7th November

It is now exactly 3am. I had a fight with my dad earlier about my dog again. He’s always picking on me about my dog. I think it’s because I pay more attention to my dog than I do him. After all, the one that I say goodnight and good morning to is—you guessed it, my dog.

Some people think I’m weird because I love my dog lots. I think I even love my dog more than I do my siblings. I think of him as my baby. There is this connection between things you’ve looked after for most of your life. A strong bond that can’t be broken.

My siblings were brought up more by maids rather than by me. My connection with them is…not as strong, I would say. One of my good points for not going overseas is so that I can stay with my dog. A friend of mine once told me, “What a reasonable excuse that is. Later on when you look back, your excuse for not going overseas is because of your dog.” He has three dogs of his own, but maybe his relationship with them is not as much as me and mine.

I think the bond between me and my canine friend is a result of being together. I talk to him, I take him out for his walks everyday, I feed him, I buy his dog food with my own pocket money, I bathe him. It was all part and parcel of what I bargained for when I asked my parents, “Can I have a dog?” Their response is slightly different that what most parents would usually give. “You can have him if you take full responsibility for him.” At least they give me a choice, of which I am grateful. Some parents just say no and that’s that.

Life is always about choices, if you’re willing to put in the effort to get the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. In that sense, I suppose my parents excelled in child-raising. They have rarely tell me no outright, it’s always yes, but with conditions.

Of course, at the age of 11, I hadn’t yet fully comprehended the scope the word ‘full’ entitled. Waking up at the crack of dawn—and me being a person that sleeps at odd hours, it’s a serious pain, let me tell you—for his morning walks, cleaning up his poo at odd hours too because my mom would yell till I cleaned it. She still does, every morning, and everyday when she comes back from work, your dog this, your dog that. It’s become so automatic for her that even when there’s nothing, she still yells. There was once when I went downstairs with a patient god-help-me expression, and she looked at me a while before she said, “Sorry, I thought that leaf was poo.” Argh!

Training my dog not to dig up the garden is another thing I was tearing out my hair at. It was just so frustrating to teach him over and over and over not to do it, only to wake up the next morning to my mother’s yells that that dog has ruined yet another one of her precious plants. Of course, he finally stopped digging the garden, but that could be because we bricked it up rather than my superior training talent.

Shoes. Another thing I got yelled over. He chews them up. He’s a smart dog. He can actually open the shoe cabinet. A terror to all my mom’s expensive shoes though. Oh, and he’s the world’s best food beggar. One look from those big brown puppy eyes and you just have to do whatever he wants.

I guess its all these things you go through that builds bonds. Sacrificing my allowance so that I could buy him food and shampoo, working at a veterinary clinic for two months to pay off his medical fees when he got into a dog fight since my parents refused to pay for the enormous sum, sitting down next to him during thunderstorms—he’s afraid of thunder and fireworks—or just being with him. I talk to him all the time. My uncle used to tease me, calling me mad just because I was talking to a dog. It wasn’t as if he could talk back. But now, my uncle’s talking to him too.

Yes, over the last 8 years of his life, my cute poodle has managed to ensnare the hearts of the whole family. Even my maid, who’s a Muslim and can’t touch dogs, would do stuff for him sometimes. She’s the one that will go through the trouble of making him porridge when he was sick or when he plain feels like he doesn’t want to eat. Even my dad, who’s taken the disapproving attitude towards my dog since he arrived, took him out for a walk once. When he thought no one was around, of course. But I saw, smiling from behind a curtain as my dad leashed the fluffy creature and led him out of the house.

My dog’s been part of half my life now, and I sometimes wonder how it would be like when he’s gone. Dogs don’t live very long. Of course, that particular info has been hanging around at the back of my brain now that he’s no longer young, but I keep telling myself, “I’ll face that obstacle when I come to it.”

I think raising my dog has been good for me. Building my character, being a part of my personality, knowing what it’s like to look after something and knowing all the hardships and responsibility that comes along with it. If I feel this way by just looking after my dog, imagine the hell parents go through looking after a kid.

Makes me appreciate them for putting up with me so far as I’ve never been an easy kid, always arguing—at least my dog doesn’t argue back—and rebelling, demanding stuff, claiming that it was my right. Having a kid—especially one like me is no walk in the park.

There have been times—don’t all parents?—when I wish that I never had a dog in the first place after all the trouble I’ve gone through raising him. But later, when I stop and think about it—actually sit down and think. He’s just there, a silent companion, always happy to see me, wagging his tail whenever I come home, sitting with me through my tears and laughter, jumping around, a pure bundle of joy or just being who he is—and I think, yes, it was worth the sacrifice.

Of course, most of you might think I’m mad. Who knows, maybe I am? But what difference does it make whether I love a dog or a human or a stick? It’s the same emotion, isn’t it? Love?