Bruno Flores

Twice, maybe three times a year, the family is together. Last February, we took a trip to the Philippines and before that we spent my dad’s birthday and the new year together. The next plan was to reunite in San Antonio in October, when the summer heat would give way to fall weather. My sister would fly in from the west coast and my parents from the east, and in my 555 square foot apartment, the 7 of us—4 humans and 3 dogs, but one full family—would squeeze in and make it work.

But in July the family was unexpectedly together again. Bruno, our family dog, fell suddenly during a walk. My parents suspected a seizure and took him to the vet for some blood work and scans. He turned 13 this summer, and aside from a sudden loss of vision a few years ago, he was generally a healthy dog.

We adopted Bruno in 2011. My parents suprised me and my sister that day and drove us to what looked like an abandoned gas station. There were a few miniature schnauzers there, but from what I recall, there wasn't much deliberation on which puppy we would take home, the dark salt and pepper puppy with floppy ears and a rug like haircut. And in that weird abandoned gas station, we agreed to name him Bruno, then he was part of the family.

As a family we all established our own unique relationship with Bruno. Instead of taking him to a stylist, my dad learned to wield the scissors. Over the years, they would have battles as my dad tried to cut his hair while Bruno protested. For my mom, Bruno was like another kid. During the first few weeks, my mom would sleep by his side to ease his anxious barking until he went to sleep for the night. He was protective of the entire family, but we later realized he would preferentially steer way of dark areas on night walks when he was with my mom. For me and my sister, he was our childhood dog and a source of a lot of core memories and learned responsiblity. With his harness, me and my sister would skateboard with him around the neighborhood. He would sprint ahead and pull us like a one dog sled team. And together, we taught him tricks like to sit, play dead, shake, and hop and spin around on his back legs.

After over a decade, it's hard for me to reach back and imagine a time when Bruno wasn't a part of our lives. In the house I grew up in, there were halloweens when we dressed him up as a burger and banana. He came on vacations and roadtrips; to the beach for my parent's anniversary and to Tennessee where we stayed in a cabin. Even once me and my sister grew older, graduated and out of the house, he was always there to greet us home. When we visited Orlando from college he would welcome us with lovely whimpers and licks. Eventually, when driving from college turned to flying from our new homes, he would greet us in the car when we were picked up at the airport.

Throughout these years, Bruno picked up so many nicknames it’s hard to keep track of. He was Bruno, Baba, Bubby, and Mr. Bolbi. When he laid in the sun he was Sun Patch, and when he picked up dirt after rolling in the grass, he was Dirt Boy. Each name he gathered solidified his place in the family.  To me he was occasionally the furry brother, and to my mom he was the favorite son.

As with names, Bruno picked up different animal comparisons. We joked he was part rabbit, with his signature bunny ears that curiously perked up despite flopping downward when he was a puppy. When he was in need of a haircut, he looked like a donkey. And when his beard was tightly trimmed he looked like a bear. One of the latest names he picked up was Bulag.

Roughly two years ago, he started to get lost around the house and my parents would find him barking or whining at a wall. It was then when his mortality first became something to consider. Of course, every pet owner recognizes there will be a time to part ways, but until faced with a reason to think of it, that thought is always for later. But over the phone, when my mom told me he couldn’t see, later creeped closer to the present. 

According to the vet, he had sudden acquired retinal damage syndrome, a rapid and irreversible loss of vision due to changes in the retina. The causes aren’t well understood, but it’s known that it often affects middle-aged dogs, with dachshunds and miniature schnauzers the top predisposed breeds. The condition develops over days to weeks but in some cases can be more gradual. Perhaps there were early symptoms that we could point back to, like the occasional dropped treat or trip on a raised ledge, but even so, it still felt as if most of the deterioration happened in the span of a week or so. 

He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it, is what I couldn’t stop thinking. The diagnosis was more for us than for Bruno. What could he do with the name of condition? For him, one day the world was there, and the next it wasn’t, and what pained me was that couldn’t explain to him where the world went, let alone bring it back.

I would see Bruno a few months later, and watch him adjust. The prognosis was that there would be an adjustment period, but he still could live a happy and health life. Without his vision, he could no longer run the way he used to, but he learned to amble around, using his snout as his seeing cane, occasionally bumping into walls and doors as he found his way around the house. Early on, he would get lost and we would find him whimpering and shaking in a separate room, but he quickly made his mental map of the house and learned to move about. 

I shouldn’t be surprised at how well he managed, but I was impressed. He still enjoyed his daily walks and made up for his lack of vision by marking his territory to keep a scent trail. Somehow that was enough to know where he was at. He could still choose which turns he wanted to make, and once he was near our house at the end of the walk, he could still turn in to the front door. Of course, with the condition, a new normal for him was established. We didn't toss treats for him to catch anymore and gone were the days Bruno would play fetch with me and my sister. Funnily, his blindness made him a quieter dog. With no threats to see, he barked less at oncoming dogs during walks or from peeking through windows. In general, without his sight, he mellowed out a bit, becoming more of a lap dog. He would nudge our hands with his snout demaning to be pet or tap his feet and whine when no one was giving him attention. Once we knew he would adjust well, he earned himself a new name, Bulag, or blind in tagalog. 

Bruno showed us that not only was he loyal and intelligent, he was resilient. Possibly more resiliant than any of us. But unfortunately, this time at the vet, the prognosis was less favorable. In the span of a few days, Bruno went from seemingly healthy to struggling on walks. The vet told my parents that he had metastatic cancer, but most concerning, there was fluid around his lungs. He wasn’t having seizures it turned out. Fluid suffused his lungs to the point where nearly all physical activity became too much for him to handle. A decision had to be made in a few days, the vet told them, so me and my sister booked our flights to Orlando that night.

For several days the family was together again, but under most unfortunate of circumstances. When Bruno greeted me at the airport, it was obvious he was struggling to breathe. Moving from my mom's lap to mine exhausted him. With my hand by his ribs, I felt his chest expand and contract under each labored breath. Just welcoming me home was too much for his struggling body. 

In my lap, I forgot how soft and small he was. When I rubbed his ears, they reminded me of velvet, and when he nudged my hand, telling me to scratch his head, he was soft as ever. So badly did I not want to imagine the last day, or last lick, or last scratch, or a last anything. Holding Bruno there, with his 13 wonderful years of love and loyalty, through childhood and into adulthood, he felt incredibly fragile.

In This Thing Between Us, Gus Moreno describes the surrealism of loss by saying, people cannot bear to think there are channels of human experience that are closed off to them, that they’ll never know. With grief, without the current experience of loss, it feels impossible to conjure the pain. It’s possible to imagine the gravity or impacts of loss, but only when faced with loss can you experience the entire magnitude of emotions. The hurt, like unfamiliar hands clenching your heart, squeezing it smaller and smaller until all that remains is a point; the confusion, like a thick damp fog shrouding every thought; and the helplessness, like a sputtering wax candle against unyielding darkness. That all only comes when the unfortunate time beckons.

There’s the pain of coming to rationalize the reality that what we always imagined as later is finally today, and there’s the pain of imagining what life will be like tomorrow. Sakit sa puso, my dad said. The heart hurts.

For the majority of the last few days, aside from getting up to eat or out to pee in the backyard, Bruno laid in bed. On his last night, we gave him his last supper: homemade steaks fed to him by the entire family. Until his very last meal, Bruno ate with enthusiasm—a true member of the Flores family.

Later that night, we gathered around Bruno as he tried to sleep. Should we postpone the appointment tomorrow, my dad posed to us all. If his ability to live, walk, and bark despite his blindness, or to muster up the energy to greet me and my sister from the airport are any indication, it’s apparent that dogs are in many ways stronger, loyal, and more precious than humans. Bruno was trying his best to hold on, but as resilient as he was, and no matter how badly we wished, he wasn’t invincible. As the family surrounded him, with his rapid breaths and tired eyes, we came to the obvious agreement. And as I laid my head on the edge of his bed he gave one of his last messages of love and licked away the tears as I cried.

An infinite amount of names can’t begin to describe what you meant to the family. The house is emptier and our hearts heavier. I would like to think that if you could talk, you would thank us all for a good life. For feeding you all the bokchoy and slices of steak. For teaching you tricks. For running, skateboarding, and walking with you. For celebrating holidays with you, whether in costume for Halloween, or with just a sweater for Christmas. 

But most of all, we thank you. Because although there would be a day when you wouldn’t be in our life, the best gift is that you let us be with you for every day of yours. From the very first day picking you up, to the very last, you gave us a fuller life.

I miss you buddy. I hope you get all the steak and grass you want—there’s no doubt that you deserve it.