I love you, Jack and Bonus

On June 15, 2015, one of our dogs gave birth to five puppies. The last to come out of the womb was noticeably frail, but he survived. We named him "Bonus" as a shoddy attempt to play with the Filipino word "bunso". Five days ago, he passed away.

My childhood desire to have a dog had been fulfilled eight years ago when a mischievous little brown puppy found himself under a neighbor's rooster cage. Days later, we named him "Jack." Today, he passed away.

Both of them died of a fatal disease.

The more important the bond, the more we seem to take it for granted. Such a consistently essential element of our lives, like the air we breathe, only makes its presence felt through its absence. The reality has to become a cold phantom; only then it will become more substantial. It is the cruelest of ironies. A touch is warmer when it is no longer at our grasps. A voice is louder when it is no longer heard. We would only realize that their traits which we found annoying were not character defects, but their character.

No amount of regret will be able to overcome the border of life and death, but this truth does not stop me from desperately conveying to Jack and Bonus that, up until the end, I cared. I had the opportunity when their pleading, love-longing, alive eyes lit up at my very presence, but there were times when I consciously ignored them. They showed me through their energetic, wagging tails that they were glad to see me, but I was not able to appreciate those sincere gestures all the time. A pouncing approach of love and respect was oftentimes reciprocated only through half-hearted head-patting and belly-rubbing. For humans, life is about competition, busyness, and social niceties; for them, it is only about affection.

The selfish part of me keeps saying that Jack and Bonus should have held on a little longer. It keeps convincing me that seeing them getting thinner and thinner, having difficulty in breathing, and not being able to stand up is better than seeing them in a pain-free peace. Despite that, I told them my last request: rest if they could not take it anymore. They had considered our feelings up until their last breaths, letting go of life when we were preoccupied with our dreams.

Jack and Bonus' eyes that used to be sparkling then stared at nothingness, unmoving and vacant. Decomposition took over, stiffening their formerly eager legs. Still, I was in denial. When I called their name, I could have sworn that their tails had wagged for the last time. Their mouths were open not because they had died a painful death; they were just sleeping. Their lungs were full of life, expanding and contracting in a healthy manner. I was tempted to stay in that blissful fantasy forever, but the reality of my grief eventually freed me from my delusions.

I weep because I expected Jack and Bonus to experience a painless, un-premature death. I weep because, even if they tried hard to hide it, their suffering was evident. I weep because them being liberated from agony meant that they had to die. I weep because three years and eight years are not enough. I weep in the realization that, tomorrow, next week, next year, and the year after that, I will never see them anymore no matter how hard I look at their usual spots.

What saddens and frightens me the most is the notion that, in time, my capacity to recover will make me forget about Jack and Bonus. Their deaths will just be another of the many inevitabilities of life. The land where we rested their bodies will just be another place I will step on without remembering them. This post will just be another blog entry where I had expressed my grief. Their names and their stories will just be another piece of discussion in times of reminiscing the past.

Eventually, I will accept that Jack and Bonus are no longer with us. I do not want that. I have accepted the most meaningful eventualities of my life up to the point that their normalcy makes me ignorant of what their significance is anymore; the thought of Jack and Bonus belonging with them sickens me.

I love you, Jack and Bonus. Sleep well.