Life & Love with a Yorkie

Ming waited for me to die. It starts being painful recounting this so let me go back to the day she came into my life.

In 1991, while living in Berkeley, Jonathan and I looked for a dog that would share our house. I saw an ad in the paper about a new litter of Yorkshire terriers. We went to see them and fell in love with the most charming, still crawling, of the bunch. Considering how all puppies look and act the same, our choice had to have something special. She had it.

Since the Yorkie breeders were a Chinese couple, we called our new friend Ming. She liked her name; everytime she heard it, you immediately got a jump on your lap, piercing eyes, a wagging tail and a slurpy kiss on the cheek.

I’ve had doggie friends ever since I was a child. My first was a dachsund. I gave my dogs affection and delighted in their antics. But the bonding was limited. Someone else fed them, bathe them, took them to the vet, and later, disposed of them when they died.

Ming would be my friend in middle age and the relationship was more mutual and now, in my grief, I realize she was far superior to me in many ways.

I went to work while Jonathan worked out of the house. Young Ming would be Jonathan’s day companion. When I returned home each evening, there she was, face pressed on the screen door, in a panting frenzy like she’d not seen me for years. However tired I was, Ming’s enthusiasm transformed me. She may have been Jonathan’s companion during the day, but I was her lover coming home.

Yorkies are known to be lap dogs; Ming was a supreme example. Working at the computer meant a lap exposed and Ming, in no time, would fill it. Driving around meant she was right below the steering wheel and on my lap. Reading a book meant turning the page and petting her on my lap.

Ming was matched fairly early in her life. She gave birth to three little puppies in an animal hospital. Her labor was difficult and she almost died. We gave one of the puppies to her mate’s parents, another to a young girl who wanted one but couldn’t afford it, and the cutest we kept for ourselves. We named him Aguinaldo, after the first president of the Republic. His nickname would be Agi.

What happens when you have another dog to love? What happens when Ming resents any notion of spreading the affection, demanding only she be petted, only she can stay on my lap, or that she gets the first dog biscuit? Even if Agi was her own flesh and blood, her threatening growls to him meant very clearly that she was number one.

I use to resent the fact that my grandmother had favorite grandchildren and I was not one of them. Now, in middle age, I empathized with her arbitrary selections. You give your love to those who’ve charmed you the most. The grandchildren she favored deserved it because they made her feel good.

So it was with Ming. She had charmed me completely and there were no seconds. But we had to have an egalitarian air in the house. Jonathan and I decided to publicly air our love for both dogs. But Jonathan’s primary love would be Agi and mine would be Ming.

After a few years, Jonathan and I moved north to Russian River to a little chalet up in the hills with tall fir trees and a large garden for Ming and Agi to enjoy. They shared the garden with wandering flocks of deer and unfortunately got nasty ticks that looked more evil than fleas. In the cold winter, Ming and Agi were our bed warmers snuggling up to us. I remember many nights when we’d all be in bed, Jonathan holding me, me holding Ming and Ming’s arms wrapped around little Agi.

It was the Little Prince that once said it’s the love you give to a particular rose in a sea of roses that makes that rose special. Waking up at 5:30 on a cold foggy morning, rousing Ming and Agi, taking them out to the garden so they could do their thing, feeding them and after they’ve been taken care of, prepare myself for the two-hour commute into the city, meant a lot of devotion.

Giving them weekly baths in the tub, driving them for an hour to get them to their vet if they got sick and picking ticks from their bodies meant a lot of devotion. But all that work for Ming and Agi didn’t really equal all the love and affection they gave me, unhesitatingly and without fail.

Coming home from work and seeing them push the screen door open to rush up and smear your pants with their muddy paws and exclaim, "I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" immediately erased any petty hardship I had with them.

We moved to the Philippines and the two followed a few months later, after we had secured a house with a garden in Manila. In the interim, they became caregivers to a friend with AIDS. Ming and Agi exuded love and they gave my friend the happiest few months of his life. Between the two, Ming was the cariñosa one, the one who softly was by your side, whose licks to the face, arms and feet were steady and calming.

Agi, the stereotypical male, was the exuberant one who pounced on you and delivered his affection in spurts, declaring how beautiful life is, and then went off on his merry way. Ming was more Florence Nightingale and my friend’s life was extended just a bit more because of all the care he received from my two dogs.

They arrived on Japan Airlines and after a round of securing signatures I was reunited with Ming and Agi who must have been very happy to see me after the 18-hour trip, locked up in separate cages.

Ming by now was middle aged (about 49 human years old), showing grey streaks and white whiskers and ready for puttering around and retiring in the tropics with her son.

I always tell this story to friends who come to the house and are delighted with the dogs. Ming and Agi were doted upon by our labandera who made sure they had their daily walk from our house to the nearby subdivision gate. Every afternoon, I would see her put the leash on the dogs and off they went. The gate was not too far but far enough to give them a workout. But whenever they returned I curiously found Ming and Agi to be as frisky as when they left.

One afternoon, I followed the trio without their knowing and when they left the house, the labandera scooped both dogs up and carried them all the way to the gate and back. When they returned I asked her why she carried the dogs. She was forthright and said she didn’t want them to be exhausted!

That incident, the luxurious long outdoor baths from the male help, the secret MySan cracker indulgences they received, their relief that someone answers the doorbell so they didn’t have to bark too long, their beddings regularly changed... all these and many more made them realize they were living in luxury. What’s more, they were fussed over more than they ever had been. Friends would tie ribbons on their hair. They were embraced and cooed and tickled like babies.

Ming took to the indolence very easily. After the I’M HAPPY TO SEE YOU routine at the door when I come home, she immediately rolled on her back demanding a tummy rub. She senses I’m about to stop so she would slowly turn to her side, then slowly rolled some more and some more until I had rubbed her entire body.

Anytime I entered the kitchen was her chance to make known that she wanted a treat. She pawed the side of the kitchen door to make sure she got my attention and in more demanding circumstances, she’d let out the slightest growl.

When I went on trips abroad, I had been thoroughly trained to buy a box of dog biscuits, the smaller bone variety, and the one with the different flavors, the night before departure. Arriving home, Ming and Agi gave the requisite WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN YOU’VE ABANDONED US drama with the customary WE LOVE YOU ANYWAY and then proceed to look at the suitcase and give me the WELL, OPEN IT AND GIVE US THE IMPORTED PASALUBONG. I remember August 2000 distinctly because it was that trip that I forgot to bring biscuits home. Agi was mollified with the MySan crackers but Ming–Oh Ming!–I was in the doghouse and on her shit list for the better part of the day.

A good life has its attendant maladies. A little arthritis attack and off to the vet. A little sluggishness and off to the vet. A coughing fit and off to the vet. And everytime we were there, the comely vet would remind me that Ming was overweight and warned me of the consequences. Ming, of course, politely listened but seemed unconcerned. When we got home, she would prance to the kitchen and expect her biscuit reward for having been well behaved at the vet.

Siestas were more common for Ming in her senior years. She could no longer jump up on our bed so she curled up on a wicker bed below me. When she couldn’t control her bladder any longer, she understood why the snuggling was less. Unlike Agi needing so much petting and reassurance, Ming had a stately demeanor. She had figured very early on that I was hopelessly faithful to her. So all she needed was a little embrace, a peck on the cheek and her wicker bed at a vantage point where she could see me.

It was her hearing that went first. She didn’t notice my calling her any longer. But Ming seemed to make do by taking cues from Agi who alerted her that I had arrived home or that dinner was ready.

One day Ming woke up and could see nothing. The cataracts she had several years back were now severe. The household routine changed. Everyone was made aware to avoid stepping on or hitting her, for by this time she would plop and sleep wherever it suited her. Each morning, she was lifted from bedroom to kitchen for breakfast, from kitchen to garden for her morning walks and toiletries, from garden to beside me on a large chair as I read the newspaper and back to the bedroom for her midday nap.

Being blind was a humiliating blow for my old lady friend. Every paw step was slow and tentative as she navigated clumsily throughout the house. She banged her head onto chair legs, and walls disoriented her. She couldn’t see her food or the bowl of water so she slowly lost her appetite. She couldn’t see me and instead stared blankly. My cheek pressed to her face was her only signal that I was there, ready for her licks.

On a recent trip Jonathan sent me a jpeg photo of Ming attached to his e-mail. Ming had a distant look but gave her best smile for the camera. Jonathan’s message was more ominous. She was not going to last too long.

I returned with Ming happy to smell me again but looking much more tired and empty. I woke up early that one sad morning to hear Ming’s soft but agitated pacing in the bedroom. I carried her to the garden and she wobbled as she lifted her neck up to the sky and gave a blank stare. She was very sick. I was at work and throughout the day Jonathan would call to say her condition worsened.

I got home before sunset and there was my dear friend, in her bed, laid down on one side, breathing heavily. She didn’t raise her head any longer.

Heavy breathing. Soft breathing. Alternating but, at each interval, a diminishing strength. I whispered in her ear several times telling her I loved her. I lay down beside her bed stroking her face and holding her paw. She did not respond, the only movement coming from her gasping chest.

We were together that moment, reminiscing earlier kisses and country walks. We were two old souls, she a little older, chuckling how many times I secretly gave her another biscuit and how many times she allowed me another glass of wine.

Then she started breathing heavily, faster and faster as if she wanted another go of life, another walk we could share. Then her breathing slowed down, gently, very gently. Her tummy, the tummy of eternal love rubs, didn’t move any longer. My baby was motionless and I started to wail, holding her, kissing her, telling her over and over, THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVE, THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPANIONSHIP, knowing I could say this a million times but it would still be inadequate. Because in the scheme of things, I could never have equalled Ming’s devotion to me. Waiting for me so she could die was her last supreme class act of unrivaled love.

The next morning a little grave was dug in the garden and Ming, wrapped in an Igorot blanket, was laid inside. I opened her blanket to see her sleeping face one last time to tell her I loved her.

The moistened earth of the monsoon season covered her blanket. Large smoothed pebbles framed her spot. Each morning my ritual has been to gather flowers fallen from the kalachuchi tree, place them in a bowl, and with several lit incense sticks bring them to her grave. It is a soothing act, a way of saying that my day now begins with an act of love and a moment for remembering.

Is a friendship worth it when death, the ultimate cheat, invariably comes to disrupt the happiness? I’d still say yes as I wistfully glance at Ming’s floral resting spot throughout the day. We superior humans, severely challenged in sustaining a love, can learn the art of unfailing affection only from canine friends.