Written by E. L. Wong.
The most heartbreaking thing about pet ownership is that we often outlive our pets. Yet, if the situation were reversed, the consequences would be nothing short of tragic.
What makes people keep animal companions? What impels us to adopt an animal and love and provide for it as an honorary family member? It could be that in an increasing alienated society, we need someone with whom we can be truthful and accepting, and to receive truthfulness and acceptance in return.
Or it could be that animals simply have such warmth, sincerity and personality that we cannot help but invite them to be part of our lives.
Murphy came into our lives in August 1994. I must admit that the timid, trembling puppy that I brought home in my bicycle basket did not impress anyone then. He had a limp and his skin was sore with scabies.
We named our newest family member "Murphy" and plastered his diseased skin with sulphur solution until he yelped for mercy. Once he made full recovery, however, his true personality shone. He was "only a mongrel" to others, but he was, until the end, always our "Handsome Boy".
Murphy was grateful and never tried to conceal the fact. He hungered for our approval and we gave him unconditional love: We locked away shoes from his destructive jaws rather than punish him for being a puppy.
He was quirky and affectionate. His particular idiosyncrasies were leaning his body against ours whenever we sat down to do the laundry or gardening, and turning back for Mum each time we went jogging - he feared her being left behind. When he grew tall enough to reach the kitchen window, we came to expect his front paws and doggy grin at the windowsill each time we did the washing up. Murphy was the type of dog that gave new meaning to the words love, loyalty and friendship.
He brought our family closer together with his guileless ability to love. He greeted each of us, no matter how short our absence, with such emotion that we regarded him with the tenderness we never allowed ourselves to express with other human beings. He was just so happy to be included in everything we soon arranged festive occasions around him. He had his share of Lunar New Year steamboat dinners; moon cakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; his place at each birthday celebration; and birthday cakes and presents of his own.
Murphy watched over our house with formidable seriousness and, soon, his inclination to watch over the neighbours' homes and visitors' cars parked outside became legendary. He minded my bike at the shop, watched over visiting toddlers and won over the hearts of non-dog-loving friends.
Having Murphy made me even more sensitive to the plight of homeless animals, and he inspired me to volunteer with the animal shelter and campaign for responsible pet ownership.
His ability to empathise astounded us. When a scraggly waif of a kitten wandered into our garden, Murphy promptly adopted her, showered her with licks and unwavering attention, shared his food with her and shielded her against nosey parkers. He curled his body protectively around her in sleep, and when the kitten left him (the mother cat presumably came back for her delinquent), Murphy cried with grief and refused to eat. It was several days before he stopped trying to look for her.
During his best friend Simba's last days, Murphy stayed by his side, treating him with utter gentleness, seeming to understand that his buddy was no longer capable of rough play. Simba's demise left Murphy withdrawn and melancholic. For year afterwards, whnever Simba's name was mentioned, Murphy would rush to the side gate, peer anxiously and then, with a sigh of resignation, walk slowly back to us.
The last time I saw Murphy was on the morning of my birthday. The night before, I had brushed his hair and he had stretched and grunted with pleasure. I told him that t I would be back on Saturday. He never made it to the weekend.
The following day, I was admitted to the Bar. That same evening, I received the dreaded phone call that Murphy was "no longer moving". The commute home was the longest, saddest and most bewildering of my life. My parents had, upon their return from witnessing my Call to the Bar, taken a nap. Murphy had been running around the garden as was his wont, and then decided to take a nap close to them. He never woke up.
In retrospect, Murphy was blessed in that his death was so peaceful. He had probably waited to see that my parents reached home safely, and had waited for my return. I guess he couldn't hand in there that long. He was almost 11, and his heart wasn't that strong as before.
That evening, my brother and I carried Murphy for the last time. We lifted his body gently, feeling his shiny coat for the last time. We buried him in the back garden so he could remain close to us and we could always watch over him. We were ourselves buried in our sorrow. Our sense of loss was palpable. It really is that heart that feels the pain.
The house was grimly cheerless and quiet without Murphy. My routine was so in tune with his that I got up several times at the usual time to prepare his dinner, only to remember that he wasn't with us any more. Everything reminded us of him.
Our best buddy is gone from our touch but never our hearts. We can only thank him for showing us how easily love and happiness can be found.
Murphy, I hope Heaven isn't so big a place that we cannot find each other one day.
What makes people keep animal companions? What impels us to adopt an animal and love and provide for it as an honorary family member? It could be that in an increasing alienated society, we need someone with whom we can be truthful and accepting, and to receive truthfulness and acceptance in return.
Or it could be that animals simply have such warmth, sincerity and personality that we cannot help but invite them to be part of our lives.
Murphy came into our lives in August 1994. I must admit that the timid, trembling puppy that I brought home in my bicycle basket did not impress anyone then. He had a limp and his skin was sore with scabies.
We named our newest family member "Murphy" and plastered his diseased skin with sulphur solution until he yelped for mercy. Once he made full recovery, however, his true personality shone. He was "only a mongrel" to others, but he was, until the end, always our "Handsome Boy".
Murphy was grateful and never tried to conceal the fact. He hungered for our approval and we gave him unconditional love: We locked away shoes from his destructive jaws rather than punish him for being a puppy.
He was quirky and affectionate. His particular idiosyncrasies were leaning his body against ours whenever we sat down to do the laundry or gardening, and turning back for Mum each time we went jogging - he feared her being left behind. When he grew tall enough to reach the kitchen window, we came to expect his front paws and doggy grin at the windowsill each time we did the washing up. Murphy was the type of dog that gave new meaning to the words love, loyalty and friendship.
He brought our family closer together with his guileless ability to love. He greeted each of us, no matter how short our absence, with such emotion that we regarded him with the tenderness we never allowed ourselves to express with other human beings. He was just so happy to be included in everything we soon arranged festive occasions around him. He had his share of Lunar New Year steamboat dinners; moon cakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; his place at each birthday celebration; and birthday cakes and presents of his own.
Murphy watched over our house with formidable seriousness and, soon, his inclination to watch over the neighbours' homes and visitors' cars parked outside became legendary. He minded my bike at the shop, watched over visiting toddlers and won over the hearts of non-dog-loving friends.
Having Murphy made me even more sensitive to the plight of homeless animals, and he inspired me to volunteer with the animal shelter and campaign for responsible pet ownership.
His ability to empathise astounded us. When a scraggly waif of a kitten wandered into our garden, Murphy promptly adopted her, showered her with licks and unwavering attention, shared his food with her and shielded her against nosey parkers. He curled his body protectively around her in sleep, and when the kitten left him (the mother cat presumably came back for her delinquent), Murphy cried with grief and refused to eat. It was several days before he stopped trying to look for her.
During his best friend Simba's last days, Murphy stayed by his side, treating him with utter gentleness, seeming to understand that his buddy was no longer capable of rough play. Simba's demise left Murphy withdrawn and melancholic. For year afterwards, whnever Simba's name was mentioned, Murphy would rush to the side gate, peer anxiously and then, with a sigh of resignation, walk slowly back to us.
The last time I saw Murphy was on the morning of my birthday. The night before, I had brushed his hair and he had stretched and grunted with pleasure. I told him that t I would be back on Saturday. He never made it to the weekend.
The following day, I was admitted to the Bar. That same evening, I received the dreaded phone call that Murphy was "no longer moving". The commute home was the longest, saddest and most bewildering of my life. My parents had, upon their return from witnessing my Call to the Bar, taken a nap. Murphy had been running around the garden as was his wont, and then decided to take a nap close to them. He never woke up.
In retrospect, Murphy was blessed in that his death was so peaceful. He had probably waited to see that my parents reached home safely, and had waited for my return. I guess he couldn't hand in there that long. He was almost 11, and his heart wasn't that strong as before.
That evening, my brother and I carried Murphy for the last time. We lifted his body gently, feeling his shiny coat for the last time. We buried him in the back garden so he could remain close to us and we could always watch over him. We were ourselves buried in our sorrow. Our sense of loss was palpable. It really is that heart that feels the pain.
The house was grimly cheerless and quiet without Murphy. My routine was so in tune with his that I got up several times at the usual time to prepare his dinner, only to remember that he wasn't with us any more. Everything reminded us of him.
Our best buddy is gone from our touch but never our hearts. We can only thank him for showing us how easily love and happiness can be found.
Murphy, I hope Heaven isn't so big a place that we cannot find each other one day.
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