On Papoy and her infinite tail-chase

Papoy, the house pup, loved chasing stuff --- fluffy slippers and flip flops, rags, the mop, food, cats, the visitor's leg, and even (perhaps most especially) her own tail.

She would look behind her, spot the line of fur at her rear, and go around in circles --- enjoying the routine as if it was the first time she thought of doing it. As for people, she had the same fancy (minus the biting). For us, her "family," she would always scratch the metal door while we ring the door bell, and when we're inside, she would cling on to a leg.

Papoy as a puppy, chasing my brother s basketball.

These were the little gestures of love that I was just starting to get used to. And for the past three months, as the going was getting tougher, these also became a source of comfort and smile.

Perhaps that was so because Papoy was a gift. A Valentine’s Day gift, in fact, which probably explains the enormous affection she required and effortlessly gave. At first, the tiny plump pup ran around nameless, until I named her Papoy — a senseless (and, as they said, rather unusual) term that emerged from my appreciation for the animated film, “Despicable Me” (Recall the scene when little Agnes’ unicorn toy was destroyed and she held her breath — as she usually does until she gets what she wants — so Gru told his minions to “get the little girl a new toy”, which they interpreted as “Pa-poy?” The minions went home with a toilet cleaner guised as a clown of sorts, and Agnes said “It’s beautiful,” kissing the top of the minions’ heads and making them “kilig” over the gesture.)

Smile!

Much as she seemed clueless (and rather slow with instruction at times), Papoy was an affectionate pup — a beauty with what seemed to be a truckload of love and laughs to spread around the household. The jiggling of her collar’s bell that came along with the pitter patter on the tiled floor had been a daily thing, and since I’ve been a homebody recently, it had also been part of my daily routine to run around with this four-legged companion (or take her out for the “hatcha-pee” and “hatcha-poo”).

Well, now my routine has been broken, once again. And I’m talking about the pup in past tense.
It all went so fast — as fast as Papoy’s legs could probably take her in an open field. Just four days. From the restless, jolly pup that made us all smile, she turned into the somber pet that had us all worry. I really don’t know what started the whole thing, and because everything seemed on 20x fast forward, I don’t know the reason for its ending. Some virus, they say. All I knew was what I saw — the yellow vomit, the mucus, and then the poo of blood (literally) — that I had to clean up as she looked on, apologetic. In a matter of hours, her walk slowed until she could no longer get up. And on Friday morning, she could barely open her eyes.

Before she left me (she didn’t die at home; either on the way to the vet or dead on arrival), she left the last of blood stain on the floor, which reeked even after I cleaned up. She let us move her around. As I wiped the mess she made, I said: “Bangon na, Papi. Manghahabol pa tayo ng pusa.” She just stared at me, and when I was done, I knelt beside her and held her paw. She let me — unusual because she hated that with the same anger that she has for taking baths and having ticks and fleas taken off her — and I told her to get well. “Hihintayin kita,” I whispered, and then stroked the top of her head. She closed her eyes slightly — the same response I would get from her when I do this, except that when she was healthy she would lean on to the hand stroking her head.

I said I would wait, but when the neighbor that accompanied my grandma already carried the pup, I uttered the inevitable: “Bye, Papi.” I said I would wait, but I had that terrible feeling that she wasn’t coming back.

It didn’t even take an hour before my gut feeling was proven right. But I didn’t cry. I went on cleaning my room instead — a chore that I pursue only for two reasons: if and when the president or a favorite celebrity would hang out there (improbable), and when really deep shit happens.

Over the past two days, reminders of the silly pup swirled around the household with the air of loss. The pungent smell of blood may have been cleared by Zonrox and soap, but I’m pretty sure that all three of us here — my grandma, my aunt, and myself — feel that the quiet is wrong on so many levels.

For me, this quiet should be easier to deal with (since I’m just quiet, period), but I sometimes find myself singing my little chants for the pup, even doing the claps and hand gestures. I would look at the spaces she occupied when she was “on leash” and find it empty. Yesterday, I bought a tub of ice cream and forced myself to feel better.

But to no avail. Yet. I dunno how long this’ll drag on, but I do know that the sadness won’t change anything because the pup — my favorite housemate, TV buddy, leash puller, leg hugger, welcoming committee, and the greatest listener — is now in dog heaven, whichever way I look at it.

I would have to go on without her, however hard it is, especially at this time.

But I know I will always remember the many simple deeds that Papoy did for me. Barely a month after she was given to us, she “mourned” with me over the failure of our thesis defense, and then she watched over me (and absorbed my “bugnot”) during the no-sleep, 24-hour thesis re-writing marathon in the living room. She licked my new shoes as a welcome when I got home after the graduation ceremonies. She stood in front of me, then rested a side of her face on my thigh, when I got home after a shitty job interview.

The whole time she was here, she would wait for me at the bottom of the stairs every morning, she looked up at me every night as I went upstairs to get some sleep, and she approached me for affection time to time in between. Plus she gave me her sloppy kiss for every time I asked for it.

And, as I try to swim over the muddle of everyone but me moving forward, plus a number of rejections and mishaps, she remained to be the only loyal companion I had — one that stuck by my side through everything (and really she didn’t have much choice), one that still saw me even after dog years of being together, one that never ceased to let me know that I was loved and that I was needed for love.

Maybe it was just right that I kept on saying that Papoy wasn’t my pet, and she definitely didn’t stand for the root of her name: a toy. She was neither — she was my friend.

Now, I refuse to cry (even, and most especially during fits of almost-tears) because the Papoy I remember and love was a happy, silly puppy. Having lived with her for months, she would probably want me to take the good memories with me and smile through the devastation that her passing has brought me.

I just take courage in the fact that she opted to leave without me seeing, and that she got easy access to dog heaven — the props she deserves for having been a loyal four-legged companion and a true light of this household. She’s probably running around dog heaven, where there’s an unlimited supply of treats, good food, and canine love. Or maybe she ought to spend her infinite after-dog-life years chasing her tail, if it makes her truly happy.

Happy-er times