Cosmo and Hook came into my life in the summer of 2020. My wife, Delilah, found them on the website of Frosted Faces Foundation, a nonprofit in the northern San Diego County town of Ramona that rescues senior dogs.
She immediately wanted the furry Yorkie and the skinny Chihuahua; I didn’t.
Adopting pets in the winter of their lives seemed like a quick heartbreak only a masochist would want, I argued. We didn’t need any more burdens, emotional or financial. Cosmo and Hook were 10 and had health issues when Frosted Faces took them in from pounds in Riverside and San Diego counties, respectively. Cosmo had recently lost an eye; Hook was born with a clubfoot. Both needed immediate dental surgery.
“But that’s why we need to adopt them,” Delilah said. “They don’t have much time left, so we need to give them all the lovies we can.”
We met the two for the first time, at the same time. Cosmo let us pet him, then approached Hook. He lunged at Cosmo, who didn’t even flinch.
They came home with us the same day.
The problems compounded with each passing week. Cosmo itched so much from allergies that he constantly scratched himself raw and unleashed a howl when we were gone for too long, so loud and haunting that my neighbor thought it was a siren. Hook frequently forsook food for the cat poop he always seemed to find on our lawn and in our backyard.
Cosmo, left, and Hook at the Orange County home of Gustavo Arellano and Delilah Snell.
(Gustavo Arellano/Los Angeles Times)
Hook always wanted to bite Cosmo with his few remaining yellowed, tiny teeth that Delilah compared to candy corn. Cosmo always looked for any crack in our home to try to bolt away. I grumbled and complained while Delilah instantly fell in love. But as the months went on and they settled in, this canine version of “The Odd Couple” burrowed their way into my heart.
Cosmo turned out to be a sweet guy, while Hook hated everything and everyone except me and hanging out in the sun with Delilah. Both sat at my feet, sphinx-like, for hours during my pandemic-era Zoom calls, Hook waiting to sit on my lap, Cosmo to lie by my side. At night, the guys slept in our bed — Cosmo at our feet, Hook right between Delilah and me.
They came to us fragile and old, and our nurturing turned back their biological clocks. Cosmo went from crouching in corners, too afraid to explore, to leaping onto our high couch with the vigor of a puppy. Hook’s coat turned from splotchy and brown to poofy and golden. When I asked if they wanted to visit Delilah at her store, Cosmo would thunder down the hallway toward our front door, while Hook rumbled behind.
We spent every day figuring out how to make their golden years as comfortable and happy as possible. I can barely cook instant ramen, yet I prepared dog food — one part chicken, one part turkey, one part brown rice and one part sweet potato — once we realized the canned stuff wouldn’t cut it for our boys.
If I needed to grab Cosmo, I’d raise my hand high to let his one eye warily track me so he wouldn’t get startled. Delilah insisted that I put Hook in a baby bjorn any time Cosmo went on a walk, so he wouldn’t feel left out.
It’s as if they blossomed for us out of gratitude. For not dismissing them as has-beens, as American society far too often does with anything that isn’t young.
But the wear and tear of old age wouldn’t let us enjoy bliss for too long. More and more issues — upset tummies, heart murmurs, pancreatitis attacks — crept in with every passing year. The four-hour trips to and from Frosted Faces for free veterinary care became a regular part of our days.
Dr. Lauren Oviedo, a veterinarian at Frosted Faces Foundation in Ramona, sees patients in the clinic.
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
Husband-and-wife team Andy and Kelly Smíšek opened the two-acre facility in 2016 in a home they converted into a makeshift kennel. Big dogs stay in the garage, little guys stay inside, and recovering ones lounge in what used to be a living room. Walking trails, native gardens and playpens ring the structure, watched over by an army of volunteers. A vet clinic opened on the property this year.
A gymnastics coach by training, Kelly was inspired to start Frosted Faces after she volunteered at local animal shelters and noticed owners turning in elderly pets because they had become too much of a hassle.
“No one,” she said, “likes to see an old dog sitting behind bars.”
Frosted Faces said it placed nearly 800 animals last year, including some cats. Cosmo, Hook and I would see happy families meet their new pets at the front patio, which also serves as a waiting room for patients and their owners. That’s where I met Harry Rivera of Murrieta and his daughter’s dog, Chili.
“He’s been the greatest blessing,” the Marine veteran said of the sweet Chihuahua, over the up-tempo pop and rock — Ace of Base, U2, Spice Girls — that Frosted Faces plays to keep the atmosphere lively. “I was at first worried about the care, but when we came to adopt him, he just jumped up to us, and all my hesitation ended. You see it in their eyes — they’re just so grateful. He just won our heart.”
“They’re so easy to be with — they just want to sit and relax,” said Karen Brainard of Rancho Bernardo, owner of Chewy the Chihuahua and Charlie the terrier. “You can’t help but to want to be with them as much as possible.”
1. Registered vet technician Maira Vierheller, right, picks up Chewy for an appointment in the clinic at Frosted Faces Foundation in Ramona, a nonprofit that rescues senior dogs, on February 20, 2025. (Christina House/Los Angeles Times) 2. Frosted Faces Foundation in Ramona, a nonprofit that rescues senior dogs, is photographed on February 20, 2025. (Christina House/Los Angeles Times) 3. Frosted Faces Foundation in Ramona, a nonprofit that rescues senior dogs, is photographed on February 20, 2025. (Christina House/Los Angeles Times) 4. Murphy, 10, has cherry eye surgery and a dental cleaning at Frosted Faces Foundation in Ramona, a nonprofit that rescues senior dogs, on February 20, 2025. (Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
Dr. Neil Russell has been head veterinarian at Frosted Faces for five years. “We don’t really see many well dogs,” the London native acknowledged during a visit last year when he found Cosmo was in the early stages of kidney disease. “So it takes a special type of person who adopts a senior pet. You have to be giving. You have to be kind. You have to be patient. And you have to know that you won’t have much time.”
Hook died two summers ago at 14, grouchy until the end. Cosmo was never the same. He began to walk slower and didn’t want to sleep with us anymore. His hearing declined; a cataract spread across his one eye.
But Cosmo ate more than ever and went on more walks, even as they became shorter and shorter. It was as if he knew his time was coming, so he was going to make the most of it.
At the beginning of this year, we wrapped him in diapers, since he no longer knew how to get outside. In the spring, he began to spin in circles.
Dementia.
Dr. Russell put Cosmo on medication, but he never improved. The poor guy couldn’t sleep more than two hours at a time, turning me into a frustrated insomniac. He spun so much that I had to put a bootie on his back right foot because Cosmo wore down his paw pad until it bled.
One late night, I tearfully vowed to Delilah we would never adopt a senior dog again. Our good times were too short and the heartache wasn’t worth it. I quickly regretted my words after I cradled Cosmo in my arms to unsuccessfully calm him down. As I stared into his tired eye, I remembered what he and Hook taught us.
Selflessness. A recommitment to the outcasts, the overlooked, the underdogs of society. A reminder that all good things end far sooner than we want — and that’s why we need to enjoy what we have while we have it.
And part of that is accepting when it’s time to say goodbye.
We put Cosmo down in our living room at the end of June. The night before, he was kind enough to give us our first full night of uninterrupted sleep in months. That morning, I carried him on the same route he and Hook walked twice each day, whispering in his ears how much we’d miss him and that he would be reunited with his Frosted Faces brother soon.
Volunteer Mary Arkwright lays with one of the seniors at Frosted Faces Foundation in Ramona, a nonprofit that rescues senior dogs.
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
As the vet administered the euthanasia that ended Cosmo’s suffering, I cooed to him Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” until his paws didn’t flutter anymore. I sang it again last Sunday when I picked up his ashes, which now sit next to Hook’s, above the fireplace.
Our house is silent. The beds and food bowls are gone; the floor where they always left messes after devouring the grub I made them is eerily clean. We have put down dogs before, but they were with us for more than a decade. Four years with Hook and six with Cosmo wasn’t nearly enough.
We’re gutted, but Delilah wants to adopt more senior dogs. We will, but not right now. It comes with commitments: money and time, yes, but especially emotional. That’s why it’s not for everyone.
Yet that’s what makes adopting a senior pet so rewarding. The pain of caring for them in their final years is actually a privilege. It challenges you to dig into parts of your soul you never knew existed and taxes the limits of your heart.
And it prepares us for the march of aging that none of us can escape.
Cosmo and Hook, thank you for gracing Delilah and me with the last part of your long lives. Our time together was too short — but the lessons we learned and the joy we experienced will stay with us forever.
