Buffy, Dad’s dog, wasn’t originally his. I had given Buffy as a present to my eldest daughter, Vina, when she was in sixth grade. Buffy was a champagne-colored cocker spaniel, handsome and affectionate, who quickly endeared himself to my daughter and just as easily attached himself to Dad.

Buffy followed Dad wherever he went. Oftentimes, he would just lie at Dad’s feet as Dad worked endless hours at his desk. Buffy also attended countless meetings at home, with Dad at the helm. My parents both spoiled Buffy, which rather surprised us because Mom never liked dogs. Buffy was an exception.

From their trips abroad, Buffy received pasalubong (dog shampoo, for example) with the rest of us and the household staff. Buffy also joined us at dinner but remained quietly ensconced at Dad’s side. When Dad became ill with cancer, Buffy, then a member of the family, remained Dad’s constant companion, watching over him, quietly as always.

When Dad passed away early in the morning, about two hours past midnight after his 65th birthday, Buffy grieved with us. I patted and caressed him in the wee hours until we both fell asleep, tired and in pain.

A week later, Buffy passed away and joined Dad. But he didn’t die quietly; he howled in grief looking for Dad, and nothing we did could quiet him down. In the end, Buffy found peace with his master and friend. Now they are together again—Mom, Dad and Buffy.