An ex-colleague from a previous workplace once commented, “You know that saying ‘It’s better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all?’ Everytime I hear that, I would wonder what kind of idiot would say something like that.” I remember agreeing with him.

That was three years before 2009.

25 October 2009. Henceforth I shall know this date as that when I put my dog to sleep.

It was almost a year ago. A day when I couldn’t bring myself to envision what this month, a year later, would be like. It was a day when I hid in my room, under my blanket, away from people. My memories of the days that followed were hazy.

Whatever it was, I’m thankful he didn’t suffer. It was the ones he left behind that did. I had thought that the hardest part was making the decision to euthanize. I soon realised that it wasn’t. The hardest part was the doubt and guilt that came after. Did I make the right decision? Was I too impulsive? Did I rob him of a chance to recover? Was I being selfish? Did I do it too early? Did I do it too late? Did I just murder my dog?

I remember resuming my normal activities as the days passed. I remember not saying much to my family. That, my friend, is a typical traditional Chinese family. We don’t talk about feelings. Nobody in the family knew what anyone else was thinking. Perhaps we were all thinking that if we didn’t talk about it, it would go away. What “it” was, I don’t know. I spoke to no one except two friends whom I knew I could trust. As far as I was concerned, everyone else who tried comforting me would have done me a bigger favor by knowing when to keep their mouths shut. On hindsight, I realised they meant well but…

My thoughts of guilt and doubt were interspersed with reminders of what I had lost. I found that people who were left behind by the passing of a loved one actually also go through a little death inside. People left behind are reminded of their loss constantly. Like when a neighbor passed my house and I braced myself for the warning bark, I heard only silence. Like when the lightning flashed across the sky and I expected restless pacing and anxious pants, I experienced only stillness. Like when I sat down at the table to dinner and expected a wet nose nudging my knee to beg, I felt emptiness at my feet.

Very soon, you no longer need the constant reminders of what was no longer there. You become painfully conscious of it. I remember slowing my steps when I approached my door at the end of the day, because I knew there would no longer be someone wagging his greeting. I remember consciously making a detour so that I didn’t have to walk past the pet store. I remember telling myself to stop looking for him at every corner

Time dulls the pain. Azza was right.

When you concentrate on living a day at a time, very soon you’ll be surprised that a huge chunk of time has passed. I don’t know when it began, but as the days passed, I realised that the afflictive thoughts of what I have lost were gradually displaced by the more pleasant thoughts of what I have had.

Thoughts of how he had artfully trained my mother to rub his tummy, trained my sister to pet him and trained me to fetch the leash so that he could bring me on walks.  Wonder at how he knew whom he could bully and get away with it. Memories of how he chased my nephews around the house, badgered my elderly grandmother for table scraps but put on his best behavior in my dad’s presence and wisely avoided the neighbor’s cats. You know you have put on those old rose-tinted glasses when you can smile while looking at the deformed chair leg that he had gnawed through during those teething months.

I thought I was the only one in the family who was thinking of the upcoming anniversary. The younger one (he just turned four) surprised me last week when he suddenly asked me to get another Benji so that they could play hide and seek again. I think one day I will. Not yet, but some day.

Now I know this: it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Really.

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