Yes, a dog. This happened at a time when there are very disturbing events unfolding in the Middle East, East Africa and South Asia over that Anti-Muhammad movie. At a time when news about hundreds of garment workers who died when their factory burned down in Pakistan came out. And a good friend's sister has cancer. Insignificant in the face of these other tragedies, I know. But still.
Mang Pedring came to us in January 2005. And in his 7 years with us, he ran away many times but we would always find him. But there was one particular time when I thought he was lost for good and I told myself I will not cry, I will not grieve, I will reserve my tears for people, for real losses, for real heartbreaks. He is just a dog and I don't even like pets. I cannot even walk down a block because I am afraid of stray dogs. He had been gone more than 24 hours. And I did not shed a tear that whole time but I also did not leave my room until he was found the next day.
And now he is gone and I have cried buckets since, on the train, on the bus, in my hotel room, over breakfast. I am crying not just for a pet but for that girl 7 years ago who cleared out her Mano's room and went home with his books, his clothes, his documents, his things, and his dog. We were both so lost then, Mang Pedring and I.
I did not know how to be a dog owner. And he did not know how to be a normal dog. Call his name and he would run to you but not in a straight line as other dogs do. He would run in small circles, and more small circles until he reached you. It was dizzying to watch. And I figured out why. He was in a cage while my brother was away and that was the only space he knew how to move around in, all 36 inches of it. So when my home became his, he still moved around in that space in his head, 36 inches at a time. His circles became bigger and bigger over time until one day (I don't remember when, maybe a year later)he finally run in a straight line.
He did not eat his food directly from his food container. Instead, he would take pieces of dog food in his mouth, bring it under the dining table, drop the pieces out and eat them one bite at a time. And he would make several trips back and forth until he was done. Oh, and he would only start eating if one of us is already at the dining table.
And for some time he did not bark. He though he was a cat.
And I did not help him find himself (if ever there was such a thing for dogs). I was too lost, too sad. But we made it through, he and I, one small space at a time.
I am also crying for the girls of Matahimik Street (Daryll, Emma & Ruby) who decided he should be named Don Pedrito Garucho Urmeneta or Pedring for short. Blame it on the tanduay. "Mang" is used as a sign of respect for elders and we figured we needed a man of the house so he became Mang Pedring, a very unusual name for a dog. And maybe that's why he was confused- because of his name and because since then I decided to treat him like he was my alcoholic uncle.
Oh, we were young then, the girls and Mang Pedring. A different us, a different world.
I am crying for his caregivers (Nicky, Lorna, the tres Marias, Maica, Mana Adette, Uncle Dodi, Tita Ting, Uncle Joseph and Nanay Patsy). For Emma's mom who refused to call him Mang Pedring but instead called him Peter.
And for my mom, his primary caregiver, who narrated how he was confined and how he died (she told it like he was a real person in the hospital) and on the phone, said, "day, let's not get another dog, please. Makuri hin duro". For my Papa, who would feed him with his favorite tinapay every now and then even when he said we shouldn't and who could not bear to watch him buried. My parents said when I went home recently "we have 3 senior citizens in this house- kami and Mang Pedring".
And I am crying because it's another end to an era.
So no, I don't cry for dogs, I cry for people who loved this dog, of those years, and of a world with Mang Pedring in it.
