It is okay, baba. We are okay. You can go.
These were the exact words I said as I stroked Shelty while he gasped for air. Exactly five gasps later, he was gone.
15 October 2021. Less than 2 weeks before his 16th birthday on 1 November.
I remember that Friday all too well. I had rushed home from an offsite assignment and I immediately noticed him slowing down. For a week before that, he lost mobility in his back limbs but was spirited and had a healthy appetite. He was still begging Baby Yeo for food and she was still sharing waffles with him. But that day was evidently different.
I propped him up and tried to stand him, which was when I realised he wasn’t his usual self. His front limbs were weak. It was as if he had lost the will to even try. I was stricken with fear that gripped my heart so tight I was probably going into a panic attack but forced to remain as calm as I could.
I contacted the vet and the the hospital but no one could help us. And so I put him back on his bed and tried to syringe-feed him. At this point, I was already crying. I guess I knew that was it. And as I tried to feed him, he began gasping.
I looked at Mama beside me and I said, “He is no more.”
I continued to stroke him while reassuring him we were okay. I knew it was the only thing I could do for him. And when his body relaxed moments later, he emptied his bladder.
We cleaned him up, laid him comfortably on his bed, and waited for the kind people from Rainbow Paradise to come pick him up. Before that, our neighbours came up to say goodbye and the teeter rushed home from the hospital where Baby Yeo was warded after swopping parental duties with Mr Yeo.
We cried, and cried, and cried. It is all we know to do — an all-natural reaction — when we lose someone we loved with all our hearts and more.
Shelty was our first dog and he will probably be our only dog for many years to come. As our first fur-baby, there were many things we learned along the way but it was nothing short of rewarding and comforting.
The day we brought him home, he peed on the floor three times. This was before we paper-trained him. He chewed on the furniture so we had to put the dining chairs on the dining table before we left house everyday. He’d attack the newspapers so we shifted the newspapers to a rack high beyond his reach. But he immediately became part of this family, often snuggling in bed with us and demanding for food like the king he was.
As a young pup, he was so full of energy and fur that I once cried when we shaved him bald. He cried too probably because he was not expecting to come home without his grand mane. He was still a handsome dog but we learned never to do that again.
As he got older, he suffered a hip displasia on both hips and a suspected slip disc. He developed allergies which put us through multiple diet trials to find one that suited him best. From dehydrated food to macaroni, he eventually settled for couscous and minced pork and boiled vegetables. This would be his diet for a year before he was diagnosed with pancreatitis and had to be put on prescription diet.
Despite all the heartache and scares he put us through, he was always such a bright boy. He never showed any signs of discomfort or pain, and put up with all his treatments like a brave soldier. Even as he got older, we were all he knew and all he looked forward to.
I was so ready to take him on rides in his wagon or around the neighbourhood with a stroller tagged to my bicycle. I was so ready to take him to the beach. When he left, I wondered what took us so long. Why were we always procrastinating? Why were we always delaying plans?
How did we end up prioritising other parts of our life over him?
And I hate that. I hate to admit that at some point, we all took him for granted. We thought we had all the time left with him until we didn’t and that reality really hit me like a train wreck.
Even then, Shelty was a ball of sunshine and kindness. He let me spend his last breaths with him as if telling me he forgave me — for everything I did and didn’t do.
And then he was gone.
This home that was once filled with the immeasurable love of a dog became much quieter in an instant — no sound of his nails against the floor, or his random but incessant barking. I remember how we shifted his bed everywhere we went — in the hall in the day, in the room in the evenings. He was always close by everyday since we started working from home. Every corner of this house has a trace of Shelty.
He used to have these little quirks like a funny dance after every shower or stalking us in the toilet or tucking himself into the blankets when he was cold. He had an unbreakable spirit but the most magnanimous heart. You could chide him for being naughty and he’d still bop his nose against you and give you kisses when you ask for them. He was the definition of kind, forgiving. He was the pillar of this household and now he is the angel watching over us.
Truth is, I can still feel his fur against my skin when I used to embrace him in my arms or stuff my face into his chest, when I held his little paws or tickled his ears, when I scratched his belly or played with his tail. He was always so fascinating to me. “How is his existence even real?” I used to wonder.
But in life, there is death. And in death, there is a strange comfort that wraps you gently. The kind that seems to tell you it is okay, it will be okay. And even though your first reaction is to doubt it, you know it’s true. It will be okay.
Now I have his photo on my desk and I still say “good morning Wangsy baby!” And he still pulls me through the hardest days and consoles me on the longest nights.
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