Our beloved Bear passed away on June 8th at the tender age of 13.5 years old. We are heartbroken, devastated and so grateful for the time that we got to spend with her. Last night, we celebrated her life with close family and friends at my parent’s house. Below is what I shared about her.
Bear joined our family in 2005 after I saw a photo of her sweet sad face in an ad on CuteOverload.com. I’d been browsing the site daily with my workmate to gawk at the ridiculously cute animals that were slowly taking over all corners of the internet at the time. Something about her pouty eyes pulled at me and I sent her photo to my mom.
As a family, we had never had a dog. Just three obese hamsters, a borrowed pot-belly pig for a weekend (as part of an experiment in DJ’s 2nd grade class), a few dozen fish and several hundred bugs throughout our childhood. I guess you could say that Bear was an impulse decision, meant to be a “surprise” for my dad who’d never been a fan of having an animal in our too-small apartment in Cupertino. DJ was 21 and I 24. We were all busy with school and work and life, and Dad was vehemently opposed to getting a dog, convinced that he’d be left with the responsibility of taking care of her. This, by the way, ended up being true – changing his life and softening him like nothing and no one ever has.
Needless to say, his initial protests were ignored and she arrived one weekday afternoon on a flight from Oklahoma. I picked her up in the special cargo bay of United Airlines at SFO. A fluff ball of barely 4 months, she was miniscule peering at me from inside her shoebox sized crate that was on top of the desk counter when I walked in. Her sweet sad eyes unstitched me. Alone, dirty from the flight across the country and surely terrified, my heart ached to make it all better for her. This little creature had arrived with nothing, vulnerable and motherless, completely dependent on us now, for everything. My love for her was instant, wide as the universe, raw and all-consuming.
The joy of raising a puppy must be one of life’s greatest gifts, probably akin to the magic of raising a toddler. Everything was fascinating and everything had to be chewed. Squeaky balls, stuffed animals, carpet edges, favorite sandals, couches, car interiors, laundry, furniture and toes. She chased her tail like it was a new friend, hid under the couch only to surprise us with drive-by-bitings, dug holes in other people’s gardens and generally did the most adorable and most annoying things constantly, night and day. She car surfed with me every morning on my way to work. And when we walked into the office or onto the elevator on the way to my desk, people I didn’t know would greet her by name – “Good morning Bear!” – while completely ignoring me.
As the years progressed, living with Bear was like living with a moody teenager. She had no interest in pleasing anyone, couldn’t be bothered to entertain you and would almost always ignore you when you called her name. More than once, mom and dad called us panicked because they were convinced they’d lost Bear or that she had run away. We rushed to the house only to discover a half hour after scouring the block and banging on neighbors’ doors that she was hanging out – fully awake(!) – under one of the beds, deliberately ignoring our urgent calls. On another occasion, while DJ and I were busy with something I can’t quite remember, Bear took it upon herself to steal an entire pizza off the dining room table. She hid slices all over the house – under the living room rug, behind the TV, between the couch cushions. She was keenly observant, wicked smart and always seemed to be plotting against us in some way shape or form, just for kicks. She insisted on alone time, hiding under beds and in empty bedrooms when she’d had enough of our loud, Filipino family dinners. And to spite me in particular, she showered German with exponentially more attention and affection.
Yet everyday without fail when we came home, she’d greet us ecstatically at the door, pouncing excitedly in circles, happy to be reunited once again. Instantly, she could wipe away an entire day’s stress. It was her superpower.
Last summer after she’d lost a significant amount of weight, we brought Bear to the vet and discovered that she had a tumor on the outside of her tummy that was likely cancer. She was 12.5 years old. We scoured research, brought her to animal oncologists, got 2nd and 3rd opinions, visited acupuncturists and ultimately decided that we wouldn’t put her through a risky surgery at her age. She loved her steady peaceful routine and we couldn’t bear to disrupt it . Shortly after her diagnosis, I took time off so I could be with her and help her gain her weight back. We spent two straight weeks exploring parks across Mountain View and Menlo Park, lounging on blankets in the grass to watch birds, children, dogs and the wind pass us by. She ate grass, explored playgrounds and napped under the sun. It was the best two weeks I’ve spent, rich with vivid memories and a sense of purpose and meaning unlike anything I can remember. Loving and caring for her has taught me a lot about myself and what is truly important.
It’s been a little over a month since Bear died. The last few weeks of her life broke us all. There’s nothing worse than seeing a family member suffer and not be able to help. She ate less, slept more, lost her balance and slowly retreated into her own private world. She was tired. When we remember how quickly she declined, we also remember how blessed we were to have had a whole additional year with her after last summer’s diagnosis. She held on and I’ll forever be thankful to her for giving us more time
These last few weeks have been a time of grief and growth. It will never be OK that Bear is gone. She was family. Her absence has changed the orbit of our lives and leaves a hole that no one and nothing can fill. 13.5 years with her shaped us all. Breakups, marriage, surgeries, job changes, road trips, house moves, Christmases, dance parties in the living room. She was there, so intricately woven into our family’s identity that everyday, I still catch myself trying to make sense of the fact that she’s no longer here. They say that the price we pay for love is grief. And the wisdom and clarity gained from working through our grief becomes our beloved’s legacy. If I was to sum up what Bear has taught us, it would be this: Live simply and with fresh eyes. Relish the quiet luxuries of a warm home, a walk in the park, a good meal. Be yourself, proudly and unashamedly. Spend time in nature. And remember that love, in its purest form, is togetherness.
Like the day she arrived, Bear left this world vulnerable and completely dependent on us for everything. But unlike the day she arrived, she left this world belonging to a family – our family – floating on a cloud of love, wide as the universe, raw and all consuming. She left this world with a mama, papa, a grandpa, a grandma, an uncle, who will love, cherish and miss her all the days of our lives.
Thank you for being here with us to honor and remember her. She was happiest observing gatherings on the sidelines, independent yet together, sleuthing for her next pizza slice. If she were here, she’d have already stolen someone’s lunch 🙂
