This is a story about a girl and her dog.

A story about heroism. About love. About Taco Bell.

On the night we brought Tabasco home, we smuggled him into a Taco Bell. He was tiny. Less than two pounds. He fit in the palm of my hand. He could have had a party in it, actually. With all of his Chihuahua friends, if he had known any and could have figured out the phone system. He had sharp little puppy teeth and claws and hated the car. He whimpered as we drove and scaled my t-shirt all the way from my lap to my right shoulder to try to get a handle on what the hell was going on. When the car stopped, so did his trembling, for the moment. I would soon learn that Chihuahuas just tremble.

It’s really kind of a state of being rather than a symptom of anything. Yes, they tremble when they’re cold. And when they’re scared. They tremble when they’re excited. And also when they need a little exercise or would really, really, really like you to rub their belly. I also believe they tremble as a way to protect national security. I suspect they use trembling as a form of whole body Morse Code and that’s how they tell the feds about the terrorist plots they’ve just uncovered. Most CIA agents are not adept at understanding Chihuahua Morse Code, unfortunately. When you think about it, the intelligence community has really missed the boat with Chihuahuas. Huge ears for capturing enemy conversations. Huge eyes for enemy surveillance. Small bodies for infiltrating enemy hold outs. Trembling Morse Code for reporting back to the team. And God, are they cute. Who wouldn’t want to cuddle with a Chihuahua in their tent instead of that dude who never changes his socks?

But mostly, Chihuahuas just tremble.

Chris and I tossed around names as we poured hot sauce on our seven layer burritos. Chi- Chi? No, that’s dumb. Tequila? No, that’s a girl’s name. Besides, Tequila makes me want to hork. Remember that time we went to… and you…oh god, that was horrible. Chris looked down at his burrito. Hot Sauce… Tabasco? Tabasco. Tabasco! A Mexican state and a damn good condiment. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

As we found out later, Tabasco was a demanding little shit.

We were told to keep him kenneled for the first few nights as he adjusted to his new surroundings and acclimated to life without his littermates. You know what? That was a piss-poor idea. He cried the entire night. All night long he scratched and pawed and cried and yelped to come out. We didn’t relent. Oh no, no. We need to show this dog who is in CHARGE, we told ourselves. He’ll quiet down. Soon. Any minute. Sweet Jesus, when will this stop?

It stopped approximately one half second after we opened his kennel the next morning and he came out wagging his puppy dog tail and cheerfully wishing us a wonderful morning. Thanks for letting me out! Can we cuddle? I’ve missed you!

In the end, we did show him who was in charge. Without a doubt, he was.

From that point on, wherever I went, Tabasco was not far behind. To the office. On bike trips. Long road trips. Vacations. Board meetings. He slept in my bed, curled up behind the bend of my knee. He crawled into my sweatshirt as I drove, and nestled down against my stomach. Every now and then he would poke his head up through the head hole, making me look like some kind of two headed bat eared freak. It was the greatest.

On long car trips we’d pull into Taco Bell and get him something for the road. It was odd how much he loved the stuff there. As if he watched the commercials on T.V. and was preparing for his role as the next Gidget. The cashiers were always so amused when they saw him eagerly waiting at the window. We knew what was coming. Yes, yes, “Yo Quiero Taco Bell, and Drop the Chalupa.” We endured all of the Taco Bell dog quips, because Tabasco looked EXACTLY like the Taco Bell dog. Still, they never gave him free chalupas. What the hell?

Despite the subtitle, there isn’t a real story of heroism in here, except that Tabasco helped me adjust to a different life, a life far away from my family and places I knew. When we moved through three states, Tabasco was my solace. I missed home so much, and Tabasco was my one touch back with the place I grew up. We learned and explored together and he licked my face when I felt like the homesickness was just too much. We huddled under warm blankets and at night he’d sit on my lap as I learned to knit. I knit a sweater for my first baby while he sat on my lap, content and warm. Later, after Jay was born, Tabasco came to the hospital to see the new kid. He wasn’t all that impressed, but happily scampered up to my hospital bed for a lap session. Later Tabasco endured him but always let him know who this lap really belonged to.

Actually come to think of it, Tabasco was kind of a coward. Once, when visiting my parents, a burglar broke in as we slept. When everyone awoke to the mayhem, and we were zipping this way and that calling the police, Tabasco hunkered down in bed and didn’t come out until the coast was clear. He later slinked out and tried to climb onto the detective’s lap as she filled out a report. Perhaps this is why they have not made it big as intelligence operatives.

There are no words to describe how much I love Tabasco. He has always been more than a dog to me. A friend, an office mate, a confidante, a supporter, and belly warmer, and sadness chaser.

So it was with profound sadness that I kissed Tabasco for the last time this morning. I held him as he gently drifted off, peacefully surrendering to the havoc wrought upon him these past few months by prostate cancer. In the end it was easier then I thought. And yet so very, very much harder than I ever imagined. I weighed him when we got to the vet. A meager 4.7 pounds. About half of his body weight from six months ago. He lost all interest in food, in sitting on my lap, in laying in the sun, in leaving the warmth of a pile of blankets and the security of under my bed. His pain was too great, his once fierce fire too dim now. And despite this, knowing when it was time was so very hard. And yet I knew.

They asked whether I would want his ashes. I pondered this for a while, but ultimately decided that his two favorite places, my lap and Taco Bell, would not be ideal for spreading his ashes. In the end I chose only to keep his memory. Strong and vivid of a dog who was always so much more than a dog. He was one of my most favorite people in the world.

Tabasco, may you enjoy an eternity of belly rubs, warm laps, and chalupas. Thanks for the limitless love and the many, many smiles.