Paws and Remembrance: Saying goodbye to pets today

It was a shock, in the way that losing someone with an oversized personality and an even bigger heart always is. But time, as they say, is a bitch. And unlike dogs, time doesn’t care much for loyalty or walkies. Hammie, on the other hand, did. 

He left us on a quiet day, at home, among his people. He had been in and out of hospital for months and had spent his last week in a cage before being discharged. At home — his home for the past nine years — he went peacefully to that great kennel in the sky. 

Hammie wasn’t just a pet; he was my apo, my granddog, brought into our lives by my daughter nine years ago from a breeder in Quezon City. 

From his first awkward attempts at walking with a leash to his final snooze in our living room — which he refused to soil from day one — he taught us many things:  Never trust a cute but silent corgi (they’re cantankerous and won’t hesitate to take a bite at you); any food left unattended for 0.3 seconds is fair game; and love, in its purest form, often comes on four short legs and a butt that wiggles like it has its own personality.

I remember not too long ago, that when a beloved pet passed, it almost automatically meant a simple backyard burial: towel wrapped, interred in a shoebox or improvised wooden crate, and committed to a patch of earth behind the mango tree. Now, we could see how much that world has changed. 

A small but steadily growing industry stands ready to help families who want to say goodbye with the same quiet dignity we give human kin: cremation, urns and keepsakes, little viewing rooms with piped-in music, and even a designated person to say a prayer or a blessing. 

Pet cremation services, for instance, now range from about P3,000 to P7,000 for small pets, depending on whether you choose communal or private cremation. A carved wooden urn can cost between P800 and P2,500, while memorial packages — with viewing arrangements and add-ons — can start at P6,000 and go up to P12,000.

In Metro Manila and, increasingly, in Cebu and Davao, pet cremation services, complete with digital tribute pages, are becoming more readily available. Beneath the business model is something kinder: an acknowledgment that love given freely by an animal deserves a considered farewell. 

Now there are choices: burial in one of a handful of dedicated pet cemeteries (plots start at P10,000 to P20,000 depending on location and size) or cremation (both affected by limitations of space and location). Some families opt for biodegradable urns that could nourish a memorial plant; others keep a small reliquary beside framed photographs. 

Overseas, this has been normal for longer. In Japan and South Korea, it is not unusual to find Buddhist-inspired services, little altars with tablets bearing a pet’s name, or annual memorial days. In parts of the US and Europe, pet cremation is as routine a service as a vaccination, often arranged seamlessly through the vet.

Which brings up the question: Do all dogs go to heaven? 

Well — yes. Of course, they do. Not just because Don Bluth made a whole animated movie about it (with sequels, a TV series, and even a Christmas special to seal the deal), but because it’s the only thing that makes sense in this otherwise chaotic universe. The real mystery is whether we get in to see them again. 

Dogs don’t lie, cheat, gaslight or ghost you, or vote for questionable candidates. They greet you every day like you’re returning from war, even if you just stepped out to throw the trash or grab the morning paper. Their loyalty is ridiculous, almost suspiciously so, but isn’t that the best kind of love? The kind you don’t have to earn over and over again? 

It’s no wonder people have been telling and retelling the “dogs in heaven” story in every form imaginable: movies, books, cartoons, and probably even interpretive dance. Because deep down, we know that dogs are the best of us, better than most of us, maybe even all of us. 

Cats, bless their indifferent little hearts, will knock over your glass of milk just to remind you who’s in charge. A dog will clean it up for you, most likely get blamed for it, and still sleep in your room later out of solidarity. (I’m not saying cats don’t go to heaven — just that I’d prefer to be in a roomful of canines). 

In Hammie’s heaven, I imagine him chasing sheep through heavenly pastures — Corgis are herd dogs, after all — making it impossible for anyone to get a good night’s sleep. I picture him peeing with righteous abandon, sitting with us at the dinner table, and even swimming with us — in a kiddie pool and in the ocean — when he was still a pup just to regale us with that gloriously unsinkable furry rear end of his bobbing like a buoy. 

When Hammie passed, we called a pet aftercare service, which dispatched a van to our house even late in the night. They gently placed him in a fresh body bag and loaded along with others that had been picked up earlier. We visited him the next day. He had been perfectly prepared for a final viewing – literally, as if he was just sleeping (parang natutulog lang). A company representative led the prayers with his “family” — us and our house helper, who also cried — gathered around him. A video of the cremation was sent as proof, and after a few days of more mourning, his ashes came back to us in a wooden box with thoughtful mementoes: a paw imprint, fur trimmings in a glass vial, a candle, and even a necklace pendant containing some of his ashes. 

We hope to see him again someday. But if not, if dogs have their own exclusive section in the afterlife — well, we had the privilege of living in heaven for a while, too. It was right here, during those nine perfect years when Hammie was still with us. Nine years of joy, laughter, shedding, mischief, devotion, and love — the kind that doesn’t need words, just a look and a sleepy sigh. 

I believe all dogs go to heaven. And it’s good to know that even in the afterlife, they can get the proper care they deserve.