I was just getting out of the car when my brother Lilet who assisted me park told me that Putot had just died.
Putot had been sick for two weeks now. It started with a red lump on his right eye, then recently with some wounds on the sole of his right foot. We gave him human medicine for pain, which I hope didn't mitigate his illness. We gave him milk in make-shift feeding bottle. My sister fed him with her hands. But he wouldn't eat. We cleaned his wounds with water and alcohol and put hospital bandages on them. But he would remove the bandages after a few hours. Perhaps, he just wanted to please us what with the care we put into the cleaning and dressing of his wounds. Yesterday, he was still responding to touch. I would normally pat him and scratch him on the back every morning before leaving for work. I didn't expect that yesterday would be the last time I would touch his white fur. Had I known, I would have carried him in my arms as I used to do and sung him a song like a baby.
I entered the house and the tv set was hushed down. The voices were low. My sister-in-law's voice was controlled while telling me how Putot died. Only my 3-day old nephew's cries raised an octave higher than all the hushed sounds combined.
I went to the kitchen and found my sister seriously crying without a sound, only the rush of tears told the world that her heart was crushed. Putot was her favorite.
My other brother Buboy was sitting by the door smoking looking after Putot who was already enshrouded with a blanket. My youngest brother Jun was digging a grave in the backyard while my mother was holding the flashlight.
Downy, I was told, cried and turned his back against Putot who was lying dead just outside his cage. Kunot had, I'm sure, given him the doleful, watery-eyed look. Pika must have, inside, died her own death.
Putot died. And it was not just a dog's passing. It was death in the family.
Putot and Downy
Pika
Kunot
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