Tuesday was International Dog Day, the perfect time to celebrate the companions that ask for nothing but give us everything. And in our Bulacan house, that truth can be found in every corner, pawprint, and warm nuzzle. We don't just live with dogs; we live with heartbeats that match ours.

Our family lives with nineteen amazing dogs, each with their own personality and story.

We have six Pomeranians — Yam, Ice, Thor, Faith, Naz, and Yakult — each a fluffball of personality, from the gentle to the mischievous. Nine Chihuahua s— Cess, Miracle, Love, Sue, Mac and Cheese, Buddy, Max, and Sky — who fill our days with sass, loyalty, and laughter. Two Aspins — Yassie and Sandrino — whose quiet strength and soulful eyes remind us of resilience. And two Yorkies — Twix and Pixie — who sparkle with joy in every tiny step.

Cess is the eldest, and her gentle wisdom has always kept us grounded. And then there's Yam Yam, our angel in paradise. Her memory lives in every corner of our home, in every imagined bark, in every moment when love appears without words. Yam Yam was more than simply a pet, especially to my mother; she was the soul of our pack, the most beloved of all. Losing her left a void in our hearts that only she could fill.

Each of our dogs has a unique quality that makes it impossible not to fall in love with them. Some are mischievous, stubborn, fiercely loyal, and charmingly weird. But together, they created something beautiful: an emotional scaffolding that sustained our family when the world seemed to be coming apart.

During the pandemic, when everything else seemed unclear and heavy, they became our light. They didn't simply keep us company; they saved us. Their presence eased our anxieties, their daily routines provided structure, and their unconditional affection reminded us that joy can still exist in the smallest, furriest forms. They were our therapy, fun, and motivation to get out of bed.

They didn't need words to understand us. They just knew. Because of them, we never truly felt alone.

On days when the world feels heavy, they wrap around us like a living blanket of warmth. When we laugh, they join us. When we cry, they remain close. This is why dogs are referred to as man's best friend—not only because they obey, but also because they adore us. Their loyalty is not earned; it is given. Their presence is not loud; rather, it is therapeutic.

And then there’s Mr. Ice.

He’s not just my dog — he’s my son. Not just in name, but in soul. The most nonchalant, the most snobbish, the most emotionally elusive of them all. He doesn’t beg for cuddles or chase attention. He’s independent, aloof, and sometimes maddeningly indifferent.

But somehow, he understands me better than anyone. There’s something in his eyes — quiet, steady, knowing — that reaches into the parts of me I don’t show. He doesn’t let anyone cut his nails. Only me. He trusts me in ways he doesn’t trust the world. And maybe that’s why I see myself in him.

We’re both guarded, both stubborn, both soft in ways that aren’t always visible. If I were a dog, I’d be Mr. Ice. Not because he’s perfect, but because he’s real. He doesn’t show affection — he offers it when it matters.

In a family of four humans and nineteen dogs, my heart stretches wide. I love them all. But Mr. Ice is stitched into the deepest part of it. He’s not just my dog. He’s my mirror. My comfort. My quiet, furry best friend.

And most especially — he is my son.