Posted May 17, 2024 – Narrated by Carmen (Updated June 5, 2024)
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The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old.
Pico de Gallo
Great Explorer of the Universe
May 25, 2008 – May 15, 2024
One week before his 16th birthday, on May 15th, Pico passed peacefully, from natural causes, under the care of the excellent staff at Animal Medical Center in Amarillo, Texas. We’ve known for a while that his time was near, but we hoped he’d have longer.
We’re accustomed to the grief of losing beloved dogs, but old age doesn’t make it easier.
Parting from our tough little guy has been … tough.
I’m writing this from Lake Meredith, Pico’s final campsite where he enjoyed his final days basking in the Springtime sun.
Tomorrow, when we pull out, we will donate Pico’s possessions to the Panhandle Humane Society and receive his ashes from All God’s Critters so our travel companion can accompany us, westward.
We thank you for the music and your stories of the road.
He is, after all, a travelin’ dog – a dog of The Road with 2,858 days in Beauty.
I found him in Mississippi on a wintry day. On December 8, 2008, I rode shotgun while Deborah, my sister, drove down a country road on official business to rescue a reported stray chihuahua.
We spotted him instantly, running down the middle of the road straight toward us, a big yellow dog snapping at his behind. Deb swerved the car sideways to make a road block. She held the door open with one hand, steering with the other, pitching up a cloud of dust, throwing off the pursuant dog. Pico jumped right into her lap as if he’d been rehearsing that move all his life. Deb slammed the door shut and I scooped him onto my lap. That tiny bandit face, drooping black mustache and goatee smacked of hell-raising good ol’ boy cred. I should have known he had criminal intent, but at that moment all I could do is scheme about how to make him mine.
It snowed that night – a record heavy snow in the deep south.
We warmed a jar of baby food Deb kept for rescues. Then, after dinner, we bathed him. It took hours to gently pry the mud clots out of those monstrous ears, and he loved every moment.
From that day on, he adopted the attribute of exemplary personal hygiene and stuck to it for the remainder of his life.
It would be a lie to say that Pico checked all of the “good dog” squares – but he was an honest dog.
He needed us to know that he could take care of himself.
He was proud to hang out with us, but at heart he was a free dog (human translation, “feral”) with no ambition to civilize. He was a libertine.
The day we brought him home he immediately escaped through what we believed to be an impossible aperture under the gate. He ran down the alley, knocked over a trash can, grabbed a chicken bone, threatened to bite a lady and got thrown into dog jail – all, within an hour.
After we bailed him out, our neighbor, Mojo Nixon, nicknamed him “El Diablo” and crowed admiringly, “What’d you expect from a Mississippi dirt road dog? ‘Redneck Rampage!’ Let’m be – long as he don’t draw blood.“
He drew blood.
Many of our closest friends suffered The Mark of Pico.
We thank him for the kindness and the times when he got tough.
We issued the Dog-lovers warnings – deep, serious, wide-eyed, do-not-touch warnings – but the sound of our words were distorted by his adorableness.
We were like the Peanuts teacher, “Wah Wuh Wa Wah Wuh Wa” and the next moment we’re diving for the first aid kit.
Pico’s taste for human digits came between us and most of our friends. “You need to put that dog down!” a man told us after Pico had bitten his elderly wife at a campground in Idaho. “No!,” she objected, “They warned me! He warned me! I just couldn’t help it. He’s so darn cute!”
He gave to us a gift we know we never can repay.
After that incident we went through a brief spell called The Yellow Vest Period. He wore a ridiculous vest warning that he’s “A Nervous Dog.” This caused the Dog-lovers to draw even closer and smother him with even more unwanted attention.
The little scamp just didn’t like to be fussed over.
He was a Doberman Pincer in Chihuahua skin, but even more pugnacious and with startling athletic prowess.
From a stance he could jump more than four feet high.
He had a fierce intelligence that remained keenly focused on the superiority of Dog Law over stupid human reasoning.
He couldn’t stomach fawning. He’d allow only a few select humans to actually pet him.
His pack he knew by name, sight, photograph, scent and voice. When away from them, he would admire their photos and chat with them on the phone and even sing them the Happy Birthday song.
Still, he didn’t crave a great deal of human touch and took to lap-sitting only in his old age.
He didn’t play well with dogs either. He picked fights with male dogs,
and lacked all finesse with females, leaping straight to the point.
For cheap thrills Pico would spot a restrained dog and relieve himself in their direction while casually looking up to the sky, as if he was whistling Dixie, feigning deafness to their riotous objections.
His favorite campground coup de force was taunting dogs perched behind motor coach windshields, delighting in the sound of their muzzles bashing against glass. His confident swagger would either terrify or enrage big dogs. In a Snowbird campground you could hear the Canadians hushed warnings to their neighbors, “Pico’s coming! Pico’s coming!” as we walked toward the dog park.
Chihuahua people are familiar with the jokes big-dog people say when we encounter them on walking trails: “Ooh! Look Ranger. Snack time!” Yeah, we’d just smirk nervously, hold the leash tight, and hope Pico doesn’t go all Jason Bourne on both dog and owner …
We thank him for the freedom when it came our time to go.
That he lived sixteen years – half in campgrounds – is testimony to his badass persona.
We’ve forgotten how many times we whipped our protesting street-brawler away from the snapping jaws of an unleashed dog while the owner shrieks, incredulous, “He’s never done that before!”
Yet, he had friends.
He adored Mochi and Mango, our grand dogs.
And, George, Aunt Barbie’s Bichon Frisé in San Diego, was his best friend in the world. They’d have beers and burgers together and go cruise chicks. Ah, the good times.
His main squeeze was Puddin’, my brother’s dachshund. Animal Control banned her from the State of Missouri after she escaped from the yard to chase after a squirrel and kill it in a busy intersection during rush hour. As she proceeded to dine, a chaotic spectacle erupted. Cars honked and she snapped viciously at all who tried to remedy the situation. A couple of years ago in Mississippi she nipped the UPS driver’s heel. Wow! What a gal! Pico was smitten.
Pico would not want us to eulogize him as “a nice dog.”
Still, he was our little gentleman who assured the safety of our home.
He taught us that you can’t own a Pico, but it’s cool to partner with one.
Sixteen years of full-time negotiations paid off. Pico held up his part of the bargain. In exchange for his companionship we worked out deals. Strolls down city streets (the filthier the better)…
would get us long stays in the boring old countryside.
He’d eat kibble if we brought restaurant bacon home in our pockets.
After supper, he’d pretend to be a cuddly puppy – a charming ruse to lure us into playing Blood Rat (an ancient dog game based on toying with dead prey), understanding that Pico wins every. single. time.
He was an active senior all the way to the end. Jumping into The Beast all by himself, taking his seat, and always game for whatever fun was on the agenda.
Not perfect, but a decent chap in many ways. He ever failed to poop within a few feet of a trash receptacle.
What a wonderfully complicated animal. Like no dog we’d ever known. He ate like a supermodel at a press lunch picking through a salad – inspecting every morsel from all sides.
Pico seldom devoured a meal, though he had favorite foods. Did we mention bacon? Oh! And Canada goose droppings. Yum!
He also loved a sushi dinner complete with hot edamame fresh from the pod and seaweed salad.
We will miss feeding him from chopsticks and pressing him for more details about his past life as badass samurai.
The scent of the ocean and metropolitan cities gave him a rush. If you were to ask Pico to name his favorite place in North America, he would say, “Coney Island, paws down!”
If sadness is the weight of a certain joy we will never hold again, the density of memories, the heaviness of loss, then we are in the thick of it right now.
We could go on and on. Legacy, that silly human trait, drives us to lionize the memory of our wee pup.
But if Pico had his druthers, he’d want only to be remembered as A Dog – a free, boisterous, unruly dog – the kind of dog that makes people call animal control.
Run, Pico! Run!
We’re just a living legacy to the leader of the band.
Pico was preceded in death by his Grandma Ruby (Jim’s Mom). His pack survivors are Carmen and Jim Beaubeaux, Christopher Beaubeaux (who discovered Pico’s many trick-dog capabilities), “Grandpawpaw” (Allen B. Perry, Carmen’s father), Aunt Deborah Miller, Auntie Barbie and George.
If you feel the need to donate in Pico de Gallo’s name, please consider the wonderful work being done at the Panhandle Humane Society
As we’ve often said, this blog is our journal – – our Memory Book, but you are welcome to view these home movies from our archive.
You can see our exact route on this map.
*photos in this post (unless otherwise noted) were taken and copyrighted by Living In Beauty.
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June 5, 2024 Update
Thank you for your Comments
As we peruse every comment of this post again and again, our hearts are warmed and enlightened. Because of Pico, we now realize how many good and kind people are by our side watching our backs, offering comfort, consolation and direction as we walk this rocky road of grief. We feel safe and cared for as we heal. We have the most beautiful followers in the world. Thank you. Carmen and Jim
It’s difficult to express our gratitude to our dear friend Larry Cook. A former EOD Officer, Larry is also Beauty’s former trailer daddy. In retirement, Larry combines his skills for precision and his love for artistry into wood craft – master wood craft. Using hundreds of pieces of wood, Larry made a beautiful urn so Pico can continue to travel with us.
As always, he is our lil’ travelin’ dog.
