One fine day (a eulogy)

The 27th of August, 2008 was a typical day for my 22-year-old self. Back then, I didn't have a job, and I hadn't made the decision to go back to school yet. All I did was play video games on my old PC; a sad old Pentium 4 with a rickety old video card. Because of this, I never had to go outside, since playing video games was all I cared about, and the only place I can do it for free would be at home.

In other words, I was a freeloading homebody with no actual responsibilities to take care of. 

So to make myself useful, I took it upon myself to become our household's official steward (well, I'd like to think of it that way, but my family would say that I really had no choice in the matter). This means I did almost all of the household chores, except the laundry (which I occasionally did), and I was also in charge of making sure that everything in the house was in proper order. And that means everything. Including the front area/garden of our house where our tools and cleaning equipment are stored. 

It's also the place my dog calls home. 

Meet Obama. 

Notice the small mess of sticks in front of him. Those are the remains of a broomstick, which we used to clean the outdoor areas of our house. It also happened to be Obama's favorite chew toy. Of all the things that we kept outdoors, this broom was the thing he loved to mangle the most. And since I was in charge of keeping things in order, I was the one who had to clean up after him, which was very irritating for me, because I didn't have to do it if he didn't go around messing stuff up. I used to yell at him a lot whenever I caught him and his mischief, because I didn't appreciate having to get up and do unnecessary work, like cleaning up after my dog.

Oddly enough, on that day, I just decided to give up and submitted myself to the fact that he'll always chew on that broom. Every time I yell at Obama for messing stuff up, he gives me this look that makes it seem like he's trying to tell me that he has no clue whatsoever about what he's done.

There's no way I can keep on yelling at that face, because 1) it would be futile to try and emphasize an idea that he really wouldn't understand, and 2) he just looks so happy that I can't help but smile and be happy as well. So on that day I just ended up forgiving him, and decided to have a bit of fun together with him.

All in all, it was a good day. 

He was a just young dog fresh out of puppyhood on that day, almost a year old. He's an Aspin (portmanteau of the word asong pinoy, which translates to "native mutt"), with a slight mix of Labrador. We got him from our neighbor who owned his mother (affectionately named "Chicken" by the denizens of that household). Chicken just gave birth to a litter of pups at that time, and our neighbor wasn't sure about what to do with the puppies, so they gave them away to a list of random neighbors, which happened to include us. Since we didn't have a dog at that time, we all just went "meh", and took him in. 

We named him Obama, because my dad had a knack for naming pets based on whoever the prominent world leader was at the time, which happened to be Barack Obama, the president of the United States.

There was no sense of destiny when we took Obama in. All I thought of back then was that he was a cute puppy. We used to call him Baka (cow) because he looked like one when he was a puppy. Small head, big tummy, white coat with big, brown spots in some places. And it was fun, raising him as a pet. To us, he looked like a very happy dog, even though that might not actually be true, because for all we know, it was just the way he looked like. Still, the way we played with him can only be described as energetic. We danced with him, we ran around and played tag. To put it simply, Obama was a bundle of fun.

He was a very friendly dog. In fact, he was the first dog that didn't scare me, even though he was a relatively large one as compared to other aspin mutts. For a long time, I was scared of dogs because as a kid, I was mauled by one of our dogs (named Saddam, which I found to be quite fitting, since he was very rabid). So I wasn't very fond of dogs to begin with, but Obama changed all that for me with his friendly demeanor. You could almost say he singlehandedly cured my fear of dogs without him realizing it.

Even our cat found him to be worthy of friendship. Not once have I caught them fighting. In fact, they were pretty close, as far as cats and dogs go. Our cat treated Obama as if he was family, so to us, that says a lot about him as a dog.

On the other hand, his spontaneous energy has also brought us headaches from time to time. We live in a subdivision where dogs aren't allowed to roam freely in the streets. Pet owners would get penalized if their dog was caught running around without supervision. So, as responsible pet owners, we did our best to keep him inside our fence so that he doesn't end up chasing kids around the neighborhood, even though he only really meant to play with them.

He did manage to get out a lot, though. Obama was very strong and fast back then, so he always managed to overpower my mom or my sister whenever he caught either of them opening the front gate. And once he finds himself outside, he then bolts off in a random direction. At first, I used to run after him to try and catch him, but soon enough, he'd be running off so fast that I eventually gave up trying to do so. Whenever I do manage to catch him, though, I would often have to drag him back because he enjoys the outdoors too much. There were even a couple of times when I had to carry him a couple of blocks just to bring him back home. We found Obama tedious because of this behavior of his, so to keep him from slipping out, we had to watch our backs every time we tried to exit our front gate. Otherwise, he'd bolt again if we weren't careful enough.

I used to take Obama outside for walks back when I was a bit of a fitness buff. That didn't last too long, though, since I never found myself having enough time and motivation to take him on a walk. Aside from that, I learned that our neighborhood wasn't really keen with people walking their dogs around. Poop issues, stuff like that. So I eventually stopped taking him for walks, and Obama had to stick with running around our yard for his entertainment.

If he wasn't successful in tying to get out of the house, he'd try to get inside. Obama was an overly-attached dog, so to speak, so he'd always wanted to stay by our side at the very least if he couldn't go out. Our dad didn't like letting him in, though, so we had to yell him out whenever we found him sneaking his way inside the house. But most of the time, when our dad wasn't around, we'd just let him stay, as long as we were there to keep an eye on him. After all, we did like having him around as long as he was on his best behavior.

The problem with having Obama inside the house, though, was that he brought his mischief with him. He chewed stuff, he ran around and got hair all over everything, and he always tried to piss or take a poop in my room (or anywhere else inside the house for that matter) whenever he got the chance. And as always, I was the one who ended up cleaning after him, so that was enough of a reason for me to make sure he stayed outside of the house proper.

That was pretty much how we handled Obama throughout the years. We had fun with him whenever we could, but most of the time, we saw him as a bit of a nuisance. We always had to do our best to keep an eye on him, make sure he stays within our yard, and we had to clean up after him whenever he makes a mess inside the house.

Eventually, I found myself back in college, and then after that, I went through a couple of jobs. My sister went on to become a doctor. My dad was still working his usual 8 to 5 job, and my mom was, well, busy. Everybody in our household had something to take care of most of the time. We found ourselves spending less time with Obama, and because of that, we sort of neglected him for a bit. We rarely gave him baths, and we only played with him for a bit before we sent him back out. Fleas were a common occurrence, and even though we scrambled to find medicine for treating him, we were usually late in doing so and ended up prolonging his discomfort.

We kinda took him for granted, actually. That was how most of the years with him played out. We never thought of him as soft, being the large, tough dog that he seemed to be. But Obama was a huge softie at his core, probably because of the Labrador blood he had in him. He kept on trying to get inside the house and wanting to be with us, even though we sometimes found him tedious and dirty. To be fair, we did keep on loving him as well, but it was always a bit less than what he deserved. And we never thought of it as something that could actually endanger his life.

One day, we decided to take our front yard apart so we could use the area as parking space for our car. We never really thought much of this, as our only concern was to make sure our car was safe. But we never realized how much this would affect Obama.

Our front yard was Obama's place. It was where he stayed the most, where he ran around the most, where he could play around the most. It was where the door that led to the inside of our house was located. That door was where he stuck his ear onto, because it was where he felt closest to us, so even though he was outside, being next to that door gave him a small measure of comfort. The front yard was gave him a view of the outside world that he yearned so much to be a part of. The way I saw it, our front yard was a huge part of his life, and to see that go was painful to him.

After the front yard was turned into a parking space, Obama was limited to our backyard (which was more of a small, cramped laundry area than an actual backyard) and a small narrow concrete aisle that led to the former front yard, now closed off by a small metal gate. The huge view of the outside world that Obama used to enjoy turned into this small, dark window that limited his view, and to that, he never really managed to adjust. During the first few weeks, he howled every night and barked at even the slightest movement. His longing to go outside, which was already great in the first place, was further intensified by his situation. When he wasn't constantly barking and making noise, he can be found banging on our back door. Our front door was no longer accessible to him, so he switched to our back door, which had no screen, so he didn't have a view of the inside of the house. Also, it was above a small flight of stairs, so Obama couldn't really rest on it as opposed to our front door, which was on level ground that allowed him to lie down right next to it. Basically, his movement at that time was limited to just going back and forth the small distance between our back door and the small metal gate leading outside, and he could only rest in a place that had no window looking inside our house.

I can't imagine what might have been going through Obama's mind back then, but in retrospect, knowing him and his emotional attachment towards us, it must have been torture for him, keeping him in a small, confined space that was almost akin to being caged. We did let him inside the house from time to time, but never for too long, and never overnight, as that was practically leaving him to do as he like, which to us meant having to clean up poop and piss the morning after. So whatever consolation we might have given him by letting him inside and playing with him for a couple of minutes was always overshadowed by the fact that he still had to go back outside at the end of the day.

I'm not sure if all of that caused him to slow down and turn into what he became a few weeks ago. It might have been a virus, but we've been very effective at keeping him inside recently that we've closed that possibility off. He could have eaten something, like laundry detergent, or something indigestible, but we couldn't really confirm it, since none of us were registered vets. Either way, Obama started becoming lethargic as time went on, and we scrambled to find the reason for his sickness. We cured his fleas, we gave him baths, we let him inside the house more often than usual. But still, it didn't seem to improve his condition, and we were left clueless as to what was ailing Obama.

Eventually, his energetic demeanor gave way to complete lethargy. He refused to eat anything that we gave him, and he started to grow really thin. We were worried about him, but we didn't exactly know what to do with him either. And none of us were concerned enough to think about spending money just to bring him to the vet. I did try to bring him the typical dog treats and stuff to chew on that you can find in a pet store, but all it did was fool me into thinking that I was helping Obama. In reality, I couldn't really tell if what I gave him actually helped.

A couple of weeks ago, he stopped banging against our back door. He just sat in the backyard, with a sad, drooping face. For days, he hasn't touched any food that we gave him. Also, we knew he was getting thin, but we were completely caught off-guard to see how bony he looked. It looked as if he was dying. But for the last time, we shrugged it off, as we've had sick pets before, and they usually turned out alright as soon as we fed them some chicken.

Yes, we're that stupid when it comes to pets. To us, feeding pets some fried chicken counts as a miracle cure for every pet's ailment.

Yesterday, we checked up on him. He was completely silent, and he simply gave us this sad look. Me and my sister took turns in going down on him and comforting him with our hands, but he just sat there, gazing at us with his deep, black eyes. I wanted to hug him at that time, but, then again, I never really got used to the idea of hugging him. So I did what I thought was best: I caressed him slowly, patted him lightly on the head, and told him in the most comforting manner that I could muster that he was going to be alright if only he ate his food. After that, I went back inside the house, Obama gazing at me as I closed the back door on him.

At that moment, I didn't realize it, but it would be the last time that I'll ever see Obama alive.

This morning, I was my usual busy self. I didn't bother checking up on Obama, since, just like always, we simply thought he was just sick and that he'll eventually get back on his feet once he starts eating again. I was optimistic, so I kept him out of my thoughts this morning. Nothing unusual as far as I was concerned.

That mood changed when I heard my mom's startled scream from the backyard.

I was about to stand up to find out what happened, but then saw that I didn't need to. My mom walked immediately towards my room to let me know of the sad news as I was standing up from my seat.

Obama was gone.

Optimistic thoughts aside, I wasn't really surprised to hear about Obama's death. The night before, I already told my mom that we should prepare for what could happen, since, based on what I saw in Obama, even though I didn't want to believe it, I knew that there was a chance he won't get out of this one alive. But even then, I still went outside to confirm if he was really dead.

I found him in the part of the backyard leading towards the concrete aisle. He was lying flat on the ground, with his tongue sticking out and piss leaking along his underbelly. At first I thought I saw his chest rise up, but touching him confirmed that he was indeed no longer breathing.

In my wildest dreams, I've never really thought about seeing Obama in that state. I've always thought he'd live to about 20 or so. That was the typical life expectancy for dogs, or so I've heard. I guess I never really considered the fact that it only applied to dogs that were well-kept. Or the fact that Obama wasn't one of them. All this time I thought he was fine. I was wrong. And I can't be more regretful of that than I am now.

My final regret was that I didn't have enough money to give Obama a proper burial. To me, he deserved to be at least cremated and put into a nice urn. Or at least have PAWS take him to their burial yard. But I didn't have the money, so we ended up hiring two kids to put his body into a burlap sack and bury him in a nearby forest. I didn't go with them, so I'm not sure how well they buried it, but they did break the shovel I gave them, so I guess that was proof enough that they did the job, at the very least.

I'm not going to make it look pretty and seem as if we were the best of pals. Looking back, I have so many regrets about the 8 years that we've kept Obama, and I wish he could be here right now to hear me say sorry for everything that I did and didn't do. But, knowing him, he'd just smile and give me that look. He doesn't care about the past. I realized just now that it was not what he did that he was clueless about, but it was my neglect that he didn't care about. He was that loyal. Fiercely loyal. And he loved us with every second of his beating heart.

I wish I could go back to that day. August 27, 2008. Funny how the date and the time were embedded in the pictures, as if the very images were letting me know how fleeting those memories were. And it's silly, I know, to want to go back in time just for the sake of making things right with a dog.

But if I could, I would. Because I owe it to him.

I'm not sure if I'll ever have a dog like him again. But if I ever did, I'll love him the way I should have loved Obama. That may not be enough for me to make it up to Obama, but at the very least, I'll show him that his death was not in vain; that he showed me what it really means to be a dog's human.

He changed me for the better, and for that I will always be grateful to him.

Rest in peace, my dear Obama. You will be sorely missed.