3. Always, Until You Weren't
Never thought you'd disappear. Not you.
It was during the summer break of my second year in university, on a day I was interning at a pharmaceutical company in Korea. Just as lunch was ending, I received a call—Bandal had gone missing during a walk. My grandfather, who had sat down for a moment to rest on a bench, had accidentally let go of her leash. Tears wouldn’t stop, but I couldn’t leave work. I was only an intern. My chest was boiling with panic. I had never imagined something like this could happen to us. I had absolutely no idea what to do when a dog goes missing. Thankfully, my sister had a friend who owned a cat and introduced us to a platform called Pawinhand—a widely used online space that connects animal shelters and facilitates information sharing for lost pets. My sister quickly uploaded Bandal’s profile, and my uncle made a missing poster. It included her photo and every detail we could think of—her black fur, the white patch on her chest, her nervous nature, the fact that she wasn’t spayed. We posted them all over the neighbourhood. Then, on the third or fourth morning after she went missing, a local firefighter called. On his way to work, he had seen the poster and recognised Bandal. He had found her wandering the streets, taken her into the fire station for a while, and that morning had turned her over to the district animal shelter. My mum and sister rushed to the shelter. And finally, Bandal came back home. That same afternoon, we went around the neighbourhood, taking down the posters one by one. The words printed on paper—“a timid, unspayed black mixed-breed dog”—no longer applied. She was simply Bandal again. Ours.
Losing Bandal, even for a few days, was probably my first experience of an unwanted farewell. That was when I learned what it might feel like for my parents if something ever happened to me. The feeling was so horrific that I never wanted to inflict that kind of pain—on myself or anyone else—ever again. I was in my early twenties then, and depression was my default state. The incident shocked me in a way I couldn’t fully articulate. For the first time, the idea settled in my body: nothing is guaranteed to stay. I had vaguely believed Bandal would always be there. She was still young (or so I told myself), and always with my grandparents. She’d be fine. I clung to that thought because it gave me a false sense of safety. People often said, “Live in the present,” “Don’t miss the little joys.” But back then, those words were theory to me—like mechanisms of drug actions that I had to memorise for exams, not something I genuinely understood. But the moment I held Bandal again, I realised. Nothing lasts forever.
Living far away, there wasn’t much I could do for Bandal. But I tried to take care of the things everyone else avoided—like her vet visits. One time, when I was back in Korea, I noticed she had lost a lot of weight. She had once been up to 4kg, but now she was only 3.2kg. Her spine showed through, and her already-small face had become noticeably thinner. Bandal hated going to the vet. She would sense it immediately and brace all four legs, refusing to move toward the clinic. That image still stings in my heart. The checkup showed fungal dermatitis, enlarged mammary benign tumours, and severe gum disease. Her appetite had dropped, probably because of the discomfort. I wanted to ask my grandparents to take better care of her, but I was too grateful to say anything. They had taken her in on our behalf and raised her with love. I didn’t feel I had the right to criticise. I wasn’t her primary guardian. So I did what little I could—bathe her, brush her teeth, take her on walks, bring her new clothes and treats, and gently remind my grandparents about her medication. That was all I could offer. Please stay healthy until I come back next time, Bandal. That was my only wish. Time felt cruel. I wanted the next holiday to come quickly, but at the same time, I dreaded that every passing day meant Bandal would grow older.
One of the biggest goals in my life had been to graduate from my university. I thought once I did, I’d become more positive, and my life would feel more stable. That was naive. The moment I graduated, I had to find a job quickly or risk losing my visa. I managed to get hired, but the tasks never ended. I couldn’t stop studying, and I had to juggle graduate school as well. Everyone at work seemed more capable than me. I kept going, somehow surviving the years. But I constantly asked myself: should I just give it all up and go back to Korea? I knew my time with Bandal was limited. I knew I was letting it slip away. Was this life worth it? In the end, I couldn’t make a choice—and because of that, I wasn’t there for Bandal’s final moments. After she passed, I hated myself. I couldn’t even tell what truly mattered in my life. I couldn’t be by the side of the one who mattered most. And for the first time, I questioned everything. Why was I living like this? Alone, exhausted, unsure.
Few weeks after Bandal passed, I had to call a 24-hour helpline Samaritans, something like Korea’s suicide prevention hotline. That night, her absence felt heavier than I could bear. At work, her death wasn’t considered “a family loss.” I was told to be careful not to appear unprofessional. Of course, they weren’t wrong, but before I was a pharmacist, I was a human being. That distinction stung. I had to go back to work as if nothing happened. Smile at people. Pretend. I felt pathetic. And somewhere in the back of my mind, the world seemed to whisper. Everyone goes through worse than this. It’s not that big of a deal. This is what being an adult means. Those words felt like they were dismissing my grief entirely. Was this really normal? Was I not allowed to feel this way? Was the whole world lying to me? So I cried to a stranger on the phone for two hours. I told her how everyone kept saying this isn’t something to grieve over. That I must be weird for feeling this much pain over a dog. But to me, Bandal wasn’t just a dog. Even during that call, I felt guilty. Was I taking up space meant for someone more desperate? Was I being dramatic? I hated myself—for choosing this place over more time with her. For not being there.
And still, life went on. I woke up every day in a world without Bandal. I’m still trying to understand it all, still quietly getting through each day. Even after that call, I keep returning to this question: Why is it that some losses are allowed to be mourned, and others are not? Those words—the ones that tried to contain my sorrow—only reminded me of how little space there is in this world for the grief I carried. Bandal was like a youngest sister to me, someone I would have given everything for. And yet, I was expected to move on as if nothing had happened. This society’s standards of who we’re allowed to grieve, and how much still feel cruel.
Even now, six months later, and probably for a long time to come, even the simplest question, "How are you?" feels uncomfortable. I still have to answer, "I'm good, you?" when I am not good at all. That question is too light for the truth I carry, and deep down, I don't believe anyone really wants to hear the real answer. So I find myself wishing. Maybe one day, companion animals will be fully recognised as family. Maybe then, the grief of people like me will be a little less lonely, a little less shameful, a little less in need of justification.
And until that day comes, I will remember Bandal.
I will carry her meaning. And I will continue to love those who are not always counted,
but always loved.