02/10/2024
The post you never want to write… I was lucky to know Roscoe for almost nine and a half years. Before we met, he was in a rural Missouri shelter for about four years. That’s a long time to be on the inside! Evidently, he was adopted out a time or two, but returned for chasing chickens. I guess he was more spry and active in his youth than the lazy boy I got to know. The non-cattle dog blood must have been responsible for his chill lifestyle. The first two years of his life are a mystery to me, but I’ve always suspected that he was on the streets. I’m pretty sure I’m right because he had hobo skills: he’d get under the nearest shelter when he heard thunder (even if he was inside) and he clearly had dumpster diving skills. Even though the guy never missed a meal under my watch, he never failed to get excited about parking lot chicken bones. He was a good boy, so he’d never tip a trash can when I was around, but if I left… When he came into my life, Roscoe smelled terrible and it took couple baths to get him presentable. He was initially a bit snippy with new people, but coming to work with me exposed him to a lot of new humans. Some even became his friends! He was a loner, but if he liked you, he’d come push his head into your chest for a hug and maybe wipe some eye goop on you while he was at it. Roscoe became my near-constant companion, going to work with me at the studio every day. Despite never setting up a mic or even once wrapping a cable, he became a reliable assistant engineer and was woven into the fabric of Firebrand. He even got some credits on some records! He got to meet a lot of musicians and logged more hours in the studio than a lot of people. He even got to rifle through Jackie Joyner-Kersee’s purse once, looking for treats. He was infamous for his pizza thieving skills. The boy was smart: he’d watch the eyes of his victim and when they turned away, he’d spring into action. I always joked about stenciling a pizza slice on the wall somewhere after each successful downing. I’m pretty sure he would have completed a couple pies. He was passionate about snacks. So much so, that it almost did him in once. He ate just south of a potentially fatal dose of high-end, high-cocoa content chocolate bars. He was jazzed when we got home, playing with toys and flying around the house. There was also the time he ate an entire bag of Halloween candy, wrappers and all. Colorful poops followed for days. The dude loved even the smallest snack more than I think I’ve liked anything in my entire life. When he stopped eating, I knew it was time. He turned 16 in December and I hope he got as much joy as he gave me since I met him. In what could be a fitting tribute, when were were carrying him out to be ferried away after he crossed, a FedEx van down the block was blaring Pantera’s Walk. I hope he’s somewhere—maybe with Fiona—able bodied, back to the sausage shape I remember, taking a nice walk smelling the smells. We’ll eat pizza in his honor and remember the goodest of boys! I miss him already. Cancer can suck it.