My Life in Argentina and Beyond

They couldn't find the vein, so they tried again. I hoped he would survive them. He was a fighter. I kissed him goodbye.

I thought he would never die. I actually believed that he was immortal. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. There is always something to remind me of him. We had some rough times together. Sometimes it was because of his health, other times were due in great part to the neighbors we had. Most of them were unkind and/or indifferent. Other neighbors were just plain nasty. Yesterday afternoon when I was walking in Green Point, Brooklyn, I heard a dog’s bark behind me. I turned around and saw that the sound came from behind an open window. It’s an old dog’s bark, I said to myself. Rubio used to bark like that in the last months of his life. On the morning of his death, Tuesday, January 9, 2007, when the men from the municipality dog shelter came to take him, he alerted me before they had time to knock on our door. He had to be put down because he could no longer walk and he did not want to walk anymore. The sores on his body were getting bigger and bigger. Even so, he cared enough about our safety—his and mine—to tell me that strangers were on our floor.

There was a dog like Rubio on Madison and East 39th. He had a fluffy up in the air tail, just like Rubio's. When I look at pictures I took of Rubio years ago (like 2000/2001) it seems that he's about to step out of the picture and be with me again.

Thursday, June 26, 2008: There was no more protective dog than Rubio. No other animal had his fierce loyalty, his courage. He didn't think about himself when it came to protecting me. I was Number One with him.

Friday, April 25, 2008: For me it feels like it must have felt for Rubio when he was living with his surrogate family in Argentina. They could not wait for him to go. The look on the surrogate family members' faces when I told them I would be taking him back was one of joy and happiness. He was a good dog, a German sheperd willing to give up his life for his owner/person, yet that meant nothing to them. Now I find myself in a situation similar to his.

Saturday, March 22, 2008: Rubio would drag me out to get his palitos, also known as doggie sugar sticks, even when it was raining. And raining hard. Once, he got me out of the house when the water kept coming and coming down. We walked fast to the vet's pet shop, and got there just as it began to hail. We were hit by big pieces of ice, but Rubio didn't care. All he was interested in was his palito. The vet opened the door and gave him two palitos. When she saw how thouroughly wet I was, she gave me two more.

Rubio. Last night I remembered us, and the excruciating physical, emotional and psychological pain of going on the elevator with him so that I could take him for one of his forced walks. Rubio was very ill and going out was a torture for him. All he wanted was the refuge of his apt. The neighbors didn’t cooperate. It was hard getting him out the door, pulling on him hard. And then we had to wait for the elevator—it had to be an empty one because they did not want us riding down with them. Some of the neighbors were polite about it, but most of them were just plain rude. Another highlight of those last few years with Rubio was the portero. The guy was a skunk. He would yell at me, insult me when Rubio, who was suffering from incontinence, would do it wherever he could. I cleaned up after him, but it still wouldn’t do any good. He took it upon himself to be cruel to us. Another jewel in the building was the young night watchman. He would stare, and stare hard, when Rubio pushed and pushed his shit out. The poor dog sometimes yelled out in pain and people would turn around to look. I took him to vet after vet; none seemed to help.

Rubio was 12 years old when he died. He was a German shepherd mix, and began to suffer from constipation problems back in January 2001, when he was 6 years old. The vets and I tried everything: mixing liquid Vaseline into his food, putting him on a vegetable diet, giving him laxatives. He had 2 operations, but neither one corrected the problem. He suffered when he had to do his doggie business and ceased enjoying his walks. On several occasions, he had to be taken to the pet hospital emergency room so that they could empty him out. On December 28, 2006, I took him for his first morning walk, but he got as far as the sidewalk. He pulled me back inside our building. That morning, Rubio refused to eat his breakfast and he did not get up from his usual place until around 2 in the afternoon. He went to drink a little bit of water and never got up again. The vet gave him an injection. It did not help. He got sores on his hips, the sores got bigger and bigger. The vet said to cure them with sugar. That did no good, either. His appetite came back after New Year’s 2007. He had stopped barking whenever a stranger walked by our door, and now his bark came back. It was feeble, but it was his. But he would never walk again. The vet recommended I have him put him down.
It was a very difficult decision for me to make. Rubio died on January 9, 2007.
I feel that I failed him. He was a great dog and my best friend. I thought of using a doggie cart, but our neighbors were not the nicest people and using the building elevator would have been a problem.

Sunday, February 3, 2008: I look at the pictures of Rubio and me taken over 6 years ago and I wonder. We were very happy. He was very happy when we took those long walks down to the river. Rubio's doggie face was smiling, and he looked at the other dogs as we went from block to block. Just before we got to the river, there was time to enjoy the park. We'd sit on the grass and pretend part of it belonged to us.

January 9, 2008: January 9, 2007: Buenos Aires, Argentina, Tuesday morning just before 7. I called someone to come and get you, Rubio. You were very ill and would not be getting better. I was told by your vet that it was inhuman of me to prolong your life. When they came, I asked them to wrap you in a yellow bed sheet. I didn't want the building super to see you like that, ill, too ill to walk. I will never forgive him for being so mean to you.
Since I could not go with them in the same car, I called a cab and followed you to your final destination. The Vicente Lopez dog pound people placed you gently on the floor. I looked at you and could not believe what was happening. Kneeling down, I asked you to forgive me. When the guy came with the needle, I almost told him not to, that I had changed my mind. But you would never be the same Rubio I had loved for almost 8 years. He stuck the needle in your left front paw. Nothing. Then he called the director of the pound and she tried a little harder. I cried inside. You were like a great big lion, a brave lion whose life was no more. I caressed you and said goodbye. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave you. They wrapped you with the rest of the sheet and a guard stood by the door. I went back to the apt.