A Note Beforehand

It’s been a while since I last wrote a blog post. During my internship at ByteDance, I’ve had little time for reflection or summarization, so my blog has remained inactive for quite some time.

This sudden blog post comes only because my dog passed away—I suddenly felt compelled to record this event.

My Dog Was Called Rouqiu (Meatball)

This was actually my second dog named “Qiuqiu” (Ball). The first one was a Teddy that went missing during my high school years.

My dog wasn’t officially named Qiuqiu; I called him Rouqiu. Back in spring 2020, during the pandemic lockdowns, Mom brought him home from a friend’s house. When he first arrived, he was just a small black ball with soft fur—hence my nickname for him, “little meatball.” As his owner, I claimed naming rights, and thus everyone in the family—Mom, Dad, Grandma—all followed suit.

I don’t like giving dogs names previously used for other pets; he was a new dog, different from the former Qiuqiu. He was the first dog I raised myself—the cage, water bottle, cushion were all purchased by me. On the very first day he came home, he pooped under my bed, and at 3 AM I was cleaning up after him while he whimpered until five in the morning.

During those boring days stuck at home, he was one of the few joys I had outside of electronic devices. Thinking back now, it feels like not too long ago—but he passed away seemingly in his prime.

He was an anchor point for me when I was home. Imagine having such a puppy—when you sit down, he flips over and lies at your feet, whining and urging you to rub his belly. That was exactly the kind of dog he was—and he only did this with me, from birth until death.

I Called Him Master

I rarely used his name directly, as Grandma usually referred to him with reduplicated syllables, so he inherited the name Qiuqiu there.

Don’t remember exactly when, but eventually I stopped calling him Rouqiu and started referring to him as Master.

At first, Mom was curious why I gave him such a title, even pretending to scold me and forbidding me from using it. But she gradually got used to how I called him. Mom never really understood why I insisted on that name, and I never intended to explain to her that I use this term for many people.

These individuals aren’t particularly smart—they’re sometimes even foolish and showy—so I needed a mocking way to refer to them collectively. “Master” seemed like a good fit—it sounds subtly sarcastic without being overtly offensive. They simply didn’t know I also used it for my dog.

Master himself wasn’t stupid, though he was indeed a bit showy. With his short little legs, he’d bounce around provocatively challenging other dogs, putting on a bold front despite his timidity—this is how Mom described him.

Master Was a Laid-back Dog

Master was a local mixed breed, yet he always carried a unique aura. He was a rough-around-the-edges dog with a touch of carefree charm.

I’m not sure if all local mixed-breed puppies eventually turn grayish-white as they grow older, but Master definitely did. Within a short time, he transformed from a tiny black ball into a scruffy white “Yu Hua”—a colloquial Chinese term for someone whose hair turns gray and white early.

All dogs enjoy sunbathing, but Master had his own style—he preferred to squat on my shoe tops with his butt facing up, perhaps believing his rear end was too noble to touch the ground directly. For a period, my shoes were constantly covered in dog hair. Fortunately, he never defecated on them, which was a relief.

He was very casual about things. Mom bathed him regularly. Taking a local mixed-breed dog to a pet groomer felt awkward, so Mom washed him at home, buying brushes, clippers, and a mini hair dryer for him. Master was easygoing—he rarely resisted most actions like bathing, grooming, or ear rubbing. The only exception was riding electric scooters—he either wouldn’t or couldn’t ride them properly. He would just jump on and off, looking quite comically clumsy. Therefore, he rarely joined me on outings via e-scooter, which I found somewhat regrettable; such a cool-looking scruffy dog should be chasing the wind—that’s what I thought anyway.

I still miss his messy coat, his ruggedly handsome face, those short legs swaying his hips when walking, and that stubborn butt of his that refused to touch the ground.

Master’s Life Wasn’t Easy

Master’s life was quite bumpy—he was plagued by illnesses throughout.

Mom and Grandma often joked that the money spent treating his ailments could have bought several local puppies. Of course, spending money on buying another local pup might not appeal to them, but investing in Master’s treatments? Grandma likely would willingly do so.

Master was especially close to Grandma. Most dogs naturally bond well with elderly folks, but there was something different here—I could sense his deep, almost instinctive affection toward her. After all, Grandma helped raise him—just like she had done with many of my previous dogs. This time, however, was the most serious. Probably, I won’t have another dog living at home again.

Mom and Grandma accompanied Master through numerous IV sessions. In their words, since he was my dog, they wanted to take good care of him before I returned home.

Very few dogs get sick as easily as he did. Although much of it was self-inflicted—being a show-off dog—but oftentimes, these issues stemmed from old health problems acquired in his younger days.

Master was not neutered, mainly due to various reasons including my financial constraints. Naturally, I won’t tolerate any criticism regarding this matter. So he passed away with dignity—as a male dog, not a castrated one.

Because of mating incidents, Master clearly made many mistakes and suffered greatly for them. Out of respect for the deceased, it’s inappropriate to speak ill of him here. All I can say is, Master’s life was full of hardships.

“That’s it then, no more dogs in the future”

“That’s it then, no more dogs in the future,” said Mom.

To be honest, Master’s passing doesn’t feel particularly painful to me. I haven’t been the one spending the longest time with him anymore. Since my third year of college, I’ve only been able to go home during winter break. Yet, he still eagerly urged me to scratch his belly whenever I sat down, joyfully bouncing around near my feet—though less frequently as time passed.

It’s understandable—less interaction over time, yet he could still recognize my scent, my voice, and remember the special name I used for him. That alone was already a sign of his favor towards me.

Master passed away prematurely, arriving in my life as a milestone marker. His sudden departure somehow reminded me that much time had indeed passed.

Actually, not really. Master died too young, perishing in an absurd summer through an equally absurd cause.

That’s it then, no more dogs in the future.