Cupcake wasn’t just a dog—she was family. She was there through nearly every major chapter of my life: from my days as a bachelor to getting engaged, married, and becoming a father. For twelve wonderful years, she gave us joy, companionship, and that quiet, unconditional love only a dog can provide.

I still remember the day she walked into my life. Although the runt of her litter, she was a spirited little furball with short, wavy hair and the most expressive eyes. In all the places in the world, I never thought that we'd meet in a dusty and smelly junk shop somewhere in Sta. Rosa, Laguna. Even then, her bright spirit and independent mind shone through. When she first came home, she stunk so badly—our vet had advised giving her time to acclimate before her first bath—yet we didn’t mind. We were already falling in love.

Cupcake wasn’t a picky eater, but it took time to find a food that agreed with her stomach. Patiently, we tried different brands until we found the perfect match and taught her to wait for her signal before diving in: “Cupcake… OK!” She quickly learned to respond only to her name and to use her designated wee-wee spot like a pro. Though she had standards about unbathed dogs, she melted at the sight of boiled chicken and Greek yogurt—her tail wagged every single time.

She accompanied us on every adventure. Cupcake stood by our side as a steadfast companion on our journey though life. We took her to the beach in Batangas—she wasn’t sure what to make of the crashing waves but loved strolling along the sand. We hiked up to Baguio City’s pine-scented streets and felt Tagaytay’s cool breeze together. Back then, pet‐friendly destinations were rare so we needed to search high and low for spots that welcomed her. Even as we moved houses frequently, she adapted joyfully to every new home and city.

Grooming never fazed her. She lay contentedly on her belly in front of a floor fan while we combed her hair or (attempted to) trimmed her nails, sometimes drifting into a light slumber. After one visit to a new groomer, she developed an on-and-off skin condition. We learned our lesson quickly and took grooming into our own hands, keeping her coat clean and her spirit high. Because of her ongoing skin issues, we couldn’t let her get too close to our newborn son—a heartbreaking precaution, since we longed for them to bond.

She made us laugh with every antic: chasing shadows, zooming across the living room, or curling up at my feet while I worked, then sneaking a gentle lick on my leg as if to say, “I’m here.” As she grew older, we limited her outdoor time to keep her safe from infections, but to us, she remained our baby—always full of life and laughter.

On February 28, 2025, we said goodbye to Cupcake. Only days earlier, she had greeted me with a gentle tail wag—yet in an instant, her strength gave out. We rushed her to the vet, and after initial tests, the vet informed us she was battling advanced chronic kidney disease and pancreatitis. We confined her under close watch for almost a week, hoping she’d get better. During that time, I brought her favorite toys and treats each day, hoping they might aid her recovery, but her condition worsened. When the vet called again to say she may not have much time left, we raced to the clinic. We arrived just moments after she had slipped away. I touched her cold body with my hands; the warmth that once defined her was gone. The chance to see her alive one last time—to say our final goodbye—had passed. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face as I whispered our love, hoping she could feel each and every word.

I refuse to let the image of her on that steel table be my lasting memory. Instead, we found a place to give her a proper sendoff: she lay tidy on a bed adorned with flowers and infused with the sweet scent of lavender, and we stayed a while to say our final goodbyes—a fitting tribute to everything she meant to us. Afterwards, we entrusted her to be cremated with love and respect, ensuring that her remains received the same care and dignity she showed us every day.

It brings comfort to know that she is in doggie heaven, free from her pain—her coat long and soft, her eyes bright and clear—maybe chasing cats in the sky, barking at waves from a safe distance, or curling up by someone’s feet as she used to.

We miss her terribly, but I know she lived a wonderful life and gave us more than we could ever repay. Cupcake wasn’t just our dog—she was a witness to our lives, a gentle presence who taught us about love, loyalty, and the grace of letting go.

This is for her—with all our love.