I knew Roxie. My parents were still living in Texas, while I was off in Los Angeles for the year. My mother, Kandy, got Roxie from a rescue after the hurricane had done it’s damage, and left so many of their people and pets displaced and looking to put their lives back together.
This angel had PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and mom thought she could help her by giving her a safe, loving home with new security.

I met Roxie on a visit that year. She would spend her days behind the recliner in the far corner of the living room. I thought to myself, “what in the world is Mom going to do with this girl?”. I’d dealt with dogs with social issues, but this little girl was lost in her environment.

When I visited my parents last year, she would come over for a biscuit. You could pet her and tell baby Freckles that she was a sweet girl, but socializing with people who didn’t live with her would wear her out, and she would go recoup under the love seat once you were done showing affection. She never truly got over the hump.

I last saw her in April. She was still healthy and happy.

But I got a call before dawn on Thursday morning, and she had died of heart failure during the night. There were not enough words to console my parents. I want to be stunned that she passed, but she was the oldest dog my parents ever had. What I didn’t want is the grief my parents have had, and the awkwardness in the home from the hole that she left around her two adopted brothers. Everyone lost my Lila dog last year around age 11, and now they are buried next to each other in a nice space on the property.

All dogs go to heaven.