Not Even Death Could Part Them: The Eternal Bond Between Pope Francis and His Faithful Companion | HO

Not many people knew that Pope Francis had a dog. There were no photos of him in papal portraits, no public appearances, and not a single mention in official Vatican biographies. To the world, he didn’t exist. But to the man once known as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, Estabbon was as real and as present as breath itself.

Estabbon was not what you’d expect of a papal pet. He wasn’t regal or majestic. He was a small, scruffy mutt with tired eyes and one ear that always drooped awkwardly. His fur was a patchwork of brown and gray, matted in places, and he walked with a slight limp from an old injury. No, Estabbon wasn’t purebred. He wasn’t elegant. But what he had was something most powerful people on earth could never offer the Pope: quiet, unquestioning loyalty.

Not many people knew that Pope Francis had a dog. There were no photos, no public appearances, and not a single mention in official Vatican biographies. To the world, the dog didn’t exist. But to the man once known as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, Estabón was as real and present as breath itself.

Estabón was not what one would expect of a papal pet. He wasn’t regal or majestic; he was a small, scruffy mutt with tired eyes and a drooping ear, his fur a patchwork of brown and gray. He walked with a limp from an old injury. Yet what Estabón lacked in pedigree, he made up for in the kind of loyalty that most powerful people on earth never know.

Their first meeting was pure chance. Five years before Pope Francis’s final days, he was walking in the Vatican gardens at dawn—a rare moment of peace away from the demands of leadership. That morning, he noticed a thin, cautious stray dog emerge from behind a hedge. When security moved to remove the animal, Francis gently stopped them: “Let him come.” The dog approached, uncertain, but when Francis knelt, Estabón walked forward and sat at his feet. From that day on, he never left.

No one knew where Estabón came from—perhaps a stray from Rome’s outskirts, perhaps born in the alleys. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that he chose to stay. Francis named him Estabón, a gentle twist on “está bien” (“it’s okay” in Spanish), and joked to a visiting bishop, “He’s not perfect. Neither am I. But we stay.”

Each morning, they walked the gardens together: the Pope in weathered black shoes, Estabón padding along, slightly uneven. Sometimes Francis spoke softly about the beauty of silence, the weight of the world, the ache of being seen as a symbol instead of a man. Estabón never replied; he just listened, sometimes resting his chin on the Pope’s sandal as Francis read Psalms from a worn Bible. When words failed, they simply sat together beneath the olive trees—two souls wrapped in stillness.

Estabón was never brought into public view. “The world sees me enough,” Francis told his secretary with a soft smile. “Let there be one soul that sees me as just Jorge.” To Estabón, the Pope wasn’t a figurehead, but warmth, presence—his person. Only a handful of Vatican staff ever saw them together. Estabón stayed hidden during public functions, never roaming the halls or trailing after dignitaries. His world was the gardens, a small room behind the archives, and his time with the Pope. That was enough.

Over the years, Estabón grew older. His movements slowed, naps grew longer, but his devotion never wavered. Through winters and springs, through pain and prayer, he stayed. When Francis fell ill, Estabón stayed closer still, lying by the Pope’s door, refusing to eat unless coaxed, silent and alert.

On April 21, 2025, the Vatican was unusually quiet—the heavy silence of grief waiting to be born. Inside the papal chambers, as Francis took his final breath, Estabón was not allowed in. The door remained shut. But as the machines went still and hushed voices spoke words of farewell, Estabón lifted his head outside the door and began to howl—a low, aching sound, not born of instinct but of knowing. Swiss guards lowered their heads. No one tried to comfort him. He waited.

When the Pope’s body was carried through the corridors toward St. Peter’s Basilica, Estabón followed. No leash, no command—just steady footsteps behind the procession, a small creature trailing after greatness, not out of obligation but out of love. At the threshold of the basilica, Estabón sat, nose pointed toward the great bronze doors that had closed behind his person. He didn’t bark, didn’t move—he simply waited.

After the funeral, the Vatican resumed its ancient rhythm, but a quiet absence lingered. Not just of Pope Francis, but of something smaller, more personal. Estabón had not returned to his usual place near the olive trees. For two days, no one saw him. On the third day, Sister Agnes found him curled on the rug in the Pope’s private garden room, the Pope’s old scarf cradled under his paw. She sat beside him, saying nothing. Later, Cardinal Rinaldi brought a biscuit the Pope used to keep for Estabón. He placed it by the bowl. Estabón didn’t move.

That evening, Estabón limped to the window, gazing at the dome of St. Peter’s glowing in the night. No one taught him to mourn. No one had to.

In the days that followed, Estabón began to walk again, retracing old paths in the garden, resting near the tree where he and Francis had once shared quiet mornings. The gardeners left bowls of water and food along the paths. No one said anything aloud—it was simply understood.

As word spread of the dog’s vigil, pilgrims and Vatican staff began leaving flowers, prayers, and small tokens by the olive tree. Estabón became more than a shadow behind the Pope; he became a symbol—not of power, but of devotion. Tourists didn’t know his name, but whispered of “the Pope’s dog.” His story quietly spread: how he waited outside the chamber, how he never left the basilica doors, how he sat beside the Pope like a guardian of memory.

One spring morning, Sister Agnes found Estabón beneath the olive tree, sunlight dappled across his tired face. He did not rise that day. She knelt, kissed his head, and whispered, “Go to him now.” Later that day, they buried him near the tree—no plaque, no ceremony, just a circle of stones and a single olive branch.

The Vatican returned to its rhythm, but something intangible had shifted. In the garden, amid the scent of lemons and morning prayer, the story of a man and his silent companion became part of the sacred ground. Visitors from around the world came not only to honor the Pope, but to pay tribute to the dog who had waited for him until the very end.

Pope Francis and Estabón’s friendship was a lesson in love that asked for nothing in return—a love that even death could not separate. Their story reminds us that the truest faith is not proclaimed in grand gestures, but in the quiet, steadfast presence of those who simply stay. As long as the olive tree stands in the Vatican gardens, the memory of the Pope and his loyal dog will live on—an eternal testament to the power of love, loyalty, and the bonds that outlast even death.