THERE are moments, even now, when I jerk awake in a panic. I reach across the sheets, searching for a tiny, warm body, terrified that I’ve accidentally flattened him in my sleep. Then, the silence settles in, and I remember: he is no longer there.
Last month, I lost the last of my pack. At 13 years old, he was a venerable statesman for a miniature Chihuahua. But let me tell you something I’ve learned through the years — knowing they are old doesn’t make the goodbye any less piercing.
I mourn each of my animals deeply, and often for a long time. People often ask for advice on how to handle the loss, and I always tell them the same thing: Mourning is never uniform. There is no expiration date on grief, and there is no "correct" way to feel.
My journey with these soul-mates began with Alonzo, a cat who saw me through the grueling nights of college. When he passed, the silence in the house was so heavy it took four years before I could even look at another cat.
Then came the "Fashion Era." My dad got me Robin, a natural star who loved the cameras and the spotlight of the Manila pet fashion scene. Robin is a Cream Pomeranian. We were on TV, Runways and Magazines for six years.
Soon after, Chichi and Bambi joined the family, eventually giving us Prince. These three were apple-headed miniature Chihuahuas. While Robin and Chichi were the darlings of the front pages and runways, Bambi and Prince were the quiet souls who preferred the safety of the backstage shadows.
When my father passed away in 2017, Robin followed him shortly after, dying of a broken heart. I spiraled into a haze of depression. If it weren't for the three little souls still dependent on me, I might not have gotten out of bed.
They forced me into the sunlight. They needed their walks; they needed their meals; they needed their baths. In caring for them, I began to care for myself again. We eventually traded the frantic energy of TV shoots and Manila life for the quiet peace of Davao. Throughout the physical toll of my work as a teacher, my dogs were my steady heartbeat of encouragement.
As our pets become seniors, the love shifts into a more sacred kind of service. There is no "Senior Discount" or PhilHealth for dogs. Being a pet owner means being a provider for their most vulnerable moments. I encourage every pet parent: prepare for the winter of their lives. Save for the vet bills now, because the care they require in their final years is a debt of love we owe them for a lifetime of loyalty.
In the span of a few years, I watched my pack dwindle. Chichi passed at 12, followed quickly by Prince, who simply seemed to want to follow his mother. Finally, it was just Bambi. After the loss of Chichi and Prince, his personality began to change. He was needier and ornery. I can’t even leave him alone. When I went to Africa for three weeks, my grandma, brother and sister had to rotate to sleep with him.
Why go the extra mile for a dog? Because my family understood that no dog was just a dog. They were family. When he suffered a seizure that wouldn't stop this past March, I had to make the hardest decision a mother can make: I let him rest.
Did I "infantilize" them? Perhaps. But I would never trade a single second of the time I spent treating them like family.
To those of you currently walking through the quiet halls of a home that feels too empty: Love all out. Do not let the world judge you for how hard you love or how long you mourn. Every pet is a unique chapter in your life, and they deserve a unique goodbye.
Will we see them in heaven? I cannot say for certain. But I believe this: every part of creation comes from the Creator. Our pets are pieces of God’s own heart, sent to us as tiny, furry tutors to teach us responsibility, patience, and—above all—unconditional love.
Don’t just mourn their end. Celebrate their lives with laughter and stories. They gave us their best years. The least we can do is carry their light forward.
