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.