dedicated to abbey

Today is December 25, 2004. Christmas Day.

For most of us it is a joyous occasion. It was for my family and I until early this afternoon, when our 9-year old pug, Abbey, died.

My brother knocked on my door as I was having my siesta. He was teary-eyed when he said the words, "Abbey died."

We had a family talk about it two days ago. My dad wanted to give Abbey to the city pound because he had a feeling she wasn't going to last long. My mom, brother, and I were adamant with his suggestion. We even compared it to sending him to an old folks home when he's about to die. Abbey is, or was, family.

It came as a shock that she had to go today. Of all days. As my dad carried her in a sack to be burried near the subdivision's chapel, I got teary-eyed. I've had my share of memories with her. Mostly of play time and grooming. But lately, I admit I had taken her for granted, thinking there will be more time later.

She mostly wants to play when I'm doing the laundry. But with all my gimiks and activities, laundry time meant cleaning time as well and I don't get to spend much play time with her as I used to. The last time I played with her was the time I took this picture, which was around my birthday this year.

There's always regret in moments of remorse like this.

Mortality.

If there is one thing for sure for every living creature, it's death -- an inevitable end to one's life.

Makes you want to sieze the moment and enjoy life to the fullest, huh?