latest turmoil gripping our nation would be able to happen, and we could move forward as a unified society.

“You may say I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us. And the world will be as one.”