I called him Pedro Super Dog because quite literally, he was. He flipped over in a single bound so you could rub his belly. He used his superhuman strength to nudge you with his nose and wouldn’t stop until you submitted to forced petting. He’d howl at the firetrucks in chorus with the siren to let you know there was a fire somewhere. And as he did, he would give you a look of certainty and determination like his howl had just saved a life (or perhaps he was wondering, “why are you so amused by my howling jerk, this is what I do!”).
He came to me in the summer of 2003. I found him on a Montgomery County shelter website. I had been going through a rough time and was lonely. (It’s not the best reason to get a dog but I did it anyway and so grateful I did.) The first time I met him he flipped on his back so I could rub his belly. His tail went back and forth beneath him. It was bandaged because he would get so excited his tail would hit the bars in his cage and it would bleed. “He just wants to be loved,” said the woman at the shelter. Every time I looked in his big brown eyes I could see that was true.
For four years we traversed trails and sidewalks all over Washington. He left a trail of broken hearts be they canine or human.
But then this summer my boy contracted Lyme disease and cancer and somehow it was causing his spleen to fill with blood. You could see his belly was distending. At any moment he could bleed out and die. The vet suggested I put him down that night, I couldn’t do it so soon. I had to take him home for one last night with me. I stopped at the PETCO and bought him a few cans of food and a bunch of treats. I let him up on the couch (which he wasn’t allowed to do but did all the time when I wasn’t home) and petted and kissed the hell out of him — and cried. I think he knew he was sick but didn’t want to show it too much because he knew it would be even harder for me.
I watched and listen to him breathe all night as he slept in his soccer ball bean bag. When he wasn’t snoring I would hear the cicadas or crickets. It felt so normal and natural and I thought it’d be wonderful for him if he passed away in his sleep.
But the next morning I was glad he hadn’t. I put the top down on the Jeep and took him for a ride. He loved riding in it especially through Rock Creek. He put his head out and sniffed the wonderful crisp air the trees and the creek provide. His black velvety ears flopped and flipped around as the wind rushed through them.
When we parked he couldn’t wait to get out and pee (mark) his little heart out. I undid him from his seatbelt and he scampered to the nearest object — a trash can which clearly needed to be labeled as his property. He then went on to a tree, and then random piles of grass, and so on. He made sure everyone knew Pedro Super Dog had been here.
We made a couple stops through Rock Creek. He ran and sniffed and pee’d as if nothing was wrong with him, he was amazing. He enjoyed every second of it.
We then headed home. I gave him a bath because he was dirty from running through the creek. My friend Laurent, whom Pedro loves and always whimpers and pees on himself whenever he sees, came over. He was good enough to go to the vet with us. Pedro didn’t pee on himself but did whimper though a little differently this time. Laurent had brought a pig’s ear for him which Pedro devoured. Then we left for the vet.
An hour later, with his head on my lap and his velvety ears between my fingers, Pedro Super Dog passed away quietly and sweetly.
Today I walk into my apartment and see the simple ceramic plaque my very good friend Barb gave me that says, “May I always be the kind of person my dog thinks I am.” I think about his big brown eyes looking at me as he wagged his tail and just hope that I really and truly was.