One Year Since We Said Goodbye to Our Pablo

This is another hard week for me. It's the anniversary of saying goodbye to Pablo.

I still find it hard to believe sometimes. It feels like yesterday and forever ago all at once.

Five years ago, we decided it was time to get another puppy. My big boy Spike was getting on in years and, if I'm honest, I was terrified of losing him. I knew when that day came my heart would be broken, and somewhere in my reasoning I convinced myself that bringing another puppy home might somehow make that heartbreak easier.

It was the opposite. Twice the love. A million times the heartbreak.

It had to be a bulldog. Spike was an American Bulldog and we thought it was time for an English Bulldog. Bulldogs are our spirit animals. I am a mum to boys. I love the wrestling, the personalities, the cuddles, the bulldozing, the tumbling, the slobber and maybe not so much the snoring.

Pablo was one of the last two puppies left. We chose him because he squeaked the most and there was something about his eyes. That probably should have been the first warning. Seven weeks later we brought him home and from that moment on he completely consumed our lives. And our vet.

If there was an emergency that a bulldog could have, Pablo seemed determined to experience it. Surgeries, superbugs, emergency vet visits, specialist appointments, and hospitalisations. I honestly felt like I bought every day of his life. One morning, while I was having my coffee, he was playing so wildly with Spike that he and a garden chair ended up in the pool. I could not swim. My teenager was asleep. I was about to jump in and was screaming like the tokoloshe had got me when my sleepy-eyed son came charging outside, dived what felt like three metres straight into the water and pulled Pablo out. I gave him CPR and then had to Uber him to the vet because my car was in for a service.

Just another normal day in the life of Pablo. He was absolute chaos. The most beautiful, exhausting, expensive chaos. But with that chaos came a million moments of love.

When I think about him now, I still cannot stop the tears.

I think about him waiting for me at the door. I used to take my heels off in the garage because I knew I was probably going to land on my bum. I think about the kisses he demanded, the cuddles, the way one treat was never enough, the ice cream faces after surgery and the car trips.

Pablo loved driving with me. The moment the front door opened, he headed straight for the passenger side of the car and waited. As if to say, "Where are we going, Mum?"

And the sulking. Oh my, the sulking. If Pablo got scolded, he would go straight to his bed and wait for an apology. I miss most that ever since he was seven weeks old, and perhaps because he had insomnia like me, he would sit and watch the sky. I always wondered what he was thinking about. Because I loved doing exactly the same thing, every night we would sit together and just look up.

I believe in fate, destiny and the comfort that comes from knowing, deep down, that through all the bullshit, life knows better than we do. Over and over again, I have seen things unfold exactly as they are meant to.

When we emigrated to England, both our bulldogs travelled nearly 48 hours door to door to get here. Spike was already in the final stages of a cancer that came quickly, and I know my Spike came to say goodbye. To know we were safe. To bring the baby home.

He passed away in my hands, eye to eye, while he took his last breath. His eyes said everything that needed to be said.

If only we all communicated with our eyes, not our ego, arrogance, and anger. Eyes are the windows to the soul. If you look deeply enough, honestly enough, they tell you everything.

Spike had ADHD and anxiety. He would always look for comfort in my eyes and somehow just calm down. After twelve beautiful years, we said goodbye to him.

I couldn't let him go completely though. His ashes stayed in the garage for over a year, despite my son's extraordinarily strong objections reminding me about Pet Sematary.

Then Pablo became the centre of attention. Which suited him perfectly.

He had us wrapped around his paw and would literally complain to my son or me about whatever injustice had happened to him. Usually being disturbed while sleeping or not receiving enough treats. Pablo knew the sadness in my heart and, at times, it felt as though he loved me twice as hard.

Then, six months later, Pablo started getting sick. CT and MRI scans. Blood tests. Uncontrollable diarrhoea. The vet told us he would likely not live longer than three months. The dog who would eat absolutely anything suddenly stopped eating. No matter what I put in front of him. No matter what I hand-fed him. The tastiest things that he would normally have inhaled without even chewing. Nothing. He stopped playing. He became tired. I wiped his bum, wrestled him every day for his medication, and slowly all that remained in his eyes was mum, I am going. He was tired.Tired because he could no longer do the things he loved.

This time, my son held him. Head-to-head. Eye to eye. Heart to heart. And together we said goodbye. I couldn't let Pablo go either, so his ashes joined Spike's in the garage.

For a long time, we debated what to do. Do we bring them back to South Africa one day?

In the end, life made the decision for us. When we moved house, it just felt right.

The pier near our home. So we finally let them both go. Now every morning I can walk down to the pier, watch the sun rise over the water and talk to my bullies.

People say that to a dog, you are their whole life. I think they were ours too.

Spike always knew exactly what I needed. He could read my emotions better than most people. Through every moment, he would simply sit beside me. Quiet. Steady. Present. Pablo was the complete opposite. Pablo made sure I never had time to worry about anything except Pablo.

A year later, we still tell stories and laugh with tears.

And while the pain never completely goes away, neither does the love.

If love is true, honest and given without asking for anything in return, then perhaps the mystery of energy is that it always finds its way home to each other. Perhaps that gift must be earned through the choices we make, the love we give and the lives we touch.

And that is the whole point.

To love with unconditional depth while we can. 🐾

The Enlightened Girl