When I was in graduate school in Texas, I lived upstairs
from a rock DJ named "Outlaw." Outside the Victorian
house we shared were banana trees and an empty
swimming pool we eventually discovered was a breeding
ground for brown recluse spiders. I decided to get a dog
and spent six months reading books about breeds and
training, and eventually settled on a Rhodesian Ridgeback
- large, fearless dogs, intelligent, agile and stubborn.
Ridgebacks were used to hunt lion in Africa and one
account I read described a Ridgeback chasing down a lion
and dodging claws and teeth to break the lion's back leg.
But they are actually beautiful, sensitive and gentle animals
- part European Greyhound and part African Hottentot
hunting dog (from which Ridgebacks get the "ridge" of
backwards-facing hair on their backs).

Despite his active pedigree, Pablo turned out to be a
"couch hound" which suited me fine. While he could catch
flies out of the air and jump and dodge in incredible shows
of speed and agility, he preferred a sunny, soft spot and a
lazy afternoon of sleep to any type of activity. He was
nervous, had nightmares and was always testing my
authority. Pablo would feign sleep until I was out of the
room and then climb onto a forbidden couch. He would
sneak into my bed at night and in the morning I would find
myself sleeping on the floor and Pablo perched on my
pillows. It took me endless effort and unyielding
consistency to teach him to heel on our long walks. I have
never had to work so hard to train a dog. But when he
learned to heel we walked through the neighborhood at
night and it was like a powerful ghost was gliding at my
side. He also had a sly sense of humor and no other dog
has made me laugh so often.

As I began to recognize in Pablo an idiosyncratic
personality and the capacity for deep emotion, humor,
anxieties and favorite pleasures, I decided to become a
vegetarian. It was and remains clear to me that animals
are thinking, feeling beings. I'm not hungry enough to eat
something that fears the knife and feels love and loyalty.
Pablo taught me that. He also taught me to question
authority, how it's often better to apologize than ask
permission.

Most of his life Pablo had severe allergies that made him
itch constantly. His feet were sometimes raw and bleeding
from licking and chewing, and for months he was forced to
wear an "Elizabethan collar." I took him to famous,
state-of-the-art clinics and country vets, but despite shots
and vitamins and special foods and weekly medicated
baths he remained sick. In the waiting room of one vet, a
woman asked me about Pablo and I explained about his
allergies and that he was miserable. "He doesn't look
miserable," she said. "He seems happy." I realized then
she was right and I still think about that when I'm
disappointed or feeling down. Despite a life of constant
discomfort, Pablo was a very happy and optimistic dog.

Pablo died of cancer when he was only 6, but I am grateful
for the time we had and the things we learned together
about living. Yes, my experience with Soul Graffiti came
from a dog, and while that may seem odd to some, it
demonstrates to me how powerful experiences of all kind
can be in our lives.

I learned from Pablo much about love, life, and spirit and
when I reflect on our experience together, it often reminds
me of the philosopher Diogenes who Aristotle called "The
Dog." Diogenes and the Cynics rejected government and
religion. They disregarded laws and conventions, and
believed the uneducated could know all there is to know. A
famous story has Diogenes sunning himself when
Alexander the Great stood over him and said, "Ask of me
any boon you like." To which Diogenes replied, "Stand out
of my light."

Because of Pablo, I think I understand what Diogenes was
getting at.