Goodbye, old friend.   I’ll miss our walks around the block, playing Frisbee with you, and our occasional games of Hide-And-Go-Cheese.  You brought more joy to my life than I thought possible: learning the basic tricks and some impressive ones like not stepping off the curb until I said “cross.” I’ll miss you licking my legs when I got out of the shower. Even as a puppy, you had an uncanny sense of time: you’d jump onto the bed at 7:00 sharp on weekends if I wasn’t up by then, and every evening at 8:30 you’d put your chin on my leg to remind me it was time for our evening walk.  You sat under my desk quietly as I traded stocks, then knew we’d be going for a walk as soon as I switched off the monitor when the markets closed.  Unlike most dogs, you didn’t like riding in the car, and you never stuck your head out the window, except to bark at the immigration officers when we were stopped at the border and I rolled the window down to present our documents.

 

You knew the difference between “Want to go for a walk?” and “Let’s go for a walk.”  You were a pretty smart doggie.  You had your share of skunk encounters (three) and some trauma: you peeled back the toenails of one foot to expose the inside of the nail (that must have hurt), you cut the pads of your feet a few times, and you had a root canal after one of your molars broke.

 

You made friends on your own terms, much to the consternation of your paternal grandpa, who thought of himself as a “dog person.”  You always allowed kids to pet you, no matter how careless they might have been, even as you looked at me with an expression that said “Can we PLEASE leave now?”  You fetched the paper every morning, although sometimes on Sunday you let the paper slide out of the plastic bag and brought the bag to me, thinking that was a job well done. 

 

As a puppy, you went through your “foam rubber” stage, where you chewed up a corner of the sofa and the foam insulation by the central air conditioner.  You were a little difficult to housebreak (at least I thought so), but once taught you only forgot your training twice.  You bounded out through the doggie door at full speed in pursuit of cats and possums and whatever else wandered into the yard, although in your last months you barked at intruding raccoons from a safe distance, who ignored you as they ate your dog food.

 

In retrospect, I had to scold you very few times.  I walked you almost everywhere without a leash since you were about three years old; you knew “heel,” “stay close,” and of course, “free dog.”  We had our officially sanctioned pooping spots: the overgrown far corner of the ballfield, the SDG&E lot, and the alley just a few doors down.  If you had to go during our walks, you’d always look over your shoulder at me for permission.

 

You never liked taking a bath, and you’d hide in the bushes when you saw your towel and doggie shampoo being taken out.  You’d also hide in the bushes when you thought you were going for a trip, even though you were very happy to finally arrive at our destination. 

 

On April 16, 2008 you made that Last Trip To The Vet and went peacefully into the next life.  Free of the pain from your kidneys and arthritis, I hope you’ll wait at the Rainbow Bridge until I catch up to you.

 

Free dog, Pancho.  Free dog.