To cope with loss, a pet parent writes a letter to his dog on the Rainbow Bridge

Gogol, you have crossed over to the Rainbow Bridge. You lived a great life of fun and frolic, gave us so much joy, love and happiness for 16 years and three months.

As the legend goes, pets who were close to someone on earth enter a lush, green meadow when they die. They are healed there, restored to their youth, and live without pain, while they wait to be reunited with the dear ones they had to leave behind.

For now, let me write a letter to you, Gogol. Remember how you used to read newspapers with me, that too the business papers? I am sure you will read this letter even though you won’t be able to write back. We will catch up when we meet.

My son Sujan, then in his late teens, brought you home in November 2009, a birthday gift for himself. You were probably a fortnight old (that’s what the vet said) and had lost your mother. We decided on 14 November, Children’s Day, as your birthday. You were Sujan’s child. I should have treated you like a grandson but often I felt you’re my second son, Sujan’s brother.

When you came to our house, your eyes were not fully open. For the first two weeks, you were a bottle-fed baby. You were quite naughty, too. You bit me once. And you bit your mom (or grandma) more than once. The second time it was a nasty cut. At that point, I seriously looked around for a pet shelter but Rita put her foot down—she refused to part with you. That was the last time you misbehaved. After Sujan went overseas for his studies, the three of us lived together and you came closer to my heart. There were times when I called you Sujan instead of Gogol.

We took you on long drives every few months—Vasai, Lonavala, Khandala, Alibag, Matheran, Pune... you name it and we have been there. We would pick a dog-friendly Airbnb where you could play. In Alibag, you swam in the sea and ran on the seashore. In Kolkata—a 30-hour train journey in a first-class coupe—you enjoyed the sun and gorged on rosgollas (I know sugar wasn’t good for you but you looked so happy and we were indulgent). There are so many moments we cherish.

Your mom always gave you a bath. You were her pet. You would jump up and down and dance on our bed, enjoying the brush and the towel. When she took you for a walk, you would walk double the distance, wagging your tail happily.

For me you were like a trophy—the most handsome and most popular pet in our area. After your daily morning and evening walks, you would spend at least an hour with the security guys at the society premises—pure adda. You were friendly with human beings and other pets alike. Nobody could guess your real age. Some would say, six, others eight, half your real age.

Roughly one-fourth of my life I spent with you, the most exciting phase of my life. When you were a four-year-old, I quit my regular job and started doing what I liked and writing books. In my tiny study, you were my constant companion—lying on the floor, yawning, looking at me, at times with disapproving eyes when I was working late.

I was amazed at how you could sense things. If I picked up an overnighter on the way to the airport, you would go inside and sulk. But when I left with just my office bag, you would come to the balcony and bark, saying bye. You started sleeping more, eating less and walking less over the last couple of years but there was a burst of energy once in a while. If I ever said, “jabi? (want to go?)”, you would rush to me like a kid. You knew we would take a car ride.

Two other words you knew were “ball” and “toy”, both your prized possessions. Your favourite toy was a rubber lizard, whose head you had chewed off. The moment a friend walked into my house, you would greet them with your toy or ball. After showing off, you would keep it in a safe place. Yet another English word you knew was “bye”; you never liked hearing it though.

For the last couple of years, you slept on our bed, jumping up the moment the lights were off. That’s what you did even the last night you spent at home before going to hospital. Even in the ICU, you were chirpy, bubbly, there were no signs that you'd say goodbye so soon.

I don’t want to write about your last days. You know, how much we loved you. You didn’t suffer much. There were so many people waiting to have a last look before we proceeded to the crematorium. So many flowers, bouquets and garlands.

It’s impossible to describe the emptiness I have been feeling in my heart since you left. I could never imagine you were so much for me. Not because you never argued with me, never looked at my faults. It’s much more than that. You were my friend. I have learnt from you how to suffer intense pain with a smile, not allowing others to know what you were going through. You were my disciplinary authority. The days the dog walker took leave, I would need to come home early in the evening to walk you. If Rita was not around, I would need to be at home in the evening to have dinner with you. I tried to make you happy and you always made me happy, Gogol.

I miss you. I recall our fun moments, the great time we spent together. That’s the best way to cope with the loss. In your new world, I am sure you are happy but you must be missing me, waiting for the day we are reunited. When the time comes, I will meet you at the Rainbow Bridge, and together we will cross over to heaven, never to be separated again. Never ever. Lots of love, my dear Gogol.

Papa (or, Grandpa)

Tamal Bandyopadhyay is an award-winning columnist and a best-selling author.