Diablo, cancer
In 1994, my father was diagnosed with cancer. The disease was advanced so alternative treatments, we were told by professionals, weren’t a realistic alternative. The best and brightest minds in oncology decided aggressive radiation would give my dad his best chance.
Two months later he was dead.
My family grieved and while I urged my lonely mom to get a pet, she wasn't ready. Nor was she ready the next year. Or the next. Five years went by until she decided it was time.
We visited a breeder who had five toy fox terrier puppies, all so bouncy they spent more time in the air the on the ground. Of the five, one loomed large and in charge, at a whopping 1.5 pounds. He was more willful than the rest. He wasn't taking no for an answer. He was coming home with us by his choice; we had no say in the matter. And he would go almost two months in our care before being named because we desperately hoped he would outgrow the only name that felt appropriate. He didn’t. So the name stuck: Diablo.