The most feared text of recent years has arrived.
It was 2010 when I was asked to see what was inside the cardboard box just outside the living room at my grandparents' house. I was 8 years old, and everyone knew what I asked for on my birthdays: a dog or a brother. In the end, life decided to be so generous and gave me both things in the same name: Ruca.
Ruca wasn't just a dog. He was my best friend, my chosen brother and, for my parents, he was also a son. The kind where love can't be explained, only felt. He grew up with us, he grew up with me, and he was part of every part of our lives.
I miss him: I miss him in every gesture that was so like him. When he would go to the trash can in my room and spread the papers all over the carpet. When he came to wipe himself on my blanket, as if it were a napkin.
When we played hide-and-seek all over the house, but he already knew my strategic places (I was always discovered).
And those "fights" in our house, to see who would get up first to give him water from the bidet, through the sound of his paws scraping or his barking, which lately was already hoarse. (My little boy was so chic that he only wanted water from the bidet.)
And I could stay here for hours, days, remembering our life over these long 15 years.
They were great years with him, but nothing compares to the pain I feel when I think of my life without him.
01/04/2010 – 14/11/2025
Gratitude, from your eternal family 🤍
(From Kiko, his sister, his parents, his grandparents, his uncles and aunts).
