Mr. Pedro himself!
This miniature painting really brought back memories. All through painting it, it reminded me constantly of my sister’s dog: Pedro. He was an Irish Yorkshire terrier with a Mexican name and a true bandito personality. At least I thought so, because he was constantly picking fights with my dog, a Saint Bernard named Jimmy. Pedro had even lost an eye in one of those fights but that didn’t stop him. A lock of hair was grown to cover it and Mr. Pedro was his old self again, prancing about the grounds oozing confidence with every step he took.
Trespassers were to be kept out, and he meant business, not distinguishing between the human, canine or any other kind. Over time Jimmy had become his partner in crime, trained as his assistant. The little Yorkshire was the boss and the Saint Bernard knew his place in our canine hierarchy.
I remember a monk coming up to the house. Brother something or other. Pedro pissed against his ankle length habit, and Jimmy clutched the brown material between his teeth dragging him away from the front door. The poor man could just keep his balance, wobbling back to his car. And all he wanted was to ask if he could organise a fund-raising party on the grounds of ‘the big house’ for ‘Animals in Need’ or something along those lines. He seemed relieved when finally he reached his car, even though we told him the dogs were only playing. He got in, hastily wound up his window and drove off with screeching tires with the dogs chasing him, barking uncontrollably.
Pedro just hated large lumpy objects near the house, whether human dressed in brown long skirts, made of metal or the mooing kind. If he spotted cows in the fields in front of the house he’d chase them away too. The tall grass would twitch behind the cow’s legs as they ran from that little invisible pest swallowed up by the long grass. My sister used to worry that one of the cows would accidentally kick him into oblivion. But that never happened. He had nine lives.
They were a team, my sister and Pedro. ‘Bite’ she’d say and he bit. ‘Down’ she’d say and he lay down. He was even a great ‘rollover’ and paw giver.
Once he had given her a little present. He had found a dead myxomatous rabbit and dragged it up three flights of stairs. The only thing was, well not the only thing, but the rabbit had been dead for at least a week so discovering a rotting rabbit between the covers on your bed late at night, when all you want to do is to get into it, is not exactly the gift one would appreciate. I can hardly describe the stench that clung to the carpets after the gift giving but it had nestled itself in our noses for weeks, and seemed impossible to sniff out.
The rabbit’s juices were smudged all-over the floor while it was dragged up the stairs, step by step all the way up form the back door, up the grand stairs, over the landing then back to the second floor back stairs, up those as well and into the attic where my sister’s bedroom was. How he’d gotten it up on her bed is beyond me— he was nearly the same size as that rotting animal— but determination can go a long way, even for little dogs, and he probably thought a gift like that would make her very, very happy.
* This is the seventeenth post in Childhood Memories
The Miniatures are for sale:
Framed miniature mounted in a wooden frame: prices from 100 euros excluding postage and packing
Boxed miniature: prices from 75 euros excluding postage and packing
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