As a write this, my baby and loyal companion, Godard, is currently in her ‘cave’, under a feet of dirt, after we said goodbye to her yesterday, around 4 pm in the afternoon.

Around 1:30 in the afternoon, Godard died in my arms as we rode a taxi to a vet clinic. Her mouth was foaming and she was expelling excretions as the taxi went from a closed clinic to the next because of the holiday. The vet in Naguillan finally said that she has no more heartbeat.

We got Godard off the internet. When I went to get her from her owner she was so little she could fit into a shotglass. Nikki and I used to call her ‘Hitler’ because we thought she was male. Only after a few days and a visit to the clinic did we know that she is in fact a Yorkie princess.

We tried to feed her a pellet of dog food because she was too small to actually eat solid food. Nonetheless, she grew stronger and wilder by the day.

We taught her how to poo in the cr, to sit, higa, and tayo while leaning on the wall. She really loves the attention, that spoiled little brat. But she was never a bad dog. She never bared her fangs except at the thief cat who always goes through our biodegradable trash outside. She loves going between guests’ legs and charming them to put her in their laps. She was never a bad dog, even though we sometimes call her one, which will make her look away in shame, in her own cute way.

This morning I woke up, half-knowing that no furry ball will go between my legs and jump around, calling me to play. I went to the cr, half-knowing that there are no pieces of poo to pick up, the cr cruelly clean and dry and silent.

I miss her, her face peering between the small space of the door ajar, waiting for us to say ‘tara!’ after which she will scamper  to the bed, eager to snuggle with us for a few minutes of our busy 24-hour lives.

I miss the sound of her paws as she hops around our apartment.

I miss how she barks at my melodica, annoyed by the sound it makes.

I miss calling her and looking for her around the house, she hiding herself in any comfy crevice which she began to treat as her personal ‘cave’, a trace of her primal instinct.

I miss lying on my back, drunk, hugging and kissing this tiny creature oblivious of the meaning of the words telling her I love her.

After the taxi ride home, I laid down her body into table. She stiffened on the table where we left her, after a few hours of crying and trying to acclimate ourselves to the loss. We dug a grave with spoons. We placed in her in a comfortable position and covered her with dirt. Afterwards we entered the house and washed the dirt off our hands.




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