⭐ my little star
my dog of (nearly) sixteen years died last thursday, four days short of his sixteenth birthday.
he never got to eat his lamb meatloaf or the australian beef burger that i was going to make him. it’s summer, too, so he wasn’t wearing his favourite jammies when he passed. and he’d just taken a bath, so his managerial bowtie was in the wash. the only thing he had on was his diaper.
the silence is unusual. unnerving, almost. i’m not used to being alone in my room or having the bed to myself. it’s strange not having him press against my back, or lying on my arm, or smacak dab between my legs. i never realised how much space he took up despite being so small, or how much of my life revolved around his schedule; second potty at two in the afternoon, a meal between four and five, bedtime at nine. even the small bits like looking over to my bed while i’m on my computer to see how he’s doing, or feeling around the bed at night to find him while i’m half asleep.
i’ve been crying nearly nonstop and sleep has been a little hard to come by. it’s fine in the day (sometimes) when i’m busy, but it gets so hard at night. we built this routine of a kiss before lights out and cuddle time until the blankets get too warm and he wants cold air. i’m so accustomed to the sound of his breathing next to my ear that the quiet is so unbearably lonely. i’ve started playing music to dull the silence.
my usually stoic dad has been weepy alongside me, both of us being his primary caretakers. i caught him the other night (the eve of his birthday) crying in bed. we both try to stay strong by telling ourselves that his last ever day was pretty much perfect. he ate a lot of snacks—blueberry muffins, popcorn, chips—on top of his usual meal (his favourite bag of chicken and rice), and he got to go up the bed early, and i got to play with him on the bed and kiss him so many times. he pooped a bunch, as he always does, and even let my mom kiss him, something he never does because he doesn’t really seem to like my mom. with the exception of a car ride to the mall, he spent his day doing all of his favourite things. he even farted right into my nose.
i miss him so much. i spend all my allotted instagram hours looking through stories i’ve posted of him, of which there are many because he was my beloved star. i think i’m still somewhat in that early stage of grief where a part of me knows that he’s passed, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t recognise that he’s gone, so i catch myself still looking for him.
picasso is my childhood dog. i’ve had him since i was ten. he would bite and bark at my parents whenever they scolded me and he’d sit by my side whenever i cried. he saw me through all my firsts: my first period, my first (gay) crush, my first heartbreak, my first prom, my first friend-fight—everything. he was, is, my best-est friend and now i feel so lost without him. i have all this room in my budget that i would rather not have, if it meant having him around. all this space in my bed that i’d rather not be there.
his ashes came home today. it wasn’t as heavy unwrapping the plastic covering of his urn and his paw print with camille and gabby around, but i had to look away from the envelope that contains a letter that camille said “would make me suicidal.” i brought him up to my room and put him on my bedside table, lit up an incense for him, and welcomed him home. i did not cry because i had visa forms to fill, but my eyes watered and throat felt tight.
it’s been less than a week since picasso died, but i’ve already been asked if i want a new dog. my answer has remained the same: i only want my dog. it’s a childish answer, but one that i feel won’t change in the foreseeable future. i know i’ll probably get another dog down the line, but right now, it hurts to think about a future where picasso isn’t by my side. i know i want a dog named “mr. bojangles,” but every time i conjure up a dog in my mind, i can only see picasso—my dog; my stinky.
my a-ko has been religious in checking in on me. she asks my dad if i’ve cried again, or if i’m doing better. she sends me pictures of her dogs and has even planned on taking me out to a river to help heal. my mom’s cousin and her girlfriend asks her how i’m doing, to which my mom replies: “inconsolable. she was crying at the mall all day yesterday.” gabby’s brother has even reached out and said that he’s there if i ever need someone to vent to, and nessy offered to cowork with me if the evenings get too lonely.
when i texted our group chat that picasso died, camille called me immediately and offered to stay up in case i needed to talk to someone. my boss even gave me the night off, telling me to spend time with my “little doggy and remember all the good times he brought you.”
so many people reached out to me and only now can i look back with a full and fond heart. i'm fortunate to have so many people check up on me; mourn my little dog with me.
on my post to commemorate picasso, gabby’s mom said she hopes he gets to meet yuan, their chow chow who passed away in october of last year. this made me cry. there’s something about the idea of my dog meeting my best friend’s dog over the rainbow bridge that makes me emotional. i bet they’re gossiping about us now. picasso was such a little gossip. he’d wake up if he heard someone start gossiping.
it’s hard to adjust to referring to my dog in the past tense. whenever i catch myself switching between past and present tense, i’m reminded of a scene from one of my favourite manga, ikoku nikki. asa and makio are fixing up asa’s old apartment and she realises she’s still talking about her late parents in the present tense. makio, in reply, says: “So the way we, in Japanese, say ‘ima yondeiru hon,’ and we’re not really referring to a book that’s here now, but rather a book that we’ve partially read and are still reading. In English, you wouldn’t use the phrase ‘I’m reading,’ but rather linking the past me to now, and to me a little bit in the future is a line wherein the English phrase ‘I’ve been reading’ is ‘ima yondeiru’ in Japanese. So you’re… how do I say this… ‘you’ve been thinking of them.’ It’s ongoing. There’s no need to forcibly cut that off.”1 this was a scene that got me through my grandmothers’ death in 2021. it’s a scene that will probably get me through this, too.
you’ve been thinking of them. it’s ongoing. there’s no need to forcibly cut that off.
my ninang asked me if my dog’s visited me since he died. her dog passed two years ago and for a few days after his death, she heard his footsteps on the floor of her room. i said he hasn’t. my dog was never affectionate in that manner; he never really would sit in your lap or deliberately nudge you for pets. his affection came in guarding the bathroom when you were in it, letting you kiss him, lying down by your feet, and sleeping by your back. in that way, it kind of makes sense why he won’t visit me the way sherlock visited my ninang. but also, my dog knows how quickly i get scared. i’ve waken up enough times at night, scared out of my mind that something’s rustling in the ceiling. when he barks late into the night, i get freaked out enough that i wake my dad up to check if someone’s outside my door.
i have always been chicken-hearted. my dog knows this. maybe the real reason why he doesn’t visit is because he knows i’d get scared. i wonder if the fear is worth a visit from him; a little hello to let me know he’s okay.
i wonder if he’s having fun over the rainbow bridge. if he’s young again without the aching and clicking joints. i wonder if he’s bragging about eating prosciutto and manchego and wagyu burgers. i wonder if he’s reunited with my grandma and my auntie sol. i wonder if he’s met my a-ma for the first time. his doggy half-brother passed away at four. i wonder if they’re playing.
i wonder if he misses me as much as i miss him. i hope he does.
i hope that when i die, he’s the first face i see. i hope he charges out of the doors of the afterlife, much like how he does so at home, and waits for me at the top of the stairs because he can’t be bothered to go down on his own. i hope he jumps into my arms and licks my face and that his breath still smells.
i’ll tell him about how much i missed him and that he was the best-est friend i could have ever asked for.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚
i'm sorry if this post doesn't make sense. i just wanted to get some feelings out because i've been crying so much my nose has started bleeding and clogging so bad i can't breathe at night.
anyways, a song for you. mr bojangles is not just a name i want to give a future pet, but one of my favourite songs, and a song on the playlist i made for my dog (who likes jazz).
i miss my dog so much. i wish he was here with me. evenings have been hard on me. i cry so much my chest starts to ache and that ache lasts with me in my (restless) sleep. i understand now, how people die of grief and a broken heart. it feels as though hope has disappeared from my heart and that it takes so much to do something as simple as washing my face.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
fan translation of chapter six of ikoku nikki by the scanlation group, hi wa mata noburu↩