2. More Than Just a Dog
You were enough, even in silence.
Bandal was never part of our plan. Like most children, my sister and I always wanted a dog, but for our parents—busy working full-time—having a pet wasn’t even up for discussion. They simply didn’t have the emotional space to care for another living being. Around that time, my sister was emotionally worn down, and my mom was desperate to try anything that might help her.
"What if you adopt a dog?"
That gentle suggestion from my sister’s psychiatry consultant must have sounded like a final thread of hope to my mom. Grasping at anything she could, she brought home one of the puppies being cared for on a relative’s rural farm. We didn’t know then—how could we?—that tiny black creature would leave such a warm and lasting mark on our lives.
It was my mom who named her Bandal. She had a small white spot on her chest that looked like a crescent moon, like the Asiatic black bear known as "bandal-gaseum-gom" in Korean. From the moment she set her paws into our home, baby Bandal bounced around like a rubber ball. We didn’t know how to handle all that energy—because the truth was, we were still too young, and much too clueless. Back then, we didn’t understand what it meant to be guardians of a life. We didn’t know what rights animals had. And now, looking back, I see that all these sayings are just excuses—excuses born from our own immaturity. We didn’t do our best for young Bandal. She didn’t get enough walks, enough playtime, enough affection. Stuck indoors, with nowhere to release her energy, she began causing what we called “trouble.” She wasn’t house-trained. She jumped on furniture. She tore blankets. One time, she choked on a piece of cheese that had fallen to the floor. Only then did we rush her to the vet, holding her in our arms and crying. Now I realise that everything she did was perfectly normal. But back then, we didn’t know. We didn’t try to know. I adored her but never took care of her. I never cleaned up after her or fed her. In the end, all the burden fell on my mom—coming home from work, already exhausted. Later, she quietly confessed to us: during that time, she resented Bandal. Her life was already so heavy, and love alone wasn’t enough. We were all caught in a cycle—one that only now, in hindsight, I can describe as a quiet, painful spiral.
About two years after Bandal came into our lives, I moved abroad with my dad. My mom, working full-time and raising my sister on her own, eventually sent Bandal to live with my maternal grandparents. That’s where Bandal spent most of her life. Looking back, I think Bandal was the thread that tied me to Korea. I asked about her as an excuse to call my grandparents. Just knowing I’d see her made every trip back home exciting. Sometimes, even though Korea was my birthplace, it felt unfamiliar to me—but wherever Bandal was, I could tell myself, “That’s still home.”
My grandparents’ house had a black iron gate. A short slope led from it to a small garden and a washing line for drying laundry. Even after long absences, Bandal always came running to greet me at the gate. But over time, the distance she came to meet me got shorter. She stopped at the middle of the slope. Then one day, I had to walk all the way to the garden, open the front door, and gently touch her sleeping body to let her know I had arrived. Time had moved much faster for Bandal than it did for me.
Years passed. When my grandparents’ home was torn down as part of a redevelopment project, Bandal returned to my parents’ apartment. She was fifteen by then—older than I had been when we first met. I was working at a hospital. My sister had married and started her own family. My mom said, “We brought her into our lives. We’ll care for her until the end.” What began as responsibility soon grew into devotion. My mom became more attached to her than even I had been. And that’s when we discovered something new: Bandal had separation anxiety. Having grown up in a home where someone was always around, the silence of an apartment must have felt unbearable. One day, my mom left home for a short while and checked the pet camera. Bandal was crying, scratching at the door. My mom ran home in tears. From that day on, she and my father decided never to leave Bandal alone again. Wherever they went, they brought her along. And if they couldn’t, they left her with my grandparents or my uncle. They took her on at least three walks a day. They tried to give her back everything she hadn’t received when she was young. Hearing all this filled me with both guilt and gratitude.
I was never a good sister to Bandal. Every time I returned to Korea, I crammed all her care into that short time—baths, vet visits, dementia-prevention exercises. She hated those things. Maybe she remembered me as the sister who always made her uncomfortable. But that didn’t matter to me. If it helped keep her healthy, I was happy to be the villain. And still, she welcomed me every time. She had every right to hold a grudge, but she never did. When I was asleep, she would crawl between my legs and press her little body tightly against mine. That warmth—I still remember it.
And that’s how we became a real family. At first, it was enough just to have her near us. But at some point, we found ourselves wanting to give her more. With time, our hearts grew. That growth became responsibility, and that responsibility turned into love. Bandal never asked for much. Just to be by our side. To stay close. That was enough. And so we were sorry. And so very grateful.
She loved us longer, and deeper, than we ever imagined.