January 28, 2017

Miong’s full name is Emilio Mandaragat. (Yes, we are those people.) He’s named that way because I brought him home from a fishing village I visited my last year of college. He was a gift from one of the residents there because Mai saved his life from a bunch of boys who were trying to drown him. I remember holding him the entire jeepney ride home with both hands, this shaking ball of fur.

I don’t know Mom if was too happy about the new dog, especially since she was already quite weak. It was December and she was already having difficulty keeping anything down. Though she allowed us to keep him in the house. And they probably spent a lot of time together since she was already sleeping downstairs. We have a story, of which I hoped we would have a photo, of Miong standing on one of the giant rocks that grew in the garden to peek through the window of the room into where Mom was. We like to think that he was checking on her.

When we finally took Mom home from the hospital, Miong would sleep by the coffin in the living room. Sweet, no? But he also casually peed on one of the legs of the stand when it first arrived.

If you’ve ever gotten a puppy from one of the Abola kids, then it was one of Miong’s. Miong also went by the name Doug E. Stiles. (Like I said, we are those people.)

Miong was afraid of fireworks, he liked to put his nose up girl’s skirts. He slept on his back and he growled when he would hear the click from a camera phone. He didn’t like baths, but would only succumb if Kuya Javier (our Alpha dog really) would do it. He liked fish and red hotdog (that’s Papa’s fault, you are allowed to fight him.) You can also ask Papa Ramon what else he fed him.

He lived a good 16 years, farting like the old dog he became and getting angry with us if we disturbed the air around him. But these past few months, he would come to me his head bowed waiting to get petted every day. I would scratch his ears and then he would go on to find a corner where he would sleep.

When Kuya brought him home last night, we opened the cardboard box the vets carefully put him in and had a small wake. He lay on the wooden bench by the front door while we sat around him in the many chairs and sofas that have been brought home from our abandoned apartments.

Betchay (who also goes by the name Beatrice L. Stiles. Though of course, she is a Mandaragat as evidenced by her glorious fish breath) asked to be carried so she could smell him a couple of times then lay down on the pillow which we set at the foot of the bench.

It’s sunny and Mang Jom is preparing the little patch of land where Miong will be buried. He was our dog, and we were his humans.