We'll miss you, Cozmo

Cozmo, our 8-year-old boxer, died unexpectedly yesterday. Almost eight years to the day we met him on a small farm near Corning – six weeks old and playful, with floppy ears and those trademark boxer lips – he is gone after suffering what the vet could best guess was some sort of sudden cardiac attack. He chose us that day, we didn’t choose him. While the rest of his litter spent their time tripping on their oversized paws and whining for their mother, Cozmo loped over to me the only way a boxer puppy can, and nipped at my shoes until I picked him up. That was it. He was coming home with us. He was our buddy, and much more; a real part of our family – a “furry” child before our real kids were born. In recent years he took a backseat to those kids, but was wonderful with them. As worked up as he’d get to see new “friends” (people, dogs and all sorts of other creatures), he was just as gentle with Jasper and Avery, and a tad protective. He never let a wrestling match between the kids and I pass without letting me know which side he was on by nipping at my feet and letting out a bark or two. Around 1 p.m. Sunday Cozmo came inside after lounging outside in the sun for a bit, one of his favorite things to do. He let out a little yelp and we knew immediately something was wrong. He made it to the back door, like he wanted to go outside again, so we went out and sat with him for a minute before I rushed him to the vet. He didn’t survive the trip. Luckily, the kids weren't home at the time and, even more important, the vet said it seemed to happen so quick Cozmo didn't suffer.

He was our napping buddy, always ready to cuddle with us on the bed or couch. Sometimes it was a little too close, and he seemed to take up the space of three dogs, but it’s not going to be the same without him snuggling up to us. He liked to lick. Boy, did he lick. Anything and everything, and he made you make him stop, because he wasn’t going to otherwise. He had a knack for sneaking into photos. We often had to retake a posed photo that he wandered in to, usually with his tongue out. One of his favorite things to do was catch snowballs. I threw hundreds – thousands, maybe – of snowballs to him, at every angle and velocity I had, and I think he managed to catch every single one in his mouth. The look on his face as he watched me pack another snowball was the definition of intense. He was serious about the game, and he snapped to attention every time I asked if he wanted to play “snowball.” He spent the first four years of his life not knowing what “people” food tasted like and the last four acting like a Hoover, sucking up every single crumb the kids dropped. (He even stole a pumpkin muffin Natalie and Jasper made and left out for Santa a few years ago.) He couldn’t make up his mind. He really wanted to play ball – loved it – and more times than not he’d play along when I started a game of fetch. But rarely did he want to give that ball up. He loved chasing it. Loved chewing it. Loved bringing it back. But dropping it, not so much. I’d give up and he’d move on to playing with another one of his favorite outside toys – a popped soccer ball that flattened out into a Frisbee-like toy, and a rubber basketball that he carried around but somehow never popped. He was smart. Sort of. Cozmo knew many commands, and would shake with either front paw depending on if I said “right” or “left.” (Smart, right?) But then he’d go outside, kill a garter snake and roll around on it for an hour. (Not so smart.) He was sneaky. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be in the kids’ sandbox, and when we were looking he wouldn’t get in. But he left evidence of his time lying in what must’ve been his favorite cool spot, in the form of paw prints and full-body imprints. He was fast. And he liked to show off his speed. He’d get a wild hair every now and then and just feel the need to run all-out circles in the backyard – and sometimes inside – until it was out of his system. Then, back to normal. He had a special move. You knew when he was excited, or wanted to play, when he started turning side-to-side, nose-to-tail, almost spinning himself completely around in what I can only guess was pure joy. I think boxer lovers call this the kidney bean dance. Whatever you call it, it was a delight to watch and always brought a smile to our faces. Seeing him do the move every single time we walked into the house is going to be one of the things I miss most. He really liked water, except baths, wasn’t thrilled about stairs and hated my lawnmower as much as he hated getting his nails clipped. The one and only time I saw him nip at someone – and mean business – was the first time we tried to have them clipped. (That visit ended with Cozmo wearing a muzzle and a solemn look.) Speaking of looks, there was something about that face that melted our hearts. The expression he gave me Sunday morning when I woke him up as I opened the front door to get the paper is the same look he gave me when I first met him. Those big brown eyes and droopy lips made him look a little sad, but he was far from it. We’re the ones who look sad now, but soon the memories of our eight years together will overtake the sadness, and we’ll have nothing but great memories to look back on. We were lucky to find him, and I’d like to think he was lucky to find us. We sure will miss our buddy.