(Trigger Warning: pet loss)

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On the first year of my Bipolar diagnosis, we adopted our first dog – a Shih Tzu / Lhasa Apso mix. He had white fur on his body but the tips of his ears were a gradient of gray. When we got him, I could hold him with one hand, eyes so innocent (eventually: manipulative), fur so soft, paws so pristine, and possibilities so vast. 

During the pandemic, I whispered to him, “Please don’t die, not right now.” The quarantine ended, we’re all free to travel wherever we want. I got greedy. “Please don’t die. Please live forever.” He didn’t. 

My dog died on a Tuesday. How do I process grief that I’ve been dreading for the past 15 years? I could see his silhouette or smell his shampoo if I close my eyes hard enough. There’s a void in the house – pet bowls missing from one corner, a dog bed from another, and all seven kilograms of him buried at my Father’s ancestral house in Batangas. 

Friends say I should write about my dog, immortalize his memory with words. I cut a chunk of his fur and I placed it in a small jar, an emotional support fur that I couldn’t bring myself to look at. I just want to hug him one last time, in his youth, not when we were about to send him away: stiff and lifeless. His paws stretched out and his limbs like a stick that wouldn’t fold. 

I’ll write about you, Lupin. Life got a bit more difficult so I’d like to imagine you’re having so many great adventures across the rainbow bridge. 

You’re finally reunited with Puccini and you’re together and running around. You’ll finally get to meet my paternal grandparents, I know they’ll love you. You can play with Jen again. Say hi to Brett for me. Sit by Lola’s side until we get there. 

Lupin (October 9, 2010 to July 7, 2026)