Here's looking at you, Bogart

He would've turned 14 years old in human years on June 16 this year. But when his mistresses Gigi Lolarga, my youngest sibling, and Ruth Taleon Terania, returned from their US trip in December last year, he was in the grip of a cancer in his mouth area.

He put up a good fight. When the family debated if we would have him put down as a kinder way of dealing with the ailment instead of letting him bear the pain, Gigi and Ruth decided to continue a holistic approach to his treatment and they changed his diet upon the vet's advice.They went to the extent of integrating turmeric paste to his soft diet. They had to stop the lugaw or rice porridge because the cancer cells would only feed on the rice. Commercial dog food was stopped.

Bogart put up an uncomplaining fight. It meant more medical expenses underwritten by my sisters.

He was our fierce guard dog whose favorite spot outside the house was the gate where he'd bark at the postal worker, the food and water delivery persons and anyone who came close to his territory. He bit the manicurist who did home service on her shin. He never recognized the scent of the cleaning woman who dropped by the house weekly. He barked and barked until he was shushed.

Unlike the other dog in our family, Bruno, Bogart wasn't the least bit gentle. He didn't sidle up for caresses on his body. But in the last few weeks of his life, he'd rub his frail, small body on my leg. I'd pet him and talk to him aloud. He seemed to understand that it was just a matter of time before the pain would finally go away.

Gigi was the most affected, almost questioning the Universe for the burden of care-giving during the holiday season (our mother was also ill during the Christmas period of 2015). Gigi took leaves from work to keep the stoic Bogart company. When she couldn't be with him all day, our physician brother Dennis Lolarga took over some of the watching hours.

In mid-January, he wrote in our family group chat this announcement that had me in tears: "Our beloved guard dog Bogart, the mini-doberman pinscher, succumbed from his terminal illness at approximately 11 a.m. today, and is now with Shintaro the Japanese spitz, Queenie, Omar Sharif the cat, Billy the kid goat, Sequester, Balky, Pipoy, Mimay, Pipay, Bambam in a heavenly place." All of those are the names of the pets who had been with us in different times in our lives.

Nerisa Del Carmen Guevara and Grace Banez, who have also lost beloved pets, speak of a rainbow bridge which these pets cross when they leave us. I am imagining Bogart prancing on that bridge and adding his barks to the heavenly choir.

Dog day afternoon

The humans of our home in Pasig took a back seat as Bruno Lancelot Lolarga, our pet pug, celebrated his 12th year with a party yesterday. This was the second of its kind (he also marked his 7th year in similar fashion), and it came on the heels of the death of Bogart, our mini pinscher of 13 years, from cancer. Rather than mourn the departed, my sister Gigi Lolarga and Ruth Taleon Terania planned something special for our surviving and furry family member. Just the same we remember Bogart with deep fondness, and we miss him.

There were party hats, a streamer declaring "Happy birthday" and dogs from far and near. Bruno had his own cake shared with Oreo the golden retriever of the family of Pinky Lolarga Susi who drove from Antipolo, and Chase, the shih tzu poodle of Jannica Jorge-Susi's son Jared who came from Las Pinas.

Our dogs are not just pets. They are so integrated in family milestones that Bruno was named one of the godfathers when Pinky's first grandchild was born. When my granddaughter Kai came into this world and was baptized, Bogart was listed as one of her ninongs.

We won't have it any other way. Once again, happy 12, Bruno!

In dog years, he's a senior citizen already. But to our minds, he's our baby.

Spot how many dogs and hoomans!

The quieter she becomes

Photo of Gilda Cordero Fernando courtesy of Tonnette Jacinto

In the recent months whenever I visit Gilda Cordero Fernando, I am reminded of that Zen proverb: "The quieter you become, the more you can hear."

Unlike, say, five or more years ago when we could converse and she would astonish me with her memory for the slightest detail, these days all we do is exchange high five's or knock our fists together or clasp hands. If I can get a sentence out of her, I am transported to the heights of happiness.

During the last convening of the GCF Fans Club at her abode last month, she was again colorfully garbed with deliberately mismatched earrings from Japan. Her caregiver rolled her to the sala on her wheelchair that used to have jeepney signs (Cubao-Quiapo) appended to it. Only Gilda can think of that as decor for such a practical equipment like a wheelchair.

She has let her hair go white after years of coloring it. It's a fine match to her mien that is only beginning to betray the eighth going on ninth decade she is situated in. When she marks her 90th year in June, she is going to be the youthful-looking nonagenarian in my list.

I don't know why I am moved to write this, knowing she is not in Facebook or any form of social media. I learned from her help that even her email account is already inactive. I continue to send her postal mail which the help acknowledges but which Gilda doesn't recall.

Maybe because it's almost Valentine already, and I just need to tell you, Gilda of my heart, how much you are admired and loved. And I am keeping my promise of a few years ago that no matter what state of mind you are in, even as you retreat into silence, I will continue to visit...and in fact, accompany fans who never tire of basking in your presence.