I'll remember you

Monday, August 18, 2025

At home, we’ve always had pets. One would think that, with so many generations of dogs and cats who have been part of the family, my mom and I would already be used to this kind of grief. But it wasn’t like that on the afternoon of Saturday, August 16, just five days before my birthday, in the same year when the eldest dog of the house passed away. For the second time this year, my mother was forced to make a life-or-death decision, literally. And I, once again, stood on the front line, facing the weight of what threatens to destroy what remains of life.

As I mentioned at the beginning, one would think my mother and I would be used to the decisions that come with the natural cycle of an animal’s life. But it’s not like that. It always hurts, and each time it hurts in a different way.

Mom cried a lot. I’m sure she didn’t want to make that decision. I looked at her and felt that part of her longed for the same thing I did: to keep trying. Perhaps our hearts weren’t ready to let go. We had been so used to her presence for more than 13 years that the idea of no longer hearing her meows when she was hungry, or scolding her for stealing a piece of chicken, felt inconceivable. Still, the doctor’s question arrived, this time right in front of us. It was no longer just a discouraging WhatsApp message.

With Panda, the pain has been different. We took him to the vet on Wednesday the 13th. They drew blood and gave him medication for vomiting and diarrhea. His prognosis was reserved, although the doctor admitted it was a complicated case. Still, I asked Panda to give his all, and I would spend everything necessary to keep him here with us. But it wasn’t that simple: Panda needed more—much, much more.

In the following days, I cared for him. I fed him every two hours. I wished for him to gain weight. I watched over him to make sure he kept breathing. It would have been ironic if his last heartbeat had been in the same place where he was born. Suddenly Saturday arrived, and we couldn’t let more days pass. We had to take him back to the vet. My mom and I had delayed it because we knew that bringing him in meant making that decision.

The truth was right in front of us, but we didn’t want to see it. Panda had worsened in just three days: he wouldn’t eat, he couldn’t walk, and when he did, it was only to urinate a few steps away from his bed. He was no longer living—not in the way he used to. It was selfish to cling to his presence when his essence had already slipped away.

Tuesday, August 19, 2025

Today I am going to pick up his ashes at the vet. Panda’s body was kept in a refrigerator for three days, and the bitter taste of that decision still lingers. I carry a weight on my chest, heavy enough to silence a scream of guilt. I feel guilty as I go to collect his remains. Selfish and guilty. I weep for his departure, when, looking back in time, perhaps I could have done something different—and that “much, much more” he needed to recover might have been only “a little more.”

The truth is, it was about him, and in his eyes the exhaustion was clear. He was no longer living.

Today he returned home, to the place where he always belonged. He no longer looks the same, but his essence is still felt. Now a beautiful succulent keeps him company—one that asks for water and longs for the sun, just as Panda once did in his golden afternoons.