Fourteen years, three months, twenty-three days

He died, my Palito, and I don’t feel the least bit grateful.

My Palito succumbed after fourteen years, three months, and twenty-three days, weighing a mere twenty-three pounds, with a heart that seized his entire rib cage. He was a male whippet with white and golden fur, the flawless offspring of Paris and Guga, and descended from ancestors with offbeat names, such as a female dog called Crème Ceci Bonne and another christened Crazy Sexy Cool. His dowry cost my entire paycheck and was paid in three post-dated checks known in the literature as “The Palito's Checks.”

He was a sweet and well-mannered dog like all whippets, but physically brave and outgoing in an uncharacteristic way for the breed. There was nothing of the typical shy and fearful sighthound about him, cowering in a corner or hiding behind his owner. He was my companion in all wild goose chases, and I would only leave home without him if it couldn't be helped. If there was a way—no matter how troublesome or frowned upon—that was the way we took.

He was an absolute delight. His fur, his smell, his breath, his voice, his gestures, the delicate petals that were his little ears. He rarely sat and outright refused to lie on hard surfaces. So, off we went, with a Snoopy mat rolled up under my arm, tied to my backpack, or clumsily around my waist. But even the mat didn’t meet his standards of softness, and he would passive-aggressively sulk at long dinners and extended coffees. Every so often, I would give in and bring a bulky dog bed that barely fit under those narrow restaurant tables.

He loathed dog parking areas and the endless waits outside places, but he bore it for my sake, only letting out a rare bark when the pharmacist took way too long to check my prescriptions on cold days or when some moron got stuck at the checkout for no discernible reason. He was fond of cats, but only José returned his affection, and together they would bask in the sun, napping under a giant fuchsia bush in my mother-in-law's backyard.

Oh, he had many funny and adorable quirks and would willingly tailor his speed to suit his date for the day. He was always ready to walk a marathon, play ball until collapse, or catch a serious nap. He was gossipy and nosy, street-smart and affectionate, obedient and dignified. He followed commands as if they were intriguing suggestions from a promising intern. He was territorial about seating spots and indeed got kicked out of the daycare van for tussling over the front seat with a golden retriever known as Duke. Up until the end, he was still beating Bingo in sprint races.

He died, my Palito, and I don’t feel the least bit grateful. I don’t think he turned into a star, nor that he reunited with my late husband. Death is an absolute defeat, a complete annihilation, an outlandish idea, an unfaceable void that we fill with crappy illusions to put lipstick on the inevitable pig. It offers no meaning, no wisdom. It's neither a form of rest nor a reunion or transformation, and it surely doesn't unfold a new cycle. Fresh things may arise despite death, not because of it, and we rightly approach them with cold feet. It's rebuilding the house for the next flood.

If I were to pinpoint any positive in death, it’s that it grooms us for our own demise. It depletes life bit by bit until it hardly matters, so go ahead, be my guest in helping yourself to such small potatoes.