Sometimes, it takes time for the sadness to descend in one's heart. Once it happens, it leaves the person inconsolable. He sinks into his own unfathomable sorrow, staying there, until the guilt and the lost has been consumed by his own grieving.
---
She was given to us as a litter by my mother's former reflexologist, a big lady, who's effeminate son claims devotion to the Japanese artist Utada Hikaru. This litter, whose fur is brown in color and a black snout as dark as oil, was never really appealable by first impression. She was the typical unappreciated askal destined to roam the streets in her adulthood.
In her youth, she used to pee in front of her masters whenever she sees them descends out of the car. One night when I was drunk, my drinking buddies claimed that she stood by my side while licking my face. If camera phones were invented then, they could have captured that moment and place it in a jpg file for posterity. But since I was too wasted to remember what happened, such claim would always remain a myth, a story retold over and over in reunions and gatherings we organize nowadays.
Occasionally, she would defecate in front of the master's bedroom, whenever her master, the driver is out for a vacation. My mom would always say that it's her psychological reaction to the loss, the longing even animals like her demonstrates to family members closest to her canine heart. In her adulthood, she had whelped more puppies than we could have ever manage to keep. She was known in the neighborhood as the puppy-making machine - even giving birth to a set less than a year before her demise.
However, as she grew older, she disappears from the picture. The cuter the puppies she delivers into this world, the less we grew fond of her. Her stinking smell did not help either. Most of the time, this unbearable downside of her presence would always be the cause for us to drive her out - and leave her outside despite the heavy rains or bitter cold. A couple of times, flying slippers slam her face for doing her job as the bantay of the compound. Im not really fond of dogs so my tolerance to their barking is relatively low compared to the screaming meows of a pussy in heat.
Eight years into her lifetime, our gratitude to her servitude was never really realized. She has always been the wallflower dog, especially when we decided to keep one of her offsprings. Even in death, she was almost in a state of abandonment. My sister, who first noticed her worsening condition pleaded to us to bring her to the vet. However, this stubborn dog would just run away and hide under the nearest vehicle at a slight movement of her captors. Perhaps she knew that her lifetime is at its end, and decided never to bother us with her groaning pain. When I found her stiffened body lying under somebody elses car yesterday afternoon, it is as if nobody owns her. My thoughts were preoccupied not by sadness but the concern of how to dispose her. And even when my sister was wailing in despair and loss, I was still stone cold.
However, in spite of the masquerading of one's feelings, the moment one opens the door and find her, not there anymore - whenever its under the car, or in front of you wagging her crooked tail, you know the emptiness is there. Moving on would not be as easy as one's stiff heart could have ever hoped to achieve.
In the aftermath of her sad, tragic passing, I feel less of a human and even lesser than a canine. The guilt of apathy that is beginning to bite me, will continue to pierce my skin the more I remember our shortcomings as the masters. Somehow, I feel like an ingrate son who had just lost an old mother.
Who would have thought, that the last gentle pat on the head I gave her several days ago would be my last?
---
She was given to us as a litter by my mother's former reflexologist, a big lady, who's effeminate son claims devotion to the Japanese artist Utada Hikaru. This litter, whose fur is brown in color and a black snout as dark as oil, was never really appealable by first impression. She was the typical unappreciated askal destined to roam the streets in her adulthood.
In her youth, she used to pee in front of her masters whenever she sees them descends out of the car. One night when I was drunk, my drinking buddies claimed that she stood by my side while licking my face. If camera phones were invented then, they could have captured that moment and place it in a jpg file for posterity. But since I was too wasted to remember what happened, such claim would always remain a myth, a story retold over and over in reunions and gatherings we organize nowadays.
Occasionally, she would defecate in front of the master's bedroom, whenever her master, the driver is out for a vacation. My mom would always say that it's her psychological reaction to the loss, the longing even animals like her demonstrates to family members closest to her canine heart. In her adulthood, she had whelped more puppies than we could have ever manage to keep. She was known in the neighborhood as the puppy-making machine - even giving birth to a set less than a year before her demise.
However, as she grew older, she disappears from the picture. The cuter the puppies she delivers into this world, the less we grew fond of her. Her stinking smell did not help either. Most of the time, this unbearable downside of her presence would always be the cause for us to drive her out - and leave her outside despite the heavy rains or bitter cold. A couple of times, flying slippers slam her face for doing her job as the bantay of the compound. Im not really fond of dogs so my tolerance to their barking is relatively low compared to the screaming meows of a pussy in heat.
Eight years into her lifetime, our gratitude to her servitude was never really realized. She has always been the wallflower dog, especially when we decided to keep one of her offsprings. Even in death, she was almost in a state of abandonment. My sister, who first noticed her worsening condition pleaded to us to bring her to the vet. However, this stubborn dog would just run away and hide under the nearest vehicle at a slight movement of her captors. Perhaps she knew that her lifetime is at its end, and decided never to bother us with her groaning pain. When I found her stiffened body lying under somebody elses car yesterday afternoon, it is as if nobody owns her. My thoughts were preoccupied not by sadness but the concern of how to dispose her. And even when my sister was wailing in despair and loss, I was still stone cold.
However, in spite of the masquerading of one's feelings, the moment one opens the door and find her, not there anymore - whenever its under the car, or in front of you wagging her crooked tail, you know the emptiness is there. Moving on would not be as easy as one's stiff heart could have ever hoped to achieve.
In the aftermath of her sad, tragic passing, I feel less of a human and even lesser than a canine. The guilt of apathy that is beginning to bite me, will continue to pierce my skin the more I remember our shortcomings as the masters. Somehow, I feel like an ingrate son who had just lost an old mother.
Who would have thought, that the last gentle pat on the head I gave her several days ago would be my last?
No comments:
Post a Comment