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.