Diego 2012-2026

Thirteen (and a half) years is a good run for a dog born in a dump in another country.

When Diego was a pup, he was afraid of small children. (Really, though, who isn’t?) He wanted to ride in the car whenever I went anywhere, but he sucked at it. He drooled and puked every time he rode in a vehicle for the first two years of his life. Puke towels were packed on every trip. It was just a given.

He eventually grew to like kids, and he learned to ride in the car without drooling and puking. He took so many trips between Oregon and Montana, he didn’t really have a choice. He ended up being a champ on road trips.

He was a valiant hunter. He brought me enough birds, mice, and squirrels that I stopped counting. He was only bested by one beast. The mighty skunk. Three times.

Three. Freaking. Times.

In his defense, he did seem to learn to stand a little further back each time he yelled at the skunks.

Moving to Montana made him a whole new dog. Suddenly, leashes were optional, and he was a fan of being off leash. The only challenges there were when the evil, murderous deer dared to wander close to our campsite.

He wasn’t a swimmer. He waded, but he was built like a brick shit house and he didn’t float well. He preferred to let other dogs fetch water-borne sticks, then gently unburden them from said sticks.

He was fairly intelligent.

He made a boat-load of four-legged friends over the years. He didn’t care if they were big or small–just that they were friendly. He wasn’t aggressive, but he was very effective at protecting himself. He was a gentle mix of German Shepherd, Boxer, Rottweiler, Staffordshire Terrier, and a rogue Sheltie. He looked and sounded pretty scary, but he really just wanted neck scratches. He was also convinced that the UPS guy was the devil.

He was wary of cats. I blame my old cat, Q. She was 8 lbs of pure boss energy, and she taught him the concept of trust, but verify. He really wanted cats to be his friends, but there was always a voice in the back of his head reminding him that they were sharp and unpredictable.

He loved camping, but sometimes thought nature was overrated. He’d spend 15 or so minutes sniffing and exploring, then he’d hop back in the truck. But if I started a campfire, he’d flop down and watch the world for hours. He preferred dispersed sites that didn’t require him to be on a leash, but he tolerated campgrounds. Only because he got to spend time with his people.

He had a (possibly unhealthy) obsession with stuffed hedgehogs. His most recent was at least 7 years old. It had undergone numerous surgeries, none of them performed by an expert with needle and thread. I stitched it up well enough to satisfy him. It looks like it was an extra in a Pet Cemetery movie.

In the last year or so, he did his best to keep up with his younger friends. He’d play for five minutes or so, then yell at them to get off his lawn. It would take him a day or so to recover, then he’d be back at it. I’m pretty sure the puppies kept him going, even if it was just for a little while longer.

He managed to squeeze in one last trip to Missoula to visit Mom, (The Treat Lady,) and Sonnet, (The Hissy but Sometimes Friendly Feline.) He spent last Saturday rolling in the grass in Mom’s back yard, napping, and guilting Mom into as many snacks as possible.

He was kind enough to make sure I was awake before he passed. I had just enough time to make sure he knew he wasn’t alone.

There’s a quote–I don’t know who said it–but it goes something like this:

“A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”

Give your four-legged friends a little extra love tonight.