9. How to Guard the Heart
The Strength of Quiet Courtesy
The meaning and weight of refusal differ from person to person, from moment to moment. Some refusals are sharp and cold, while others are clumsy and faint. Bandal’s refusals were always polite, never malicious. I often teased her without reason—pressing her soft paw while she was resting, or staring at her face just to meet her eyes. There was always a hidden fear in me that we might not be guaranteed another “next time,” so I tried to hold on to every bit of her presence. Not knowing any of this, Bandal would simply turn her head away or gently pull back her paw from my hand. Nothing more, nothing less. It was her way of saying, “No,” without ever hurting me. Of course, my foolish younger self ignored that polite refusal and carried on, unable to resist her cuteness.
Toward the end, Bandal weighed less than four kilograms, yet her presence was larger than anyone’s. Her ears stood like a rabbit’s, her belly was soft as clouds, her eyelashes stretched long and delicate, and above all, her eyes sparkled even in the smallest of moments. She rarely raised her voice, but as she aged, she sometimes let out mysterious howls. It sounded as if she were calling for my father, still outside, or perhaps answering a signal we could never understand. But there was one exception—bath time. From that tiny body came a cry so fierce it felt as though the world itself was trembling. In those moments, claws extended, she declared her refusal with her whole being. It took both my parents to finally get through it. That was Bandal’s most resolute way of saying no. And even then, she never harmed us. She only protected her own boundary.
Her refusals extended to food as well. With her picky palate, she simply would not eat what she didn’t like. For a time, she refused kibble altogether, worrying the entire family. Even if we tried to slip it into her mouth, she would shake her head and refuse to swallow. It was the most honest refusal a small life could express. In the end, it was up to us to find what she would accept. Dried pollack, sweet potatoes, chicken breast. Looking back, that too was Bandal’s way. Not blind obedience, but a quiet request for her choices to be respected. It was her way of saying she, too, had a share of will. And perhaps that stubbornness was, in truth, a gift of trust—a way of showing us her honest self, because she loved us and believed we would understand.
In life, everyone encounters moments of refusal. Unspoken words, undone actions, choices lost in passing time. Because we are imperfect, we sometimes hurt others or are hurt ourselves. In my work, where even the smallest mistake cannot be allowed, I am always on edge. When the pressure builds, I often become sharp with those around me, letting my moods slip into my actions. It’s a version of myself I wish I could change, yet it persists. At those times, I remember Bandal. The way she was firm yet gentle, protecting her own heart while never forgetting respect for the other. With her small body, she already knew what I am still learning that refusal can be not a weapon, but a way to guard both self and other at once. Bandal never once bit or growled. Even if I slipped my fingers into her mouth, she would simply turn her head and let her tongue brush against me. Firm, yet never harsh. That was her strength.
Sometimes I imagine. If the measure of Bandal’s heart could be weighed, it would surely be vast enough to cover the whole earth. With that generous heart, she left no one wounded. Anyone who met her received only joy, only comfort. In an age where hatred breeds hatred and anger breeds more anger, I wonder if a world filled with beings like Bandal might be a kinder, gentler one.
I am still learning. My refusals often take the shape of irritation and sharpness. But as long as I remember Bandal, I know I can learn. To guard my boundaries with quiet strength, to say no without wounding others. The greatest gift Bandal left me is the language of gentle refusal. If I can keep hold of that language, then perhaps one day, like her, I too can offer a little hope to the world.
