Your bark still echoes in the void
We went home late on a Friday night. I opened the door slowly, just like I used to so that Whisky will not come running out of the doorway to greet us. But that night, there was no wagging tail, no excited little jumps to welcome us in. No dog came running to place his favorite toy before our feet. That night, what greeted us was the deafening void—an absence of barks that meant the house was empty, that our little Whisky was not there anymore.
But somehow, if I shut my ears and allow my heart to listen, I hear his bark still echo in the void.
Mom entered behind me. She put Whisky’s photo in the corner of the living room. That little frame held millions of memories … and so much love.
Whisky had a great nine years with our family. The pup, a crossbreed of shih tzu and Japanese spitz, was given to us by my Tita when I was 11 years old. I grew up with him; he was the brother I never had. It was only fitting that when Mom would talk to him, she’d refer to me as Whisky’s “Kuya,” to her and Dad as Whisky’s “Mommy” and “Daddy.” Whisky was in every way a part of the family.
He brought joy to our home. He’d make us smile and laugh at the most trivial things. “His tongue sticks out while he sleeps,” Mom would say, pointing to Whisky as he snores. We’d then laugh silently so we don’t wake him up.
He’d appreciate the littlest things. The cracking sound of a plastic bottle when squeezed would make Whisky bark hysterically, with his tail wagging excitedly. I’d give him the emptied bottle, and he’d play with it like there’s no tomorrow.
I was his best friend. I’d throw his little toy bone so he could play fetch. I’d run around so he could have someone to follow. I’d bring the food to his mouth when he felt a little too lazy to stand and eat. He was my best friend, too. He’d listen to my rants, my struggles, my battles, my sobs. He’d listen to secrets I didn’t have the courage to tell the world. He’d be the first to know. He’d sit there with his eyes intent, one ear raised and the other drooping.
I was in school one ordinary Thursday noon when Mom called me on the phone, saying that Whisky would not eat and stand the whole morning. I immediately rode the jeep home.
I knocked before opening the door. Whisky slowly walked toward me as he struggled with every step. With all the strength he could muster, he welcomed me home.
He was in pain, so Dad and I brought Whisky that evening to the vet. As we were seated, I held him tight to my chest, told him that everything would be fine. We decided to leave Whisky there for the night. I petted his head gently before we left. Dad told him to be good, that he’d be home soon.
Superstitions say that an impending tragedy awaits when the dogs howl. That night, the dogs in the neighborhood howled as I struggled to sleep. Had Whisky been with us in the room, he would have joined the chorale. Before, I would have buried my ears under the pillow because I needed sleep. But that night, I shut my ears not because I wanted to rest, but because I simply did not want to hear the howls. I refused the tragedy that they brought.
But fate cannot be escaped.
Mom and I were awake at 5 a.m., awaiting Dad to deliver the news. He motioned for us to come closer. He embraced us tightly, and we knew.
“Whisky is gone.”
The next thing I heard was a hysterical scream into the void, like the howl of an agonizing dog. I heard sobs. Then I felt a stream of tears.
A few hours felt like eternity as Dad and I came to take his body. Mom, with heavy eyes and an even heavier heart, refused to come. While Dad and I were on the way home, she called on the phone.
“How is he?” she asked softly.
“It’s just like he’s sleeping,” I answered.
“Does his tongue stick out? His tongue always sticks out when he sleeps.”
It does, I thought. Just like every time he makes us smile.
When I arrive home late at night, I know that there will be no more cute, little barks to greet me. No more wagging tail, no more excited jumps.
Loss is heavy because grief fills up the void, and grief is so difficult to carry in what little hearts we have. My grief speaks of the absence of his greeting barks, of his wagging tail, of his excited jumps. But that grief will never conquer the love that we shared. That love is powerful.
Every time I’d arrive home late at night, I’d only be greeted by Whisky’s photo in the corner of the living room. But it is a beautiful reminder of the life we once had and the love that we shared.
Whisky, your bark still echoes in the void. I promise to always listen to what it tells.
For it tells me to crack a laugh even at the most trivial instances. It tells me to appreciate even the littlest things. It tells me that no matter how hard life pulls me down, I must always try to stand back up. Your slow, struggling walk to greet me for the final time exemplifies that. Finally, it reminds me of the most important lesson that you taught me: to love.
So even if what greets me was only the deafening void, I’ll be sure to smile. For once, in that void you left, we shared laughs and sobs, and so much love.
And that love is so powerful that no grief can ever conquer it.
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Aron Sierva, 21, is a fourth-year college student from Laguna. He is a storyteller at heart and dreams of writing his own novel in the future.
