The circle of Samsaragi
When a dog dies, grief lingers quietly. It’s in the silence where paws once tapped, in the corners where a wagging tail used to flicker like light. Their absence isn’t something you can see, but you feel it everywhere, as if the whole house has to learn how to breathe again.
And here I am at midnight, caught in my own “Late night finds” trend on TikTok, the kind that comes when the world is still, and memory refuses to sleep. Tonight I find myself remembering our dog—our first, our oldest, the one who became part of our family’s story. And I keep wondering: when Samsaragi died, who did he run to first? Was it us, or was it my father waiting for him on the other side?
His name was neither meant to sound Indian nor was it borrowed from some distant culture. My father named him after a military man in our town, someone he admired and, I believe, even called a friend. That’s how Samsaragi, or simply Sam as we often called him, came to us. He was our first and oldest pet—black, short-tailed, soldier-like in the way he carried himself, and the bravest “aspin” I had ever known.
He came into our lives in October 2007, a gift from my late father for my brother’s birthday. I was too young then to realize what his arrival meant, but looking back, it was the beginning of a chapter that would shape our family’s story. Sam was more than a pet; he was a friend, a companion, and eventually, a mirror of the emotions we carried as a family.
My father was a police officer in our small, quiet hometown. For two years, Sam became his constant shadow. When my father went on patrol or headed to his office, Sam trailed faithfully behind, as though he, too, had been trained for duty. People in the community often noticed them together—two guardians walking side by side. Their bond was silent but unshakable.
I remember one afternoon before my father got sick, how he crouched down to pat Sam’s short tail while teasing him with scraps of food. Sam’s ears perked at my father’s deep, steady laugh, looking at him the way a child looks at a parent with trust, awe, and love that asked for nothing in return. That moment stays with me, proof of how much they belonged to each other.
In 2009, my father passed away from an illness he had quietly carried for years. Sam was only two years old then, but he seemed to understand the loss in a way that broke me. I still remember the dawn after my father’s death—gray, heavy, and unbearably still. It was Sam who broke that silence, barking into the morning air with a cry that was sharp, aching, and full of grief. It was the same bark he had given the first day he entered our home, as though his life with us was tied together by two calls, the beginning and the end. Sam had lost his master, his closest companion, without the chance to say goodbye.
For all his bravery, Sam carried his own fears. He was terrified of lightning. Whenever thunder cracked the sky, and the rain came down cold, he would tremble, pressing himself against us for warmth. Sometimes he would cry, soft whimpers that reminded me that animals have emotions just as we do. They know fear, sorrow, and longing—sometimes more purely than humans.
Sam stayed with us for 13 years. Then, at dawn on my sister’s 18th birthday in 2020, he left us. Instead of waking up to joy and celebration, her day was greeted with the saddest news: Sam was gone. The balloons, the food, and the music prepared for her debut could not drown out the grief that swept through our home. It felt cruel, but also strangely fated: he had arrived in our family on a birthday, and he departed on a birthday. Thirteen years—the same number tied to my father’s death anniversary. Their stories seemed bound together by an invisible thread we could not break.
Sam was more than our pet. He was family. He guarded not only our home but also the memory of my father, standing as a living link to him long after he was gone. And though Sam feared thunder, rain, and the cold, I like to believe that when he left, he ran toward the warmth of the place where my father was waiting.
I often wonder how they are now—Sam and my father—together again. Months from now, both of them will be remembered on their death anniversaries, and I imagine them side by side once more. I hope Sam ran immediately into my father’s arms, eager to tell him that while he was still alive, he had seen his family never stumble, never give up.
I hope he told my father that we are okay—that we are still standing, still living, and that we continue loving them both, not just for now, but for infinity.
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David Ezra Francisquete, 26, is a Davao-based journalist covering stories in Davao and across Mindanao. He enjoys reading autobiographies, exploring pop culture, and occasionally diving into encyclopedias.
