My faithful companion, Pepe, quietly went to the bush, laid down and passed away.
He was rescued from the beach on August 8, 2004 and estimated to have been six weeks old; so we set his birthday as the 4th of July. He was nine and a half years old. Average age for island dogs is eight years.
Pepe had a great but tumultuous life. He came home with me the first night I slept in my condo even though it wasn’t finished. The workmen loved him and shared their lunches with him. He knew who belonged on the job site and who didn’t. The workmen took delight in not telling new workmen to put their lunches up and Pepe usually got them the first day.
Although he looked almost exactly like a yellow lab we know he had some pit bull in him. In one of her books Sue Swafford wrote about a dog that “barked from the bottom of his balls” and I totally understood. He was more than good as a watch dog; even the police would not come into my unit unless I held him.
It took him many years to get over going for anyone who had anything that resembled a stick in their hand. When I picked up the garden hose he disappeared and almost killed me the first time I tried to bath him. If anyone ran or rode through our property he felt it was his job to stop them. Like many of us he was loved and hated.
There were a few people he loved even more than he loved me; Jo being one of them. He tolerated the other dogs that I brought home; Grita the black lab who tried to contain him, Miss Kitty Bell who wanted to play with him and Miss Kitty who waits patiently until he is through eating to go to the food bowl. He never understood Skippy and Blackie playing and tried to get them to stop.
I have been preparing for his demise for 18 months. Every day that he has been with me since then has been a blessing. He stayed within a few feet of me, following me from room to room. He was never a lap dog but when it was cold here and I covered up on the sofa he would make sure enough of it covered my feet so he could lie on top of them.
A couple of months ago he started losing weight and develop a couple of soft golf ball sized lumps in his throat. I instinctively knew it was cancer and did not take him to the vet. Had he ever expressed any pain I would have but he did not.
Last night he did not come to bed and this morning one of the workmen found him in the bushes (not on our property) where he did his toilet. Robert buried him behind the house and we will plant a bush over him.
Rest In peace my faithful companion.

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