Diego Rivera Martin-Hinshaw

b. December 1, 1990
d. December 22, 2003


Diego Rivera Martin-Hinshaw, our little gentleman, husband of Frida Kahlo's Little Deer, passed away in our home in Austin, Texas, on Sunday morning, December 22. He had visited the veterinarian for a cough on Thursday, and was being treated for a minor upper-respiratory infection. He'd had a few coughing spells in the night, but had awoken, jumped off my bed, and gone downstairs by himself at about the time he knew his people would be awaking; he'd had a drink of water, and was waiting in the kitchen in his usual spot where he begged for a treat while I made coffee. He passed so quietly I was not immediately aware of the reality of what had happened when I came downstairs. As recently as a week ago he enjoyed my birthday party and was extremely lovey-dovey with all my friends. Natasha made a beautiful photograph of me with the two dogs that evening.

Diego was Mark Hinshaw's birthday present in February of 1991; Natasha was then a first-grader. He was chosen from his litter of Boston Bull Terriers, because, as the runt he was being pulled around by the little bandanna he wore around his neck by a bigger sister and he seemed to be in need of rescue. He nursed the tender inner skin of my forearm all the way on our drive home. Minette, our senior pet, a black-and-white cat, welcomed his arrival like a foster-mother, and he frequently stood on his hind legs as a puppy and played boxing games with our other cat, Diva. There was never any doubt about what his name should be; his round, slightly protruding eyes, one of which was a little lazy, made him bear a startling resemblance to the Mexican muralist Diego Rivera. As a puppy, Diego chewed up the heels of every single shoe I owned.

When he was less than a year old, while walking in the neighborhood park on a leash with Nicholas and Natasha, Diego inhaled a small rock when Nicholas jerked him back on his leash to keep him a safe distance from the over-protective mother of a toddler who screamed in alarm, "Pit bull! Pit bull!" The children came running home, with Diego in Nicholas' arms. They cried, "He isn't breathing!" I saw the fog of impending death clouding Diego's eyes, swooped him from Nicholas' arms, and raced down the street to a nearby veterinary clinic. I ran in and screamed, "Please! Save my dog!" Veterinary assistants rushed Diego into a treatment room, and, in a moment, a vet emerged with the pebble, taken from Diego's throat during the emergency tracheotomy. I doctored the tracheotomy wound for weeks as it healed, and Diego slept on top of me, as if I were his mother. He recovered completely eventually, except for noisy breathing and loud snoring caused by scar tissue in his throat for the rest of his life. I still have the pebble as a relic, to this day.

When he was two, we welcomed Frida Kahlo's Little Deer to our family, to be his bride. Diego was beside himself with excitement the day we brought her home and he sniffed her and knew she was a female. A quarter Diego's size, Frida stiffened her delicate legs and issued a sharp, bright "Bar-rar-rar," as if to let Diego know immediately she was the boss. And so she was, always. Diego's bride was genetically destined to be our home's Alpha-animal, and though they sometimes rough-housed, poor Diego always, in the end, backed down and deferred to Frida in everything. He let her eat first, and, at night, he even let her sleep between my legs, while he slept on the pillow next to my head. She was his Bride of Frankenstein.

Diego's tongue was soft and warm as the velvet of some exotic violet. He loved to lick tired, sweaty human feet, and he'd send shivers of pleasure up my spine when he licked mine. When he wanted to be petted, he'd buck his head against our hands. When he grumbled, as he sometimes did when hurried along on the leash while walking, he'd clack his teeth at us while baring them -- an expression Natasha and I called "voodoo mouth." He loved to take a bath, and obediently helped by standing up in the bath tub with his paws on the tiles while I scrubbed him. He hated to have his nails cut, but he loved to visit the vet. He was cold-natured and loved to wear his sweater in winter. He loved Treat most of all. He had an itchy place just above the crook of his little screw-tail, and he loved to be scratched at the base of his spine. He'd arch his back in sheer pleasure, turn his head back to look at us like a little bull, and smile. We will miss his smile most of all. Like a goofy clown, he'd draw back the corners of his mouth in an almost-human grin, so it was never hard to tell when he was happy. Natasha took both dogs on a long walk Friday, but Diego tired out quickly; she picked him up, and he lay in her arms on his back, like a baby, relaxed, legs flopping, and grinned from ear to ear.

Although very quiet and well-behaved, Diego had the nature of an adventurer. He somehow escaped from our home one day as Natasha, a latch-key kid, came in from elementary school, and his absence wasn't noted until I came home from work that evening. We searched the neighborhood shaking bags of tortilla chips, yelling, "Diego! Treat!" We put up fliers with his photo. Natasha and her father drove all over the neighborhood in the car looking for him. Finally, at about 10 p.m., we received a phone call from a young man who'd found Diego, and who had hoped to keep him for his own ("Cool dog!") until he saw our fliers. Diego, like a doggie Odysseus, was returned to my arms outside a neighborhood convenience store -- he wriggled and licked my face, and then went happily home to sleep, exhausted. Even in his old age, when we took our walks, Diego liked to pull on the leash and drag me along, led by his nose, retracing the invisible tracks of nocturnal animals. I always thought that if I unhooked him from the leash, he'd be off immediately on his own travels.

Diego's special dog trick was standing on his hind legs to beg, and turning circles while standing up on his hind legs, like a circus dog. I called this "Dance-Around." Diego was the master of Dance-Around, especially if a potato chip was the reward.

Diego's greetings when we came home in the evenings, his gentle presence, his undemanding nature, his quiet perching on the back of the couch keeping vigil, the white velvet fur of his chest, his sweet "smuck" kisses given quickly on request, his characteristic scent of musk and old roses, are deeply missed. I will remember how, because he was a small, short-legged dog, he'd strain on our walks to make his territorial urine marker as high as possible, balancing on three legs, frozen, with one held high, like an acrobat. I will remember how he reminded me, strangely, of aquatic animals like seals and hippopotamuses. He was our little gentleman, with his sharp black and white markings, noble profile, and alert little ears. He loved to ride in the car, and he loved to eat fried chicken at Enchanted Rock on our annual New Year outings, so that's where we'll take his ashes.

Diego was my sweet little boy, our good little man. He liked it when I said to him, "Good boy. Noble beast." I hope he's running now, as he sometimes did in his sleep, following his nose on invisible travels.