He came from the mean streets of Wenatchee, Washington. Actually, he was a voluntary drop-off at the local human society along with his Mom and two siblings. My friend Shawn was fostering him and when she posted his picture on Facebook, it was love at first sight for me.
A few days later, Shawn told me about his “best friend” in foster care, a little grey kitty who wasn’t quite big enough for spaying yet. She had been found under the Wenatchee Bridge along with some tiny siblings. Eventually, we adopted the cute puppy and the grey kitty and our little family of two instantly increased to a family of four.
We thought the kitten was a boy, so we were ready to name him Louis, for Louis Armstrong. We were wrong. Louis became Ella, for Ella Fitzgerald and the dog became Pablo. We couldn’t decide on a last name for him, so we alternated between Picasso, Casals, and Neruda (we dropped that one when we discovered the legendary Spanish poet was a bit of a perv). To us, he was always Pablo the Wonder Puppy.
Here’s a photo of the two of them on the way home to Seattle.
Pablo never slept that soundly on any future road trips. We think he might have had chronic motion sickness because he insisted the window be rolled down every 10 minutes or so, no matter how long the trip. Ella mostly stayed home.
Every time I worried about the cat being home alone, my partner, JC, said she was probably reclining on the sofa, reading the newspaper and smoking a relaxing cigarette, enjoying the peace and quiet of an empty apartment.
Pablo became JC’s best buddy. Every errand became a field trip. The guys at Safeway knew him. So did everyone at JC’s workplace. And the neighbors. My friend Kathy had a crush on him and he insisted on coming to brunch with us on Sunday mornings. He loved a small, soft Frisbee and he would chase them on land and in the water.
A couple of months ago, I noticed Pablo wasn’t eating much and, after a lifetime of walking everywhere, he sometimes preferred to stay home. At the ripe old age of 13-and-a-half, he developed a mass in his chest. Probably cancer. I could see cataracts in his eyes and sometimes he looked confused. Could he hear me? Then I would wave my arms and he would find me and I hoped everything would be OK.
My friend Monica had recently explained how she lost her wonderful stripey street-smart cat, Henrietta. The doctors opened her kitty up and found cancer everywhere and Monica regretted putting Henrietta through the surgery and discomfort.
We took a lesson from that and decided our job was to keep Pablo comfortable as long as possible. No surgery. No chemo. No radiation. He had a great life and we were determined to keep him happy.
The calcium build-up from the cancer caused him to be dehydrated, so I had to learn how to inject fluid through an IV and he took a steroid to keep up his appetite. We decided he could eat anything he wanted — fried chicken, beef tips, ham, ice cream — without guilt.
Surprisingly, he still loved to walk like a mad man. When I tried to take the short route, he pulled on the leash to take the long way ‘round. Amazing. He gained a few pounds and his energy stayed strong, but mostly he slept and slept and I watched his rib cage strain with each breath. We took things day-to-day: some were good, some not.
Our veterinarian sent a checklist of things to consider when deciding on end-of-life treatment. The one that stuck out to me was “cannot enjoy normal enjoyable activities.” That’s where Pablo was. No more Frisbee or swimming and now we carried him up and down the stairs. His body, which had always been terrier-stiff and stubborn softened in my arms.
When it was time, our local vet set up a room with soft blankets and two jars — one filled with tiny dog treats and the other with chocolate kisses (the label said “one last kiss”). They said they never recommended chocolate for dogs, but in this case, no harm would be done. Pablo, who was never motivated by treats, wasn’t interested.
They gave him a sedative, then placed him on my lap. As usual, he fought then finally relaxed into sleep. I laid him on the table and, after two shots of sodium pentathol, he finally let go.
I thank God for those compassionate vet techs and doctors who helped us. They treated him as if he was a close friend and gave me as much time as I needed.
About a week later, they called to tell us Pablo’s paw print had been saved in terra cotta and we could pick it up. We saved his favorite leash, too. He put some miles on that thing and it has the frayed edges to show for it.
And now there is a huge Pablo-shaped hole in our family. He sucked the air out of a room when he wanted attention and he was a pest for his sister, Ella. But we can tell she misses him. She used to lay in wait for him to prance down the hallway so she could reach out her paw and swat him. There’s no one to pester now. And she has plenty of quiet spaces to sleep without interruption.
There’s been a lot of crying. He was our buddy and we built our days around him. The only times I have sobbed like this was after bad breakups with bad boyfriends. The difference is that Pablo, for all of his loyalty, love, fun, and adventure, truly deserves our tears.
RIP, pal. We will always miss you.
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A wonderful tribute. He was lucky to have you for his humans.
I remember when we ate at the club and he came. Pablo was so well behaved! He will be missed!!