Better together

With only two, just me and you

Now so many things we got to do

So many places we got to be

We’ll sit beneath the mango tree now

Mmm…it’s always better when we’re together

Yeah, we’re somewhere in between together

Yeah, it’s always better when we’re together…      — Jack Johnson

On a bright February morning, with the sun shining happily, we three Estavillo kids were very excited to unveil our birthday gift for our mom. Standing in our dining room, with bated breath, we watched as the kitchen door swung open. The cutest, most adorable and most lovable yellow Lab puppy made her way from the kitchen to the dining room.

She slowly, perhaps even nervously, walked towards us. We were were cheering her on, our mom (the birthday gal) was shocked. “&^$@#%! Ano ‘yan?!? She’s too big! Ibalik ninyo ‘yan!”

Mom wanted a small dog but when my brother and sister saw the Lab for the first time, they fell in love with her. The Labrador’s character best fits our family, so we all decided to get her. Sunshine — was what we called her.

And what a fitting name for a lovable creature who brought nothing but joy, happiness and sunshine into our lives. 

Although Shine was our gift to our mom, it was Shine and me who became inseparable. She studied in Ateneo with me. I’d bring her to campus during my long breaks so she could hang out with me and our friends. My blockmates became her blockmates; my friends her friends. Every now and then, my college guy friends would borrow her from me. They would take her around campus, supposedly for a walk, but really just to charm girls, as dogs are instant chick magnets. 

As partners in crime, we would always go out on weekends. Shine has always been my wingman, going with me to UCC Fort where I’d sit, read a book, have coffee while she would do her own thing – sit prettily, entertain her admirers (she often gets fussed over for simply being cute) and eat toasted bread. The staff of UCC Fort knew us; we had been going there every weekend for nearly four years. The guards would run to find us parking space; sometimes, our usual parking spot was already reserved for us in anticipation of our arrival. A weekend at UCC Fort was never complete without her.

She was my Batman, and I her Alfred, the butler. Other times, we went to Rockwell for brunch, or McDonald’s drive-thru in Greenbelt for sundaes. There’d be times, too, that she would enter Mini Stop, whenever I needed to make a quick purchase before proceeding on our usual weekend date. And when we were feeling adventurous, we’ll fog or a long drive and head south – either to Alabang or Tags. Rain or shine, we would always head out for the weekend.

Would you believe that Shine even had her own car?

I bought my car for her. I chose a Ford Focus because we had always admired Shine for her laser focus on the things she wanted. She would ride only in my, este, her car and no one else’s.   And although the Focus is a good-looking car, it looked even better with Sunshine in it. We would cruise around the village, Makati and the Fort with the windows down so she could feel the wind in her face, the sun in her eyes, her pretty ears flapping about. People would often stop to admire the beautiful dog (sadly, not the driver) in the car.

When I studied in Beijing for a few months, I somehow felt a bit lost and incomplete because she wasn’t with me. I was not used to not having her around for so long. I cried the most during my first week in Beijing, not just because I missed my family, but more because going to coffee shops wasn’t the same without her. My tears filled up the Yangtze River while reading Peter Mayle’s A Dog’s Life in Beijing; regardless of how insanely humorous it was, I just wanted Sunshine with me.

Sunshine was quite a character, a force of nature to reckon with. I’m pretty sure had Pavlov met her, he would have changed his theory. If Pavlov’s dog responded to a bell ringing, Shine responded with gusto to the following: the opening of the refrigerator door, the rustling sound of plastic, the jingling of my car keys, and the mother of ‘em all — the word “bread.” You see, Shine has an unshakeable, unexplainable fascination with bread. No matter what she was doing, the word “bread” would, hypnotically, get her to her feet and send her running towards the ref, excitedly waiting to gobble up bread.

Back in college, during one of the numerous sleepovers at our house, my friends didn’t believe me when I told them about Shine’s fascination with bread. Shine was sound asleep on my bed, snoring heavily. “Bread,” I whispered into her ears. An eyebrow lifted. “Bread,” this time I said loudly. In an instant, Shine opened her eyes, jumped off the bed, ran towards the bedroom door and started barking excitedly. My friends couldn’t believe it. She paused for two seconds, waiting for my response. “Woof woof woof!,” she barked impatiently. The little angel sat in front of the ref, eagerly awaiting her wheat bread, while my friends and I were laughing hysterically.

Sunshine was my favorite companion, my most trusted friend. Every night when I came home from work, she was the first one I looked for. I’d always ask her how her day went, what she learned, if she had fun. Then I’d proceed to tell her how my day went. Good or bad, my day ended on a high note when I got to spend quality time with her.

On the morning of Sept. 1, a dark heavy cloud hung over the Estavillo household. Outside, though, it was an otherwise beautiful day. The phone rang and it was the vet breaking to us the most painful news, breaking our hearts in the process. Our baby love, my baby sister, had passed away at 6 a.m. The house was filled with nothing but tears, pain and sorrow.

Nine years and 10 months after Sunshine first walked through the kitchen door and into our hearts, my brother and I nervously waited with bated breath as the clinic doors swung open. Instead of seeing our dearest baby sister walking through the doors and running towards us, we saw instead the cart carrying her body. The music stopped; my heart ceased to beat. The world around me dissolved into a dark grey liquid. Everything thereafter became nothing but a haze – unrecognizable, surreal, impossible to be true. After a 15.9-lb tumor was removed from her abdomen recently, Sunshine had been at the vet’s clinic recovering. The ride back to the house, on that fateful morning, was by far the most heartbreaking ride ever. There we were, the two of us, in the backseat of our Focus. Cradling her head in my lap, silently crying, helplessly wishing she would wake up. Desperately praying to the Lord that this was just a bad dream, and that I would wake up to a great day, expecting her to come back home alive. We already made plans for her homecoming: balloons, toasted bread, Angus steak, ice cream and all her friends. She was supposed to be discharged from the clinic that very same day. She was supposed to come home. To us. To be with us. Her family. Her world. But the unexpected happened. What hurts is that we never got to say goodbye to her; we never got to spend one last time with her. I never got to sing Better Together to her again.  

I never got to tell her how much I loved her, with her licking my hand.

Driving down to Tags in our Focus that horrible Monday, otherwise sunny, afternoon wasn’t the same without her. Without her, coffee doesn’t taste as good, cigarettes no longer calming, the breeze no longer as cool and refreshing. Driving the Focus doesn’t feel right anymore. Nor does listening to our music, our favorite songs. I now feel empty and hollow, incomplete and strange. As our favorite Coldplay song goes, the sky may be blue but I don’t mind; without you it’s a waste of time.

Almost a decade of my life was spent with her, revolved around her. How am I now going to spend my weekends without her around? How will I sleep at night knowing she will never be beside me again, taking up most of the space? How will we eat bread now, or open the ref, without expecting her to come running towards us? How will the car be, with the backseat empty and cold without her? How will we spend Nov. 15, without her to celebrate her birthday?

Sunshine wasn’t just a pet to us; she was our baby love, our baby sister, our Sunshine Estavillo. Our baby love is now officially an angel. Heaven has just become a brighter, happier place with her around. She’ll be watching over us all the time, wherever we go, most especially when I drive around on weekends. She’ll be there when my heart starts beating again, telling me if the guy’s worth it. She’ll be there to see me through my marketing plan presentation and other meetings. She’ll be there with me at night to comfort me when I’m sad and missing her terribly. She’ll be there in the morning to wish us all a great day ahead. And she will definitely be there whenever we open the refrigerator door and get bread. She will always be in our hearts.

Sunshine Estavillo, my dearest baby sister, I love you — always and forever. It’s always better when we’re together.

Do you want some bread?

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Bun Estavillo dedicates the following songs to her dearest baby sister, her mini-me: Strawberry Swing by Coldplay, Sea of Love by Cat Power and Better Together by Jack Johnson. You’re my pride and joy, my furry little angel. Special thanks to Drs. Vic and Lorna Sicam for all their help.

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E-mail: bunny.estavillo@gmail.com.