For a nine-pound Maltese, Rosie had a big life. For her first two years, it was her job to keep my sick mother company and refuse to be paper trained.
"You have to say 'No!' like a bark," I’d tell my mother. "Use a deep, sharp voice."
"No!" barked my mother, but still Rosie urinated on the carpet.
She learned to sit for a treat and to run under the bed on command whenever the visiting nurses came. "Heel" and "stay" where not really relevant.
"She's not happy," my mother would say when she phoned. "Can you bring Daisy over to play?"
Rosie lived for our visits, and she and Daisy would play for ten hours straight, and, although she adored my mother, Rosie would beg to go with us when Daisy and I left.
When my mother died, it was Rosie’s job to take care of me. "I can't," I'd moan at the whole mess of life and death, and, cuddled in my lap, Rosie would lick away my tears.
Read More