In case you come back

I look at the wall and see the stack of calendars we haven’t taken down yet, each one a relic of a month already consumed. They don’t chime, but they do their job of reminding me how many days are already spent. And right now, watching Yuki — our seven-year-old, slightly stubborn, completely perfect aspin (“asong pinoy”)  —  sleep with her cheek pressed into the sofa cushion, the visible stack of months feels almost cruel. It’s not the page I dread, but the relentless accumulation of months and years that have already passed. Seven years. A blink, really. And in this blink, I’ve moved from a man who actively feared dogs to one who meticulously catalogues every new strand of white fur on his dog’s snout.

Truth be told, I never liked dogs. Never. Growing up, the sight of a dog — even the friendliest Golden Retriever — would send a cold, hard knot settling in my stomach. The stray dogs that flocked our streets were not animals but obstacles, forcing me to find alternative routes just to maintain a safe distance. I was the person who crossed the street, the person who stood frozen by a wall until the beast padded past. My relationship with canines was defined by avoidance, a low-grade panic tucked securely into the corner of my walking life. It’s a self-deprecating thing to admit now, this old prejudice, but it’s important to remember where the journey started: far, far away from the cushioned spot currently occupied by a small, snoring dog.

The first gentle crack in that fortified wall of fear was named Kala. A beagle belonging to the family of my girlfriend-turned-wife, Trish. When our relationship started back in 2017, I quickly realized the unspoken condition: to be with Trish was to be on good terms with dogs, too. There was no avoiding it. The entire household ran on canine energy. Every time I visited their home, it was Kala who offered the first, often overwhelming, greeting. She’d press her cold nose into my palm, look up with those impossibly soulful brown eyes, and refuse to acknowledge my terror. She was a persistent, warm presence, and I, cornered by love, was forced to stand my ground. Slowly, awkwardly, the fear began to unspool into fascination. I remember the first time I laughed instead of flinching when her tail thumped a chaotic rhythm against the wall. I learned that dogs didn’t just snarl and scavenge; they were doorbells, comedians, and patient therapists.

That fascination became a foolish act of faith in 2018 when I decided to give Trish a dog. A surprise. I had been sold a beautiful, fluffy combination of Pomeranian and Japanese Spitz. The promises were grand. What we actually received was Yuki, a bundle of frantic energy who, over the next six months, grew into an unmistakable aspin. The breed that fills the streets and the dog I once walked blocks to avoid.

The dog that was supposed to be a pedigree surprise turned out to be the most common dog in the land — the exact breed I’d spent my childhood avoiding. It’s the great, cosmic joke of our domestic life. Yet, we fell in love harder than we ever could have with some perfectly bred creature. Yuki wasn’t common, she was Yuki. Her maldita attitude — that perfect mix of sass and indifference — was immediately apparent. She’d ignore you for five minutes, only to press her head against your knee and stare up with caring, tender, and fiercely protective devotion. She became the center of the orbit I shared with Trish, a small, furry sun around which our world revolved.

Seven years. I rub the back of my neck and watch her twitch in her sleep. Seven years ago, she was a tiny, trembling thing that fit in my two cupped hands. Now, she has seven years of scraped doors and furniture and white hairs stuck to every black shirt I own. It’s the white hairs, most of all, that I like the most. They’ve begun to dust her snout like fine confectioner’s sugar, tracing the lines of age around eyes that are somehow still full of puppy mischief.

Time, the cruel accumulator, is the invisible enemy of the dog owner. It’s a limited currency, and every moment of gentle snoring, every happy bark at the mailman, is a withdrawal from a non-renewable account. We know this truth — it’s the unspoken contract we sign the moment we take them in. Yet, we walk around in a state of willful, profound denial, hoping that if we just don’t look directly at the math, the numbers won’t change. I find myself looking at her now and feeling a panicked, almost childish urge to press pause on the slow, inevitable fade of that dark, youthful coat. But that is selfish; her job is not to stay young, but to live the fullest doggy life possible, rich in sunspots and safe places. The realization of her limited time demands not panic, but devotion to the present. I want to tell her that I’m sorry for the years I spent walking away from the truth of dogs, because the love I found in her small, warm body is the clearest, most unconditional love I’ve ever earned.

I look around the room, trying to catalogue the spaces she owns. There is the specific patch of the rug by the fridge where she likes to bake in the afternoon sun, a spot now permanently warm. There is the dark, safe place under the couch where she retreats when a thunder roars, or the wind blows too hard, a perfect, triangular shadow molded to her size. And then there is the worn wood of the bedroom door, scratched relentlessly whenever she needs to follow us, her little mark of insistence that she belongs inside whatever room we happen to be in.

This is what my mind circles back to: the space she takes up. Because someday, there will be only the space left behind. And when that happens, our only wish is for her to come back sometimes.

I don’t know what form that return might take. Maybe she’ll be the warmth of the sun on the rug, or a sudden, unexpected shadow under the couch that vanishes when I look. But this I swear to you: The door you like scratching to demand entry will stay as it is. We won’t patch the claw marks; they are your signature, your permission slip to always belong here. The couch will remain pressed against the wall for your safe, dark alcove. I can’t gather up all the white fur you shed across the house and make you whole again once you leave. But I will keep finding strands of it — on the sofa, in the pocket of a forgotten sweater — and each one will be a tiny, physical history of our shared time. This accumulation of your essence is what made our house feel complete.

I know seven years or eight or ten or fifteen are not nearly long enough for a love that feels like forever. And when you finally go, this house will hold a shape, a space, an absence that only you could fill. We will simply wait. We will leave the door and the shadow open. In case you come back.  

Ivan Jeff C. Soberano is an engineer, educator and entrepreneur. He writes about growth, grit and the moments that shape us. This is his latest piece for DAILY TRIBUNE. Comments and suggestions are welcome at icsoberano@ust.edu.ph.