#and he's the goodest boy ever (except when he's mean to other dogs we meet)

[bironism]

been silent on tumblr to keep this boy's slumber peaceful (it's been weeks) he's started wiggling his nose the second i opened the app i swear

[bernblogs]

The Goodest Boy

The vet stands in the corner of the room, and the dog lays on the metal table. The mother, daughter, and son are all crying–staring at the body that used to be the goodest boy in the entire world. When the sniffles stop for a bit, the vet cuts in. The daughter guesses he’s practiced this many times, cutting into the grieving. He says his condolences, not without emotion, but with a cadence that tells you you aren’t special. He talks about how long the goodest boy has been with the mother and the daughter and the son… And then he tells the family that they did everything they could. And then he says the suspected cause of death. And then he says he understands how much he means to the family. Yet the daughter thinks, you don’t understand, he is– was really the goodest boy in the entire world. Do not look at his remains like you understand. We’ve lost him before he completely collapsed. He was the goodest boy until his body failed him. Then the daughter thinks, how dare I write an essay in my head when the goodest boy in the entire world lies dead? Sometimes, literary sentimentality can save us from breaking down completely.

Mommy brings a spoon of meat and skin from chicken on the table. She walks to a dog bowl and calls, “Augustus, here!” We both pause. Only for a fraction of a second, even though it feels much longer. We look at each other, and silently, we share and carry our sadness.

We got Augustus Morris in 2019. One morning, Kuya asked me and Mommy to go to a dog breeder. We have gone to the house before to pick up the first dog Kuya will ever buy from them–Bugel. Bugel was given to his girlfriend’s family. He’d be renamed to something less silly, and he’d grow up kingly. 

We picked up Augustus from the same house, maybe a year later. He looked quite like Bugel as a puppy. Black, white, small, a little funny-looking. We think: he’s going to grow up as refined as Bugel. We were completely wrong.

Sure, he grew older. But grow up? He didn’t seem to. He’s a mix between a chihuahua and a shih tzu, and it seems that he only got the chihuahua blood. He remained small, except unlike most chihuahuas I’ve met, he wasn’t nervous or feisty. He never growled or tried to bite my face. (Someone’s chihuahua tried to do this to me before. Rest in peace, Chico). Instead he was jumpy and behaved; he was so goofy. Unlike Bugel, he did not look refined or regal after a year or two. He remained as silly as can be.

Across the four years we had him, he’d meet the entire extended family. They’d pet him, carry him, draw him even. Look for him when he was sleeping or hiding. Everybody watched him because everybody loved him. He was small and funny like a cartoon, and he’d snuggle up to almost anyone who gave him attention. He would also end up meeting all our current partners–Kuya’s, Ate’s, mine.

When my partner visited for the first time, he fell in love–with Augustus, not me. I know this because he kept carrying him around like a little airplane. Or like that superman game you play with kids where they put their belly on the soles of your feet then you lift them up. He would begin to share this with his family, with his siblings the most. And then his friends. And my friends. 

This was just upon seeing Augustus too; without spending time with him, they just know that he’s the goodest boy in the entire world. His mere existence was enough. His energy. His earnestness. 

He was the goodest boy to them even without knowing that he would sneak into my room to wake me up or to say hello to me while I do yoga. That we would wake up with one slipper missing because he stole them in the night so he could cuddle with them in his bed. That he would never snatch food from your hand no matter how close it was to his face because he waited for someone to say go! That when he saw me crying or felt that I was sad, he’d jump next to me so we could both sit with my feelings. That he would sneak into the deepest part under tables or chairs so that I couldn’t give him a bath. That he smiled for the camera like a person. That he’d tap on our legs during meals to ask for food. That he would sit near Mommy while she sliced kamatis or pipino because he knew she’d give him some. That he would play with an unopened pistachio like a real toy. That he loved people as fiercely as people loved him.

I wanted to tell the vet when he said he understood that he didn’t. Because he never knew Augustus. He didn’t see him lying on his back while sleeping, moving his legs like he’s running in his dreams. He didn’t see him wag his tail when I pointed my camera at him. He didn’t see him sit in front of the bathroom door while Mommy took a bath like a real guard. He couldn’t  understand that the body there used to be the goodest boy in the entire world because he never really saw him. He never will. I wanted to say all of this, but I didn’t because what was the point? Augustus is gone. The goodest boy is gone. 

Instead, we take the box amicably in our hands. Carry his body into the car. Give him a burial. And we cry some more. And then to myself, I think of what John Green says in The Anthropocene Reviewed, “[L]ove survives death.”  And I do hope so.

Augustus, I know you cannot read all this. You will never comprehend that I’m telling you how much I love you. How much we all do. But I hope, in the time that you were stealing our slippers and eating ube from my fingers and refusing to eat banana, you felt the entirety of it.