Pablo asleep under the Christmas tree. Photo courtesy: Ayoung Kim

The year before his passing, he crawled under the Christmas tree and fell asleep on top of the presents. To remind us of the gift he was and will always be.

—Dog is God Spelled Backwards, part 1

The routine

We woke up to rain this morning. Rain necessitates a specific series of events: Wrap the bandages on Pablo’s hind legs in cling film. Struggle to fit snow booties onto all four of Pablo’s giant paws. Step outside and play crossing-guard to stop cars at the crosswalk. Watch a pile of cars line up while Pablo inches across the street in aqua colored bandages and red and black snow booties, the cling film already soggy and wilting in the rain. God bless him, Pablo soldiers on. He doesn’t give an eff about what other people think about him. 

Pablo’s ability to walk was akin to a temperamental, ancient Volkswagen bus—i.e.—insert key, turn, and pray. If his hind legs didn’t fire, he’d have to do his business in the small, cement backyard. If his hind legs did fire, we’d go on a shaky, snail’s pace walk to the park. It was important to let him be in nature, sniff the myriad of scents, and most importantly—receive love and hugs from other people in the park. This also helped me. Their praise and encouragement— “Pablo looks great!” (he is rail-thin, his eyes are glaucoma-cloudy), or “We’re so happy to see you!”, or  “You got this!”—acted to fill me up.

Dog owners are a staunchly supportive group.

We become close in quick order, seeing each other twice a day at the park. We become intimately versed in one anothers’ issues—e.g.—Pierre the terrier’s hotspots, or Riley the pug’s giardia. We watched them enter the park as puppies, we watched our dogs play together, and we watched them enter the sunset of life before ourselves. Even if we never exchanged personal information, at the first mention of one’s dog dying, it prompted a flood of tears and the most sincere, authentic words of support. No platitudes, nothing phony. 

I recall walking in the neighborhood streets years ago with Pablo and Liko when a woman with long red hair stopped me. She recognized the boys—not me. “Is that Pablo and Liko?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She pulled her baby-stroller closer to us on the sidewalk and told me how their golden retriever had passed months ago, and how C had delivered a hand-written card, and how much it touched her and her husband. This may sound like a normal discussion, but we were standing on a busy, urban street with the constant traffic of cars and pedestrians passing by. I was a complete stranger to her, and yet, she took the time to pour her heart out. Her face turned as red as her hair, her voice started to falter and soon she was bawling, tears running into her mouth and off of her chin as she re-visited the passing of her dog. 

This is how tight the dog-lover community is—we stop strangers in broad daylight and share visceral, painful memories. Why? Because this community offers a pillar of support where we feel seen and understood. We aren’t alone. This is the other reason why I still liked taking Pablo to the park—despite the enormous effort—despite Liko sprinting ahead and me being pulled in two directions—I needed their support.

Upon returning,

we go into the garage where I retrieve two beach towels. The boys love being rubbed down with the towel. I begin with their faces and work my way to their rumps. Twisting the towel into a narrow band, I wrap it under their belly and move the towel side-to-side to give them a good belly-rub. This makes them hyper and excited, and so while I’m trying to towel-dry Pablo, Liko is wrestling him, jumping him, and humping him. Like I said, excited… .

The routine still isn’t finished. After the towel-massage, I brush them to extract any leaves and twigs and de-tangle dirt clods from tails. Next, it’s time to remove Pablo’s snow booties, cut off his bandages, and clean his pressure wounds. I re-wrap his joints with fresh gauze, cotton, and medical tape. There’s a choice between aqua, neon yellow, and royal blue. Pablo sniffs the royal blue tape, so that’s the color du jour.

Photo by Sam Moghadam via Unsplash. Pablo’s meal, yum yum!

The food routine

Pablo gets cooked food now. His menu: Rice, chicken, cottage cheese, finished with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and a teaspoon of brewer’s yeast—two times a day. I fill the rice cooker with white rice and push start. I bake a tray of eight breasts in the oven. The fridge is stocked with tubs of cottage cheese. I have to prep these in advance to let the rice and chicken cool to room temperature. 

At meal time, I pour a scoop of dry dog food for Liko. Then I place Pablo’s dinner plate (he no longer eats from a dog bowl) on the floor next to Liko’s dog bowl. It feels unfair to feed Liko dry kibble when Pablo is feasting on freshly cooked food. It feels doubly so to see Liko sniff Pablo’s food.

Middle-of-the-night routine

Pablo has to go out for a night-time pee or else he scratches at the top of the stairs to go out. With his weak legs and blind eyes, Pablo understands he can’t gallop downstairs as he once used to. However, he sometimes scratches the top of the stairs even though he’s already been outside to pee. I tell him it’s ok to be confused, I bless him, and remind him that he emptied his bladder so he can go to sleep. Sometimes he lies down immediately, but last night it took about ten minutes before he calmed down. 

I don’t know if Pablo has dementia, or if he is responding to a higher power when he does things like this. I do know that Pablo has powerful angels. One night, desperate because neither of his pressure wounds were healing, I dragged all of the dog beds into the master bedroom. With the doors closed, every inch of the hardwood floor was covered by fluffy dog beds. I reasoned that by “locking” Pablo in the bedroom overnight, his wounds would start to heal. After all, lying for long periods on the hardwood floors had opened his wounds.

On the night of this experiment,

I slept in the guest bedroom down the hall, knowing that I would not be able to sleep due to Pablo’s loud “night noises”; a series of huffing, snoring, shuffling, and scratching. Inside of ten minutes, I heard Pablo’s muffled whining. I ignored him, instead envisioning his wounds healing up. I fell asleep. 

The crystal clear sound of Pablo whining pierced my slumber. It sounded as if he was outside my door. I opened the door and there he was, wagging his tail. I hurried to the master bedroom—the sliding doors remained firmly closed. Heaving the hefty doors open, I stomped inside to see if there was someone from inside who had let Pablo out? No. No one. Turning slowly in disbelief, I observed Pablo, already happily asleep on the hardwood floors. Directing my gaze upwards, I addressed his angels: “Agreed, I will not lock Pablo in the bedroom anymore.”

I vowed not to piss off Pablo’s angels again.

Photo by Ryan Hutton via Unsplash

During our afternoon walk,

we reached the edge of the meadow. Pablo and Liko nestled in a patch of luscious, soft grass. I fished out the large brush I had packed in my purse. Pablo lay cradled in the cool, verdant nest, underneath majestic pine trees. I began brushing his muzzle with gentle strokes. His light snorting told me he approved. Brushing this way was less about de-tangling and more about massaging, increasing circulation, soothing, and relaxing. It was deeply meditative. I took a long time because he likes it, and his stamina is very low. 

Nowadays, when we get to the meadow, Pablo pees and poops, greets his fans (canine and human) and soon after, lies down. So it was like this: He was lying in the shade while I was brushing him, with Liko on my other side. After I finish with Pablo, I brush Liko, but before I can get started on Liko, Pablo suddenly jumps up and humps Liko—like he got energized from the brushing.

On this day, however, Pablo got one leg swung over Liko’s back and hung there awkwardly while panting, like, “Eh, it’s too much work.” Pablo slid off and soon fell asleep in the shade.

Pablo is a bit demented

and gets himself wedged between the ficus plant and wall, behind couches and other tight, small spaces. He whines to let me know to rescue him. He also has become more aggressive about scratching at the top of the stairs, even though he already emptied his bladder.

Such was the case the other morning at 4:00am. Pablo scratched and no amount of coaxing would send him back to bed. Thus, I snatched a coat and followed Pablo out the door. He didn’t pee. He didn’t poop. Instead, he struck a post with lifted head, nose twitching while inhaling all of the smells. He clearly enjoyed the early-dawn air. Normally, this would elicit short, curt, and angry huffing on my part. However in the dark morning, I appreciated his appreciation of just being. His fur was dotted with dew, his glaucoma eyes a foggy grey—a premonition of the day’s weather. He was in no hurry. He was enjoying. He was being. Amen.

Pablo’s legs gave out

this morning in the dog run. We were on our way home when Pablo collapsed. He didn’t try to get up again. I knelt down and stroked him while holding onto Liko’s leash. I didn’t know if Pablo would be able to stand up and walk the rest of the way home. It was an awkward location to have a time-out in front of someone’s garage. At some point, the owners of the garage would come home and need us to move, so this wasn’t a long-term solution. I flagged down some people passing by and explained the situation. God bless them, they helped me carry him to their car and drive us home. 

I texted C, who texted his father. His brother happened to be visiting their father, so both C’s father and brother were waiting for us. They transported Pablo from the stranger’s car to the small, cement backyard. I brought out his dog bed, and covered him with beach towels. C’s dad and brother built a tarpaulin tent to shield Pablo. We decided it would be best to keep Pablo outside, where he could do his business with minimal standing and walking.

I kissed Pablo’s forehead before leaving. His eyes were closed, he was already fast asleep.

It was the last time I saw Pablo in person.

C phoned me some days later to let me know Pablo passed during the night, quietly at home. He was a wreck, sobbing and mumbling. For some reason, I didn’t cry. I listened to C. I sympathized with C. But I didn’t cry. Pablo—our monk-artist-deep-soul—had prepared me.

In my mind’s eye, I see Pablo passing in the fashion of a Tibetan lama; the white towel around his shoulders mimicking the white katak given as a blessing. He went in his sleep, without pain, without fear. In peace.

To die this way is a sign of an evolved being. An enlightened being. He had prepared us last Christmas, when he crawled under the tree and fell asleep. He was the present, and he was present. Always. Deepest bows to you Pablo.

It was beautiful to live

when you lived!

—Finale, Pablo Neruda