Rosita

My name is Rosita Conchita Consuela Flores and I have lived for many years with Sarah and Luke in our home in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. Even though I have been here almost all of my life, there are times when I think about my original home in Mexico. Most of the details of that time and place are very dim in my memory, but I can still remember my mother and my two brothers. When I think of them, it is a good feeling, not one of sadness, but one of unwavering love for my original family, and the strong, certain feeling that I will see them again, for I believe that I will.

I can remember enough about the village where I was born to know that my forever home with Luke and Sarah is very different, it is so much safer and better. Because my forever home is with them, I never look back and wish to be anywhere other than where they are.

Even though I am a small Chihuahua canine and cannot speak the human language, I do understand lots of their words when I hear them. I am also able to understand most of what Luke and Sarah are saying by watching their body language and expressions, and listening to the tone of their voices. For instance, when Sarah sits in her favorite chair in the sitting room where she reads, I know that I have an open invitation to sit in her lap. I have an internal clock that tells me what time it is, and I know that certain things happen at the same time each day¬¬─like mealtime, naptime, bedtime, and playtime. For most things that don’t occur on a regular basis, I still know what we are getting ready to do by the preparations that Sarah and Luke are making. For instance, I know when Luke goes to the closet to retrieve the suitcases, it’s “road-trip time,” and everyone gets excited. I know when Sarah takes my bathtub off the shelf, it is “bubble bath time” for me, and I can try to sneak away and hide, but it never works; she knows all of my favorite places.

My means for communicating with them is also body language, eye contact, amount of body animation, and the frequency level of my voice. If I’m dancing around on the floor and my bark is high-pitched and persistent, Sarah knows there is something serious going on with me. They get it right most of the time, and when they don’t, I just use another approach until they do. There are certain things I do when the indisputable intent of the message I am trying to get across is crystal clear. When I do my soft, pitiful whining, droopy ears and tail, and a poor-little-me song and dance, there is no mistake that I fully expect Sarah to drop whatever she is doing and devote her undivided attention to me.

Sarah tells me all the time how brilliant I am, and you know, I believe her.

When I look back over my life, there are times that I remember more vividly than others: happy times, sad times, learning times, and growing-up times. I remember when Luke rescued me, the times when my friend John and I sang together, and the first time I saw my Sarah. I remember the overwhelming feeling of pure joy when Sarah told me what my very own name would be, and the feeling of belonging and being part of a real, loving family.

One of my most memorable times is when Sarah, Luke and I traveled to where the land ended and the vast Atlantic Ocean began. That memory is more than just seeing the ocean for the first time; it was the story that unfolded while we were there that made the memory so important.

I had lived in my new home in the Smoky Mountains for just a few weeks and was learning more every day how things worked. I learned if I looked sad enough, Sarah would drop whatever she was doing and pick me up for a hug. I also learned that Luke had a guff exterior with a heart as soft as a cloud, especially where I was concerned. If I begged for just a bite of whatever he was eating, he would grumble for a few minutes, but then he would share with me until the food was all gone. During those first few weeks in my new home with Luke and Sarah, I learned that Sarah had grown up in the Smoky Mountains, and that Luke had lived his childhood years with his beloved “grandmamma” in her farmhouse near the sea.

I was always aware of the sadness in his voice when he talked of his childhood, but I never knew just how much anguish was attached to those memories until we traveled back to the house where he grew up. The events that unfolded and the young boy who would become a part of our daily lives while we were there would make this the second most important journey of my life. This is my story, and Luke, this is your story, too, just as you told it to me.