Every morning around 8:00, a taxi would arrive at my Lancaster clinic with Mr. Cafferelli and his Chihuahua, Pepe.
Pepe was diagnosed with diabetes when he was about 8 years old and needed insulin by injection each morning to control his disease. Although insulin is most often given twice daily, Pepe did very well on a once-a-day regimen.
Mr. Cafferelli was probably in his late 70s or early 80s and reminded me of a thinner version of Popeye, minus the cap and pipe. His chin jutted out, he was usually unshaven, and he stood about 5 feet 4 inches tall.
He always entered the hospital through the “exit” door with Pepe clutched to his chest, gently petting him and telling him what a good little dog he was. In a kind tone, he would softly tell him that he needed his medicine, that the doctor was a nice man, that it would be quick, and that they would be on their way home very soon. And he would tell him to be nice to the doctor, who was just trying to help him. He spoke in a soothing, sweet voice as he continued to gently pet Pepe.
Not the nicest dog
To be truthful, Pepe wasn’t the nicest dog in the world, and while Mr. Cafferelli tried to comfort him, he’d be growling, squirming, and baring his teeth. Our ace technician, Laurie, would carefully remove him from Mr. Cafferelli’s arms (sometimes leather gauntlets were required) and bring them both into the exam room while Mr. Cafferelli continued cooing to Pepe, telling him what a good little doggie he was.
Pepe’s ill manner never changed, even though he came in every day for more than three years in the 1990s. After I’d administered the injection, Laurie would carefully hand Pepe back to Mr. Cafferelli as he softly petted him and hugged him to his chest again, all the while telling him what a good little dog he was and it was time to go home.
As soon as the exam room door closed and he thought no one could hear him, he made his way to the exit door where the taxi waited, telling Pepe, “You’re a no-good “*&#@*^~” SOB!, Are you ever going to be good for the doctor?”
The love behind a tirade
In spite of this tirade, I knew how much Pepe meant to him and how much he loved him. It always made me smile.
When Mr. Cafferelli’s health began to fail, I began going each day to his apartment over a barroom in Clinton to give Pepe his insulin. As Pepe aged, he developed kidney failure and eventually, I put him to sleep on one of these visits, as Mr. Cafferelli gently spoke to him and petted him.
I was saddened a few months later to read Mr. C’s obituary in the Clinton newspaper, but he certainly left me with some memories.
East Bare Hill Road resident Fred Karotkin is a veterinarian.
