The Last Name Called: The Story of Pope Francis and Estabon

The Vatican gardens, in the early hours before dawn, are a world apart—a place shrouded in dew and secrets, where the only sound is the soft echo of footsteps on moss-covered stones. In a hidden corner behind the grand basilica, far from the eyes of tourists and absent from any official map, an old wooden gate stands slightly ajar. Beyond it lies a secluded garden, untouched by the outside world.

It was here that an extraordinary bond began—between a Pope with a wounded heart and a nameless stray dog. On this particular morning, Pope Francis, known in his youth as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, awoke earlier than usual. His white cassock trailed behind him, as if even the fabric had grown accustomed to the fragile mist of dawn. Yet his eyes, usually calm and resolute from a lifetime of faith, held a deep, unspoken loneliness.

As he reached his favorite olive tree—a place he paused each morning to breathe and pray—a strange sound interrupted the silence. It was not the wind or the rustle of leaves, but a faint scratching on stone. From behind a laurel bush, a small, mud-streaked dog with one drooping ear and weary eyes emerged, as if it had wandered through lifetimes to arrive at this moment.

The dog wore no collar, bore no mark of any owner or trainer. But what made Pope Francis stop was not its sudden appearance, but the way it looked at him—unafraid, untroubled, as if it had been waiting for him all along. When a security guard instinctively reached for his radio, Francis softly intervened, “Leave it. Do nothing.” The dog paused a few steps away, then, without command or coaxing, approached and sat quietly at his feet. It did not beg, did not whimper, did not show hunger or anger. In that silent exchange, something profound happened—not a miracle, but a kind of homecoming.

After a week of companionship, the Pope gave the dog a name: Estabon. It was an old Spanish word, meaning “it’s okay”—a gentle acknowledgment that the dog, like himself, had arrived in his life imperfectly, unexpectedly, but just right. No one but a few close confidants knew about Estabon. In public, the dog was always kept hidden, a secret in the garden behind the wooden gate. But in the quiet moments after long meetings and papal decrees, Francis would return to the garden, and Estabon would always be waiting.

“People see me as a title, not as a person,” Francis once whispered, his voice hoarse with fatigue. Estabon would rest his head on the Pope’s lap, neither reacting nor judging, simply present—a presence so honest it was almost painful. Once, Sister Anh, a Vietnamese nun in charge of the eastern chapel, stumbled upon them on a rainy morning. She saw the Pope sitting beneath the olive tree, Estabon lying beside him, his head resting on the wet hem of the white cassock. The rain was not heavy, but enough to chill the Pope’s frail hands. Sister Anh quietly retreated, but Francis called out, “Come in, Sister. He won’t bite.”

“Holy Father, whose dog is it?” she asked softly.

“No one’s. Or perhaps, God’s,” Francis replied.

From that day, Estabon became part of the garden, as much as the lemon tree by the chapel or the stone bench where the Pope read the Psalms. He was never playful or disruptive, but whenever Francis returned from distant journeys—Egypt, Mozambique, or beyond—Estabon would be waiting on the steps within minutes of his arrival.

Whispers began among the Vatican staff. Was this a security dog? A secret experiment? In a private meeting, a biobehavioral specialist asked, “I’ve heard of a loyalty-sensing dog program in Lab B32.” The Pope only smiled, “He’s my friend. No research needed.” But he did not deny it, and that piqued the curiosity of Major Hai, a retired military officer now working as a behavioral scientist for the Vatican.

“I’ve led units testing military dogs, but I’ve never seen an animal whose neural resonance matches human alpha waves like Estabon’s,” Hai remarked over tea with Sister Anh. “I suspect he’s more than just a dog.”

One night, the garden gate was found wide open. Security discovered Estabon lying before the old archive—a restricted area. No one knew how he entered; no one heard a sound. What unsettled the guards was not his presence, but his gaze—Estabon stared into the darkness as if waiting for someone to emerge. A tiny trail of blood stained the floor beneath him, yet he made no sound, only looked into the void as if what he sought no longer existed in this world.

As dawn broke, Estabon slowly returned to the olive tree, where he and the Pope had sat in silence for years. No one stopped him; no one spoke. The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying a strange chill, as if something long buried was awakening.

If you’ve ever found yourself wanting only to be near someone, saying nothing, just to make sure they’re not alone, you might understand the silent language between Francis and Estabon.

Major Hai reopened secret files from Lab 46B, searching for answers. In the list of animals released from the program, only one remained unaccounted for: E117, a stray hybrid, missing since 2013. Next to the entry, a handwritten note: “For Jorge.”

Since the night Estabon appeared at the archive, the garden’s atmosphere changed. People sensed a presence watching them—not human, but a soul. Hai arrived earlier than usual one morning, carrying a file marked “Top Secret – Not to leave Lab B32.” The cover bore the code E117 and a warning: “Cloning prohibited—risk of emotional overload.” As he approached the olive tree, Estabon was already there, as if expecting him.

“You’re not an ordinary dog,” Hai muttered, extracting a vial containing a few silver hairs. The alpha-protein structure matched perfectly with the missing 2013 sample from Lab B32. Estabon only looked at him with eyes that seemed to belong to another species—eyes that, as one security expert put it, could crash even a military neural scanner.

In an emergency meeting, Vatican officials debated Estabon’s fate. If he was the result of a failed experiment—a unique survivor of a theological biofeedback program—was he dangerous? Should he be removed? Major Hai’s voice trembled, “He’s not a political figure. He’s an old man’s companion. If you want to take him, you’ll have to go through me.”

No one replied, but a silent battle had begun.

Sister Anh, upon hearing Estabon would be subjected to military neuro-scans, visited Francis. He was reading scripture, Estabon asleep at his feet. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Holy Father,” she said, clutching her rosary so tightly her knuckles turned red. “They plan to take Estabon.”

Francis looked up, his eyes deep and slow, worn by centuries of tears. “This dog was not my choice,” he whispered. “He was sent by God. Before I even knew his name, I heard it in my heart: Estabon. Not a name I gave, but one God called him before he was born.”

“No system, no law can measure what he carries,” Francis continued. “Sometimes, love doesn’t need genetic analysis. It just needs to be seen.”

But the scientists came anyway. Estabon was placed on a cold steel table, sensors wrapped around his head. The brainwave monitor flickered; the gamma frequency resonated with sacred hymns. “The sound in his brain matches the Kyrie Eleison—at ultrasonic levels,” a technician stammered. The machine vibrated, alarms blaring. “Stop!” Major Hai shouted, “He’s not a test subject.” But it was too late. On the screen, as the system glitched, a message appeared: “He called me by my old name.”

That night, Francis stroked Estabon’s head. “I don’t know what they did to you, but I know one thing—your name is not a number.” Estabon nestled into his lap. “When God calls you,” Francis whispered, “He won’t use a code or data. He’ll just whisper, ‘Come home.’” A tear rolled down the Pope’s cheek—the first since he took office.

The days that followed were filled with mystery. A black-and-white photo surfaced, showing the Pope walking in the garden, Estabon at his side. But in the photo, there was only empty space—no dog, no shadow, no paw prints. Experts analyzed the image, adjusted the spectrum, even used quantum-level recovery tools, but Estabon was absent. Reports concluded: “Light at the position of the dog was interrupted for 0.001 seconds—a phenomenon only seen in bio-interference experiments.”

Was Estabon the result of a failed experiment, or a vessel for memories? Did he carry someone else’s soul? Or was he, as ancient texts hinted, a “Castos Memore”—a guardian of memory, a bridge between past and present, sin and forgiveness?

One night, Francis found an old cassette tape in his room. On it, a woman’s voice whispered, “Jorge, don’t let them touch that memory. It’s the last thing that keeps us human.” The voice was identical to his mother’s, who had passed away years earlier.

Scientists confirmed: the neural pattern in the recording matched Estabon’s brain scan by 91%. “The dog remembers the voice of the dead,” they said, “and can replay it, not just as sound, but as feeling.”

The story of Francis and Estabon became more than a tale of a man and his dog. It became a lesson about faith—not blind faith, but the courage to trust, to stand alone if necessary, to reject what is wrong even when the world demands otherwise.

In a world increasingly run by AI, by data, by devices that read emotions but cannot understand hearts, Estabon reminded everyone of the simplest truth: unconditional loyalty. He was not created to sacrifice, nor programmed to choose between life and death. He simply stood by the one he trusted, even as dark forces tried to use technology to control belief itself.

When the world seemed most lost, it was not a hero with weapons who saved the day, but a silent dog who chose love over programming. Francis, in his final days, did not call for God or his mother, but for Estabon—the soul who had never betrayed him.

If you have ever looked into the eyes of a loyal friend, felt protected without question, or been reminded of your own humanity by the quiet presence of another, perhaps you, too, have met your own Estabon.

And when the end comes, perhaps the name you call will not be the one the world expects, but the one that reminds you of love—the only thing that truly survives us all.

End.