He never wanted anything except to please the two-leggers who loomed so large in his world.

Roscoe was born with a “What can I do for you?” expression. It never left his face, unless he was napping. And then, for a last time, when his all-too-short existence came to an end last week.

That sense of wonder was coupled with unbridled enthusiasm to be part of whatever was going on — most of which he professed not to understand. But he was glad, always glad, just to be there.

To write about dogs is accompanied by the same perils as writing about children.

Everybody’s are special.

That’s why I rarely do it.

Indulge me today.

Roscoe, one of our granddogs, was a chocolate and tan dachshund, a wiener who never weighed 20 pounds.

He was a hunter, his first territory the marshy backyard of the tiny house where my daughter and son-in-law lived in Starkville. Perhaps because crawfish were his first targets, he learned to approach any and all prey cautiously.

Later he advanced to chipmunks and mice, his preferred game, but toads and lizards would do.

The thrill was mostly in the tracking.

Roscoe, perhaps due to the dominating tendencies of Bailey, his girlfriend and the love of his life, took correction well — even when he wasn’t being corrected.

When he got himself into a fix — such as being trapped in a closet by one of us two-leggers who didn’t see him go in — he didn’t complain. When discovered, his eyes clearly said, “Hi! I’m sorry for whatever I did to deserve being closed up in here. But whatever it was I had this coming. I trust you completely.”

One day a couple of years ago I was working in a backyard shed, cleaning up and around the lawn mower, our freezer, assorted yard tools and folding chairs.

My daughter came out and asked if I had seen Roscoe, who was visiting. I hadn’t.

She started looking for him, calling for him.

No response.

Soon she was joined by every two-legger in the area — and Bailey. We were on a hunt for the hunter.

Quite naturally all the closets in the house were checked first.

Then the backyard. When an opening was found in the fence through which Roscoe might have fit, the search widened. Calls. No response. More calls. Still no response.

I kept working near the shed. A couple of times I thought I heard something. But then I didn’t hear anything more.

We all got pretty frantic and we were about to load up in cars and canvass the neighborhood. Out of the corner of an eye I saw movement near the freezer. Yes, there it was — a brown paw ever-so-timidly sticking out under the baseplate. First with a screwdriver and, when that wasn’t fast enough, with a pry-bar, Roscoe was freed from the prison where he’d silently been serving his time. He immediately apologized for being a bother, as always.

Don’t know how he wedged himself under the freezer. Don’t know why, except that perhaps a mouse had passed that way.

Please us? Sure, he did that all the time — simply by offering perfect loyalty, by believing that people were always right, by letting us observe his joy.

Theologians tell us dogs can’t go to heaven because they have no souls.

Five minutes with Roscoe would change their minds.

*

Charlie Mitchell is executive editor of The Vicksburg Post. Write to him at Box 821668, Vicksburg, MS 39182, or e-mail cmitchell@vicksburgpost.com.