He died beneath the mango tree he loved
Beside chirping sparrows, passing bikes
A gentle smile for his three favourite balls
The still of the morning air
He could not have asked for a moment more.
Tuesday morning, my dog died. We had it for almost two years.
I must say, it's the most personal death I've experienced. I'm blessed - and young, some might say - to have never attended a friend's or relative's funeral. It's funny how much this has affected me. I never imagined breaking down and crying twice.
The hardest part was breaking the news to my sister. She was the most emotionally attached to the dog. It was still alive - though unusually quiet like it had been for days - before she left for work. Soon after that, my mom watched its head droop down. By the time my dad came, it only had a few final breaths left in it.
"It's dead." She woke me up.
This feeling of death, of fear, of dread...you try to rationalise everything, but you can't. The dog lay cold, beneath the mango tree it always watched the neighbourhood from.
I touched it. Its belly no longer thudded with warmth. Cold. Hard.
I remembered the first time we had it. It was the ugliest dog you'd ever seen - skinny, scraggy, and unsure. When we took it for a walk, all the other dogs snapped their teeth at it.
But slowly, it won over our hearts, even my animal-disliking mom's. It never failed to bring a smile to our faces when we caught her or my dad talking to the dog.
And of course, none of our friends ever understood which part of the dog was appealing. For boy, did it bark at strangers. But it always stayed a family secret - behind that rabid, annoying mongrel was the gentlest and most heart-warming creature possible.
It's been a difficult couple of days. But everything's gonna be all right. Farewell - if I may quote my sister - to our "little furry rainbow".