If I don’t grieve, have I truly loved?

Grief is a familiar and a strange concept all at once. It’s a universal feeling that surfaces when we experience a loss of something or someone that holds a special place in our lives. Grief manifests in different faces for different people. For us, who have pets whom we love dearly, grief is not a foreign feeling. However, despite our familiarity with it, we can never truly become equipped for what happens before, during, and after the nearing end of our beloved pets. Hence, we grieve and continue to grieve until we don't—or we grieve a thousand times more and still not get over it. 

Grief begins when we acknowledge that life is short. Our pets—whether dogs, cats, birds, or any other animals we care for as beloved members of our families—have shorter lifespans than we do.  Then it continues when we grasp the idea that someday they would cross the rainbow bridge and bid us their last goodbye. Until then, grief becomes familiar, too familiar that when we start to bear with the prospect that we will not be able to spend the rest of our lives with them, yet they spend the rest of their lives with us. Can we even picture this moment and not think it’s unfair? Is it not natural to wish that their lifespans could be longer, perhaps even longer than our own? 

Grief is strange—too strange. It’s a feeling that we think we will never be able to get used to. A feeling that no matter how many times we’ve prepared ourselves and no matter how many times we’ve seen it coming, still, grief comes knocking, and we find ourselves welcoming it on the front door instead of shutting our doors from it. We have no way of being even partially composed to confront and we become irrational to  our pets’ demise; hence, we grieve. 

In 2012, I was nine years old, a playful child when we got our first family dog. Her name was Coby—she was the bubbliest, most expressive, and most mischievous dog we had. The six years she spent with us were wonderful. Watching Coby grow from a tiny puppy I could hold in the palm of my hand into a dog I could barely carry, even with all my strength, was both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

Having an innocent mind and a pure heart, as a child, I never knew I could be so attached to a dog. For the time being, I thought dogs were like playmates I could stop playing with whenever I didn’t feel like it. Turns out, I was wrong. Coby was my soulmate in the form of a pet; she brought me immense happiness and a deep connection I never felt before. 

There were a lot of unforgettable memories Coby contributed to my childhood; in fact, she was a major piece of it. She was our first dog who stole a grilled pork chop from our neighbor and brought it to us. She was our first dog who would come running to me when I was one street away from home—she would follow me everywhere I go. Coby was the dog who would stay lying on our beds whenever we were away, patiently waiting for us to come home. Above all, she was the dog who loved me and my family all her life until her very last breath. 

When a fire broke out in our neighborhood in 2014, I was busy playing with my friends. The fire quickly spread reaching the residential area next to us, and we were advised to evacuate to the nearest street. I ran barefoot while carrying my friend on my back who’s crying nonstop. Due to panic, my family members only brought the significant things they could carry before the smoke engulfed the house and suffocated us. That scene was still vivid to me—my uncle carrying the Virgin Mary statue, my mother evacuating while wearing a towel as she just got out of the bathroom, my cousins assisting my grandparents, and others were busy alerting our neighbors. Meanwhile, when we finally noticed that Coby wasn’t with us, we were in so much worry, asking in unison, “Nasa’n si Coby? Please balikan niyo si Coby sa bahay!” 

My uncle hurriedly went back to the house despite the countless warnings from the firefighters and the narrow area where the parked fire trucks were. He saw Coby in the dark, smoke-filled corner, trembling in fear. When we saw my uncle carrying her back to us, we were all relieved. We almost lost Coby to a fire, and we never knew that we would soon lose her for good. 

We almost lost Coby to a fire, and we never knew that we would soon lose her for good.

When Coby died in 2016, she was resting under the table while my family members were eating and talking out loud. My mother, who was sitting on the sofa, vaguely heard Coby shrieking in pain, likely from getting her tail stepped on by one of the chairs' feet, and no one from that table heard anything. In the next minute, excrement and urine came out of her. On one hand, the majority of my family members said she died from a heart attack—but what could possibly trigger it? 

Minutes late. When Coby died, I was just minutes late. I remember being on my way home, confused. There was no Coby who usually ran towards me, wagging her tails and zooming around. When I entered the house, my mother immediately hugged me and told me, “Nak, patay na si Coby.” 

Grief is peculiar—peculiar in a way that’s paradoxically not funny. It’s almost as if it’s playing with those who were left behind. When I heard the news from my mother, Coby was already buried in a vacant lot. My biggest regret is that I was never given the chance to hug her one last time and tell her how she meant a lot to me. She didn’t even see me in her last moments. If only I had chosen to run on my way home that day—maybe, just for a minute, I could have had the chance to hold her one last time.

This is grief. When my mother told me about it, denial, anger, remorse, and guilt pulled me under, each one heavier than the last. How could my family have missed Coby’s shriek of pain? How could they not notice she was under the table? Coby died as everyone else was having a good time. How could they have realized it when it was too late? And if only I could’ve been home early, Coby could’ve been with me longer, and grief wouldn’t even be there, having an early visit to my younger self. 

Relieving my beloved pet’s demise still stung; it still has the ability to open my deepest wounds, but it wasn't as heavy and painful as it used to be. I’ve been scrolling through Coby’s personal Facebook account that we created since 2012 to document her life when I saw that I wished her a happy birthday in 2019. There were also plenty of photos of her from 2012 to 2016, comments, and likes from us. 

Grief scarred me. Eight years ago, I feared I’d never be able to take care of pets. However, I’ve been with my 11-year-old dog for years now. Frankly, I still have my fair share of worries of silent grief when I think about a future she’s no longer in and of the pain I would be put through when she’s taken away from me—a cycle of grief that never ends. This is why I always ask myself, “If I don’t grieve, have I truly loved? ” 

To take care of pets is to endure endless griefs and watch as they slip away, one by one. But the grief we gain from their endings is a testimony that we’ve shared—a love that filled their lives until the very end, even if it means we must bear the weight of their absence forever.

Alex Manalo is the Assistant Online Director, a feature writer, and a member of the copyreading department of 4079 Magazine. A fourth-year Journalism student in PUP-COC Manila who is currently a writer-intern at Pinoy Weekly, covering beats such as Media, Culture, and Arts. She is an aspiring journalist who focuses on feature and news writing, as well as photojournalism. She has been actively engaging in activities that highlight the plight of the marginalized people and the challenges they face.