Of my Georgia Porgia

Twelve years ago, an eleven year-old girl lost a most loyal friend to cancer. She cried herself to sleep that night, and believing her heart to be irreparable, she swore never to allow herself to love another dog again. However ridiculous it was, it turned out quite well for her until one seemingly normal day in June in the year 2006, when her parents came home with a four-month old rather malnourished Rottweiler puppy. You would not have thought then that their relationship would bud into anything worthwhile, because from an outsider’s point of view, their first encounter amounted to nothing more than this: a feverish girl and a sickly puppy sharing a glance at each other inside the bathroom while the latter was being bathed. But she smiled; she knew in her heart of hearts that the promise she made was already void. It was decided — she loved her already.

That puppy was given the name Georgia. And though other people may never understand why or how, I always thought it suited her. In her early days with us, she was a puppy who was shocked at the sight of her own reflection, a baby who refused to eat her dinner during a thunderstorm, or when the howling of the wind on a rainy night grew treacherous, unless you stood next to her and, sometimes, spoon-fed her. She would chew on anything if only to play with it; she always found her way into my Artwork flip-flops and that one pretty pair of silver sandals, and in all instances, she managed to break a strap – unless my memory deceives me, it was always the right pair.

 

She grew so beautifully. She became healthier. Her black and brown fur, as my mother’s hairstylist-friend remarked that one time, shined more strikingly than her own hair. She had this powerful bark that could frighten anyone. But, however threatening she seemed to a stranger (and sometimes, a goat), she was always the sweetest, most adorable friend to me. And she was loyal. And protective. She defended whenever necessary, and while in those instances, she proved not to be trampled with, I loved her no less. Because at the end of the day, she was still my playful life-sized stress ball. She was soft and she was squishy, and my teenager-related stresses made the experience of hugging her all the more pleasant. And for all she’s done for me, she was more than happy already just to be repaid with a tummy-rub and a grooming session, and the occasional spaghetti meal.

It was the little things like giving high-fives, sitting when she was told, or finishing watermelons and sweet potatoes with little bites that made me feel very proud of her. And things like her fondness for baths and wanting to join me and my family even in the deeper parts of the sea on a trip to the beach that made me extra kilig that she was ours; that she was family too.

No matter how big she grew, she was forever my baby. And I loved her very much. It broke my heart to have to leave for college then, but our first reunion did more than make up for my longing for her presence. On my first night back, as I slept, she wasn’t beside me, but as I woke, I found that she managed to squeeze her big body between my right leg and the edge of the bed. On the next night, when I read a chain mail about a killer clown and was paranoid about being home alone, I took comfort in knowing that really, I was not by myself as I had her with me. I made sure she was by my side the whole time even when I went to the bathroom. She was unfailingly protective.

I thought about her almost every day, especially so when I left again when classes resumed, and she was always part of my “good night” routine regardless of whether I was at home or in my dorm. Skype with my mother became more enjoyable at some point in the conversation when it was time to point the webcam at Georgia. And family matters were decided on with her welfare never being disregarded. She meant so much not only to me but also everyone in the family…

The scene replays in my mind and it kills me inside every time. My heart sinks every time I arrive at the part where my mother tells us that she is gone. And things like never getting to hug her again, or smell her fur a few hours after her bath that break my heart instantly. I will never get to play with her ears again, or use body as an extra pillow (because we will never share the same bed again).

I wish I walked her more times than I did, and that I was beside her when it happened. It wouldn’t have made this parting easier for me but I would have wanted to comfort her in those last moments. I would have wanted to say goodbye because she deserved at least that from me. I wish I could have embraced because I would have done so very tightly. I would’ve done anything possible to transcend verbal language to make sure she knew I loved her very much.

Rest now, Georgia Porgia! I’m glad I got a chance to love you. I miss you so much!