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unaware you were even host to. Pablo Neruda helped to define my convictions.

So, after much deliberation, my new puppy became Pablo, after Pablo Neruda.

The first seven months that Pablo and I spent together were often frustrating. Puppies require a lot of work and constant attention, and I was in and out of my village so often that it was difficult to know what to do with him. Sometimes I dropped him off with Zambian friends in town if on my way to the capital for a few days. Always when I was away I was afraid for him. I had nightmarish day dreams of losing him. I imagined that he might get hit by a car. Or maybe he'd get stolen. A healthy looking dog like Pablo could probably fetch a good price as a guard dog. Maybe he'd get sick. Veterinary services in Zambia were poor and inadequate if at all available, and dogs constantly died of undiagnosed disease. It was nothing like the States, where you can expect to keep your dog alive and healthy for several years given a few routine precautions. In Zambia owning and loving a dog was gambling with your heart.

But, he lived. He grew. He followed me so closely. Each time I returned from an excursion to the capital or a friend's village, he seemed to have grown so much. And when he heard my voice, when he knew I was there, he came running. No matter how long I was gone, he knew that he belonged to me.

My memories of Pablo are many, and mostly insignificant. During his early months, I remember that I had to carry him most places because he was too tiny to keep up on his own. I remember teaching him to stay in a basket that I attached to my bike so that he could ride along wherever I went in my village, whether to the market or to a meeting with my village counterparts. Sometimes I'd try to leave him home, but he would follow anyway. He'd run along behind me, and I'd slow down periodically to wait for him to come trotting around some curve in the path, panting, tail wagging, smiling. He'd follow the whole way, despite how impossibly tired he must have been only minutes into the journey. I remember watching as he grew progressively more fatigued. His cadence became sloppy, his panting would hardly slow when we took breaks and sat in the shade. On these days, he slept the rest of the afternoon.

Once, when he wasn't little anymore, he was too tired to keep up on the way back from someplace he'd followed me to. I heaved all 20 pounds of him under one arm and pedalled at the same time. He threw my balance and I'm surprised

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