Rosie
It’s time to introduce another furbaby in our family – Rosie Bear.
(Note: it might seem otherwise, but “Bear” isn’t an official name for any of our animals—or our child—but it does frequently get added to their names.)
Like all of our furbabies, Rosie has many nicknames. “Licky Bear” is probably the most used. I’ll give you three guesses why...
Anyway—Rosie. She’s the youngest of the bunch, having just turned 3, and honestly, we can’t believe it’s been that long since she joined the family. It wasn’t exactly the easiest addition...
My husband and I had always talked about getting a second dog, but it was a Sunday afternoon Facebook post from a friend—showing her terrier’s latest litter—that sparked the conversation. It escalated from terrier puppies to German Shepherd puppies in the space of about 37 minutes. Maybe less - I wasn’t the culprit who initiated it and knowing the other half, it was probably 37 seconds…he’d always loved GSDs.
Three days later, we drove 70-odd kilometres to meet said puppies—the big ones, not the little ones—and four days after that, we drove back and returned with a fluffball in the back seat.
The breeder was lovely and super organised. She also told us that if things didn’t work out, we were to call her first. I thought, “Oookay... but sure.”
In hindsight: what were we thinking? A 9-week-old German Shepherd is basically like bringing home a baby—only we hadn’t spent 9 months preparing, decorating a room, tossing around name ideas, or having a baby shower. Figuratively speaking, we’d prepped... but far out. She was a whirlwind.
We quickly engaged a trainer (thank you, #bestfrienddogcare—we quite literally wouldn’t have survived without you), and began twice-weekly sessions. Without them, we wouldn’t be introducing Rosie as part of the family now.
I’d describe raising a GSD as similar to raising another child—but in some ways, way harder. It wasn’t like I could just strap her to my chest and wander off to the shops. It wasn’t like I could offer to buy her a bone if she stopped digging a bloody great big hole in the garden. And you definitely can’t reason with a puppy about how pulling on the lead, or refusing to come when called, is deeply unhelpful. Think #Fenton. If you don’t know what I mean, go look it up. Then imagine that scene, except swap the man screaming “Fenton” across Richmond Deer Park for a blonde woman stomping across Aussie parklands, yelling “Rosie!” (plus a variety of swear words), whilst a bunch of school kids remain either seemingly oblivious to both my heightened state of stress and Rosie's complete delight at her freedom - you'll get a fairly accurate picture. I’m semi-surprised her adventure hasn’t played out on social media already —there were definitely enough phones filming for it to have gone viral.
Suffice to say, I did catch the dog. And fast forward about 18 months, Rosie is now allowed off-lead on all walks—and mostly comes back. Except when her mates are still playing fetch and she clocks that we’re heading toward the exit. Then, she likes to remind us that she remains unbribable on occasion—very much like a child who doesn’t want to leave the playground. Very much unlike her brother Stan who is at least, food obsessed and thus, easily caught.
These days, if you met her, you’d see what a stunning girl she is. Provided you’re on the right side of the fence. And not running through a dog park without a dog—which, for some reason, she finds highly suspicious. Oh—and you’re not our cat. Her preferred weapon of choice has been well-illustrated in her nickname (hint: it’s not sharp). We're making progress with Mr Will (the cat)—they’ve now been nose-to-nose and butt-to-nose, so we’re hopeful that one day soon we can all enjoy a peaceful night in the lounge. You know, as opposed to the current comedy routine: door open, door closed, “stay”, “bed”, “you go in”, “you go out”, “no, don’t eat the cat food”, “no, don’t chase the cat”, “no, don’t eat the cat.”
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