Last year, Pepito, our dog and companion of 14 years, suffered a stroke that paralyzed his right hind leg.
Despite his paralysis, Pepito, the old tough boy, refused to be picked up and cuddled, dragging himself to his bowl and to his regular spot by the front door. Pepito was your regular size Shih Tzu, stubborn to no end, and with an independent streak that was more human than canine. "C'mhere" to Pepito meant "Go the other way." At times I'd think he was pigheaded rather than stubborn.
Hard as I often tried, I could never teach him a manly thing. After I retired from business, where I was a nine-to-five investment banker, I wanted to invest my golden years in something worthwhile. Having a PhD helped; so in no time I was hired as an adjunct professor of Accounting and Business. Now I teach unruly college kids the rudiments of accounting, macro, and micro-economics.
For years I've felt that Pepito had a high IQ, or above average to say the least. At times I've felt that perhaps he could out-think some of my own students. Yet, though I managed to teach him many tricks, the noble beast refused to learn to raise his leg and pee like a he-dog.
Oh, well, at least I convinced him not to growl, bark, sniff at our guests' crotches, and other common tricks.
We are apartment dwellers, so in the mornings we let Pepito pee in his washable pads, but in the evenings I'd take him for a long walk. Mary Patricia (my wife) and I are fortunate to live in a gorgeous penthouse on Park Avenue (a lovely avenue in New York City-Manhattan) where one can find trees in the median. For many a day --or late afternoon or evening may be more accurate-- I tried to teach Pepito to pee like a he-dog.
Every evening I'd lift my leg and placed it against a tree at the stop light intersection, north of our building, hoping that Pepito would eventually catch on and imitate me.
To be an investment banker you must have thick skin, and I am proud to say, I don't embarrass that easily. So, I would turn a deaf ear to the taunts, jeers, indignities, and insults from cab drivers and other motorists held by the stop light, as they saw me in that ridiculous position, trying to teach the pooch how to act like a man. One biker --a beefy fellow with tattoos even in his scalp-- yelled, "Stop that--you pervert!"
Pepito never got it and eventually I gave up the lessons. "No sense in changing Pepito's basic instinct--a contrarian he is!" I thought. Yet, I knew he had absorbed and internalized what I was trying to teach him, not because I'm smart but because Pepito wasn't a good poker player--everytime he learned something he'd stick his tongue out and hold it out for about 5 seconds.
Dr. Gregorian --head of Pepito's regular Veterinary clinic-- examined my beloved pooch carefully, and as he shined a light into the old boy's pupils, he said in a cold voice, "Pepito is in pain and suffering. It's best for him to be put to sleep."
Stunned by what Dr. Gregorian was saying, I could hardly contain myself, fighting an inner wave of violence building within me. I remember thinking, "You insensitive, incompetent nitwit, for fourteen years we've paid and fattened your wallet and all you got to say is 'put him to sleep'?"
But instead, I only mumbled, "Isn't there something you can do--surgery? I'll pay for it!"
Gregorian only shook his head meaning "No." Then he said, "I'll leave you both," --that is me and my wife Mary Patricia-- "to talk for a moment, and grieve. It's time for Pepito to go to dog heaven."
As soon as Gregorian was out the door, Mary Patricia hugged me and burst into tears. I held her close to sooth her pain, my heart thumping, and my throat voiceless. Mary Patricia's wailing torn me to pieces, but I tried to remain cool, since crying is something I hate to do given my life experiences.
Only twice in my life have I ever shed a tear: The first time was during the TET offensive in Vietnam in 1968, when as a young infantry lieutenant I held one of my men --who had been mortally wounded-- in my arms as he asked me to call his mom in Missouri and tell her he loved her. Oblivious to the small arms fire, rocket-propelled grenades, and madness around me, and with my man's body still warm in my arms, I well remember the acrid smell of gun powder and the bitter tears draining into my mouth.
The second time was when the market crashed in 1987 and --following a contrarian gut impulse that I had learned from Pepito-- I shorted (selling short is betting on the losing horse) Cisco and other Dot.Com stocks and made a substantial amount of money--a maneuver that allowed me to buy this penthouse on Park Avenue. When I took my profits out, I couldn't fight back the sweet tears that coursed down my cheeks.
Mary Patricia and Pepito are the love of my life, and for many years I had chased the elusive buck --wanting to make money online or otherwise-- just like any ambitious person, but one thing changed my fortune. Wanting to make money happens quickly when you think of those about you--not yourself. Before I realized this fact, my success was more spiritual than monetary.
But let me go on. Dr. Gregorian returned with an assistant and both of them got busy to set the cold aluminum-steel table where Pepito was to be euthanized.
Afraid that I was going to break down and cry a primal cry that I felt roaming up my spine, I asked Gregorian to wait five minutes while I ran to the corner market (and pet store) and buy a pint of vanilla ice cream. Without waiting for a reaction I took off, knees grating, ankles knocking.
Moments later, looking into my eyes, Pepito let me know that he enjoyed more than ever in his life his last taste of ice cream. The pooch left this bitter world with a sweet taste in his mouth.
The assistant laid Pepito on his side, and Gregorian found a vein. And just as he was injecting the hemlock or whatever killing agent they use, Pepito lifted his left hind leg way up --just as I had shown him many times-- and he peed like a he-dog. And I swear, he also stuck his pink tongue out.
Speechless, all I could do was cry--and cry I did for the third time in my life. Truthfully I don't remember how Mary Patricia got me home.
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