I expected to see him again. It was not like it had not happened before.
The withdrawal, the temporary dullness in disposition- the symptoms all disappeared in a relatively short amount of time. I would go to work, remembering he was ill, and then I would return home to find him better. The worst time it happened, he was just gone for a few days. But he returned, in spite of our worst fears.
This time, I expected to see him again.
Roger died today. My dad told me he died in surgery. Just two days ago, he was happy as a lark, jumping around, barking at and biting Cliff at the pant-legs- he has always been territorial and protective of me. I even told Cliff to learn to rub him at the neck so he would be more accepting of him. Then yesterday, he refused to eat, laying down only by my feet, refusing to move. For the multiple causes of stress this season- adjusting to a new department, an upcoming test, being overwhelmed by the thought of marriage, rushing to submit a research paper, handling family issues- I was unable to fall asleep last night. At 2am in the morning, there he was next to a puddle of vomit, head down, immoveable. A rainstorm raged outside, like an ominous sign.
I know this sounds odd. But though Roger is but a dog, he has displayed to me an astounding facet of God’s grace and loyalty to me in a way I cannot explain.
Know this- I have never been a particularly good owner. After the excitement of pleading with my dad for a companion, I only looked after him with great zeal for the initial months. After that, as school and work got more busy, it was my domestic helper who fed, bathed and walked him. My dad shared the load with her, taking him to the vet as well when he fell ill. But in spite of all this, Roger has been most loyal to me. When I walk into a room, I am the only one who catches his attention. Nothing, not even the sound of a collar and leash and the prospect of a liberating walk outside or food would capture his attention as much as my presence. He would sit next to me, immoveable for hours, as I studied and did my work. Any small movement from me would cause him to spring up like a energized bunny. My dad could come home, whistling and calling out to him; my domestic helper would coax him to eat and lure him with a collar to go outside, but all he would do would be to sit by my feet, yearning and longing for my attention. When I come home, he goes crazy, prancing about on all fours and following me like a close papparrazi. When Cliff started coming home with me to have dinner with my family, his jealousy consumed him- he bit Cliff’s shoes and pants and barked ferociously to show his displeasure. I hardly do anything for him- but such is the measure of his loyalty to the person who chose him from the litter. He was the youngest one.
This morning I patted him. From only but a feet away, I beckoned him to come. But he didn’t move an inch.
I left for work. Things happened.
When I got home from work at night, after sending Grandpa Zhou well wishes (he has recovered smoothly from a bout of pneumonia-not a stroke, thankfully- and has left the hospital), Dad told me Roger would not come home.
“He died today,” he said.
And I was sad.
No more barks, or him crazily scurrying around, bumping into objects and into our legs because of his uncontained excitement. No more long walks or watching him jump in the air to catch a flying scrap of apple or carrot. No more neck rubs or times of companionship while I study through the night. Just a memory of his unfailing loyalty and love towards me, which almost reflects the divine grace God gives to us, something I don’t deserve but am given. In spite of no good service I have given to him (it was always my dad, mum, sister or helper who took him to the vet or looked after him in his times of sickness), he recognizes only me as his Master. He listens only to me, as if he remembers all those times I played, washed, bathed, and walked him when he was only a pup, as if he knows I pleaded so hard for my parents to get him, as if he knew I named him (so it was a funny name because I was young and wanted to name him after the dog of my favorite author when I was a child- Gerald Durrell), as if he understood my time constraints as I continued to study and work longer and longer hours. He never held a grudge against me. Once, only once, he tried to bite me. I had hit him one time too many and too hard after he pee-ed in my room. Even then, he hung his head down for the whole day, as if in guilt. Looking back, that was probably just the beginning of his kidney and urinary problems. He probably didn’t mean to be of trouble.
“He died in surgery. They were trying to save him. But he had too many kidney stones and they clogged up his system.”
10 years of companionship. He was a friend to us. A good friend.
But it is good to know he suffered shortly and died swiftly. It was good to remember that pat I gave him before I left for work. It was good to know that he lived a ripe old age and was cheery till his rapid decline.
He was a good friend.
Goodbye Roger. I will miss you.
