Guided by light, driven by dreams, and ready to fly.

Author: Ember

  • 🐾 Hold my leash: This Dog Ain’t It

    Narrated by Susan

    It was a rainy Saturday morning and I went to the market alone. I left Oishi at home because he doesn’t like muddy paws (he thinks he’s royal — like Prince of Pawtanamo or something).

    Salary was still 15 days away, so Wagyu beef was clearly out of reach. I settled for galunggong (that’s a fish — yes, that’s its real name), plus a few essentials, including Oishi’s food. Not that he’d eat it. According to him, it “smells fishy.” (Which it is. Because it’s fish.)

    While walking with my umbrella, I paused to count my change — only to realize the vendor shorted me a peso. And listen, with the way my finances are set up, one peso matters. So I turned back, gathered all my courage, and told the vendor, “Miss, I think your change is short by a peso. I’ll give it to the beggar.”

    (Not true. Honestly, that beggar probably has more cash than me today.)

    The vendor handed me the peso with a judgmental face. She didn’t believe my excuse. Whatever. I walked off, wind howling, and boom — my umbrella flipped, slid from my hand, and flew off like it was trying to immigrate.

    As I chased after it, I spotted a stray dog. Big guy. Soaked and shivering. My heart melted.

    He reminded me of Oishi — the day I found him years ago. I still had Oishi’s leash in my bag, so I clipped it on. We walked home together. (He looked too big for public transport anyway.)

    At home, I dried him off, gave him food and water, and snuck him into the dog house I had made for Oishi — which Oishi never uses because, apparently, he thinks he owns the house. I didn’t want him to see the new dog just yet. Oishi would absolutely overreact.

    So for now, the new doggo had food, water, shelter, and peace. For about 24 hours.

    Narrated by Oishi

    I have noticed some changes.

    My food bowl? Always half full.

    My requests for snacks? Denied.

    Susan’s excuse? “Drink some water.”

    Excuse me?

    Either she’s broke again (probably bought another useless siopao maker), or she’s putting me on a diet. Either way, unacceptable.

    Also — she’s been acting sus. Always sneaking off to the backyard. Last time, she carried a Tupperware that smelled like my food. I barked. I confronted her.

    She denied it. In. My. Face.

    This morning, I saw her doing the “spy look.” You know — scanning the room like someone about to commit a crime. She tiptoed to the backyard. She left the door ajar.

    So I waited.

    I tippawed.

    I entered.

    And what I saw…

    A massive brown dog.

    Cuddling MY Susan.

    Licking her face.

    SHE WAS LAUGHING.

    And guess what was in the Tupperware?

    My. Food.

    I snapped. I barked from the depths of my soul. I charged like a knight from Barkthurian legend. That giant mutt had to go.

    And he did. He ran. Victory bark achieved.

    Susan again (irritated, obviously)

    First of all, the big brown doggo was minding his business. He slept in the dog house. I checked on him daily. Gave him Oishi’s food. (Don’t tell that little shih tzu — he’s overweight anyway. I’ll make it up to him on payday.)

    One morning, I thought Oishi was asleep. I tiptoed to the backyard with food and water.

    Oishi caught me.

    I denied it.

    Again.

    (Yes, I’m a terrible liar.)

    I hurried outside, sat with brown doggo, cuddled him, and even started thinking of names.

    And then… I heard war drums.

    Oishi came running — full sprint.

    He barked like the ghost of his ancestors sent him.

    Brown doggo panicked and bolted.

    And Oishi? He gave me this smug look like,

    “See Sus? I protected you.”

    I snapped.

    “GET INSIDE! I’ve HAD IT with you!”

    Then I blurted it out.

    “I found him the same way I found YOU. Soaked. Abandoned. I let you in. I fed you. Don’t forget that!”

    And just like that… Oishi started crying.

    Oishi (sobbing softly)

    She’s right.

    I was jealous.

    I’m sorry.

    I licked her face and whispered, “I’m sorry, Sus.”

    She scooped me up, her eyes teary.

    “You’ll always be my one and only badoodle. But I had to help him too. We’re just tight on money now.”

    I hugged her tighter. And then I jumped down and grabbed my leash.

    My way of saying:

    “Let’s go find him.”

    We searched the park.

    The market.

    Even the precinct.

    No doggo.

    Finally, we heard a noise from the other side of the backyard — where the trash cans are. The place where I once cried, thinking Susan abandoned me.

    And there he was.

    Big. Brown. Puppy-eyed.

    Waiting.

    Boyo came by to visit and saw the dog. His eyes lit up.

    “I always wanted a dog,” he said, petting the mutt. The dog clearly liked him too.

    Before anyone could get sentimental, Susan interrupted:

    “I know his name. Let’s call him Chocolat — duh, look at his color.”

    We laughed.

    I felt lighter.

    I think I’ll recruit Chocolat to Barkimony Summit.

    Every hero needs a sidekick.

    And I’m ready to share the food.

    (…sometimes.)

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • Susan & Oishi Meet Anghelito, Angelusito, and Demonyito (Part 1) 😇 😈

    🕊️ Narrated by: Kap Angel

    “¡Como están todos! I’m Kap Angel, your heavenly narrator for today—so buckle up and maybe say a little prayer.”

    Now, you’re probably wondering:

    “Why is this charming uncle-angel narrating instead of the loud hooman and her judgmental Shih Tzu?”

    Valid question.

    Let’s rewind to the incident at Heaven’s kitchen.

    Scene 1: The Great Lechon War

    It all began with two angels — Anghelito and Angelusito — fighting over the last piece of lechon.

    (Yes, lechon. Don’t ask. It’s heaven. We have range.)

    The tug-of-war got so intense that the meat flew into the air, hit the ceiling, and knocked the coffee machine off balance. Again.

    These two?

    Always doing harmless but highly annoying things.

    Yesterday, Angelusito took the last muffin and ate it in slow motion in front of Anghelito.

    So naturally, Anghelito drank Angelusito’s glass of water…

    …which caused a dramatic choking fit and a surprise trip to the heavenly clinic.

    Sometimes I ask the Boss why these two are still up here.

    But then again, our Boss is love. And also… justice.

    So I did what every Kap would do:

    I tattled. 😇

    Scene 2: Judgment Daylight

    We stood before the Almighty.

    Too majestic to describe. So I just… humbly explained the mess.

    And then, God spoke.

    “One of the greatest commandments is to love your neighbor as yourself…”

    “But you two? You keep fighting over muffins and meat.”

    Angelusito gasped dramatically — Heaven’s WIFI glitched for a second.

    “As a lesson,” God continued, “you will be sent down to look after Susan and Oishi.”

    I nodded solemnly.

    They begged for a different assignment.

    Then Father God added “I love them as I love all my creation. My Son have met them. Honestly… they’re just like you two”

    Scene 3: Jesus’ Farewell Speech

    At the gate, just before takeoff, Jesus appeared.

    “Anghelito, Angelusito… you’re going to a broken world.”

    “You’ll experience injustice, discouragement, maybe even get mocked — like they did to Me.”

    “You’ll face doubt. And it’ll sting.”

    Angelusito raised his hand:

    “Lord, can You convince Father God to let us stay?”

    Jesus smiled.

    “The decision’s made. But I will be with you — always. Even in the darkest valley.”

    “Encourage them. Be good to them. And if their attitude makes you want to scream…”

    “Remember… I died for them.”

    Oof. That one always lands.

    Kap Angel’s Notes on the Duo

    • Anghelito: Pilot. Stoic. Loves Jesus but doesn’t laugh when God tells jokes.

    Later that day, he told me the Lord’s joke was hilarious and that he “almost cried.”

    • Angelusito: Overthinker. Sweet, but too caught up in details.

    One time, an angel sprained her wing, and instead of helping, he debated which type of bandage was best for 15 minutes.

    Anyway. Off they went. Assigned to Susan and Oishi. Heaven help us.

    Cut to Earth — Oishi Narrates (Grumpily)

    It was a regular Saturday. I was minding my own business when I saw Susan holding a frying pan… headed to the bathroom.

    I thought, “Oh no, not this again.”

    She looked at me, did that weird “I see you, you see me” military hand signal, and whispered,

    “Oishi, I hear noises in the toilet. Must be a rat.”

    We crept closer. She turned the knob slowly…

    And then—boom.

    There was a tiny demon with a plunger.

    Just standing there.

    “Greetings, hooman and dog,” he said.

    (Excuse me? Dog? I’m a BABY.) 🤬

    “I’m Demonyito,” he announced. “I’m here to make your lives mildly inconvenient until your patience collapses!”

    “You’ll feel annoyed… fed up… then you’ll snap!”

    “You’ll be rude to others, bark at your friends, and BOOM — you’ve forgotten kindness. That’s how I win.”

    Then he threw the plunger at the faucet, flooded the bathroom, and bolted out laughing like a possessed karaoke machine.

    Susan screamed. I barked.

    To be continued…🐾😇😈

  • I Still Bought the Shoes, Lord

    Oishi Narrating
    It was a beautiful Sunday — sunny, clear, and breezy — so Sus decided we should go to the park.
    As usual, she walked while I ran. The air was fresh, the grass smelled alive, and as I sniffed around, I noticed a faint glow in the distance. It wasn’t too bright, but it felt… peaceful. Then I saw Him again — the Man with a hole in His hand.

    The first time I saw Him was when Sus and I encountered those ghosties (don’t ask). The second time was in my dream, right before a coconut nearly hit my head. But this time, He was just there — calm, kind, glowing.

    I was about to call Sus when, of course, she saw Him first.
    “Loooord! You’re here!” she shouted dramatically, sprinting toward Him. Before I could even roll my eyes, she had already plopped herself on the swing beside Him.

    “Lord,” she said breathlessly, “I saw a beautiful pair of gold stilettos — like the kind angels wear at weddings!”

    Jesus smiled gently. “How are you, my child? You seem happy today. I’m glad you’re this joyful.” Then He chuckled. “Ah, stilettos and gold — must be nice… but no, Sus.”

    Susan Narrating
    Sunday morning, I woke up so excited. The weather looked perfect, and Oishi was nibbling at the hem of my pajamas — his usual way of saying ‘feed me, peasant.’

    But instead of feeding him, I opened my laptop. I’d been eyeing this pair of gold stilettos for a week now. The kind that makes you feel like you’re walking on a runway. I could already imagine it: one, two, walk, flip hair, slay.

    Still, there was this small voice whispering, Don’t buy it.
    So I prayed — but not exactly to ask for guidance. I prayed to convince God to support my decision. (Don’t judge me. You’ve done it too.)

    After my “prayer,” I opened the window, felt the morning breeze, and decided to go to the park. I fed Oishi — he ate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and even burped in front of me. Disrespectful, but adorable.

    At the park, everything was calm. The wind, the trees, the sound of children playing. Then Oishi barked and ran toward the playground. I followed… and that’s when I felt it — peace. That quiet, steady kind of peace that feels like a hug.

    And there He was. Sitting on the swing.
    You just know it’s Him. Gentle yet powerful. Approachable but with authority. I ran toward Him, half crying, half giggling. “Loooord! You’re here!”

    I sat beside Him, still catching my breath. “Lord, I’ve been eyeing this pair of gold stilettos. They’re so pretty — like shoes angels wear at weddings!”

    He smiled, asked how I’d been, how Oishi was, and then said softly, “They’re beautiful, but no, Sus.”
    And just like that, my heart cracked like a dry biscuit.

    Oishi Narrating Again
    On the way home, Sus kept sobbing. She hugged me like a pillow.
    “Oishiii… Jesus said no. But I really, really like the shoes.”

    When we got home, she opened her laptop again and clicked “Buy Now.”
    I said, “Sus, Big Guy said no.”
    She ignored me.

    A few hours later, the doorbell rang. She screamed like she’d won the lottery.
    The package had arrived — she even paid for express shipping.

    When she opened the box, her eyes sparkled like a child’s first trip to Disneyland. She lifted the shoes, sniffed them, and started rubbing them like a magic lamp.
    “They’re so beautiful! I still don’t understand why Jesus said no.”

    Later that day, she went to a party with Brenda and Yohanes — wearing those golden heels. The problem? She couldn’t even walk properly.
    “I can handle it, Oishiii!” she said, wobbling toward the door like a baby deer on stilts.

    A few hours later… “Oishiii! I can’t handle it!”

    Brenda and Yohanes carried her in like wounded soldiers. Her feet were swollen and red. “I thought I could handle it,” she winced. “Now I understand why Jesus said nope. Oishiii, don’t pour too much alcohol!”

    She couldn’t go to work for three days. Kept saying she regretted not listening.

    When she finally recovered, we went back to the park that evening.
    There He was again — sitting on the swing, peaceful as always.

    Sus walked over, face full of remorse.
    “Lord,” she sighed, “I still bought the gold shoes… right after we talked. I thought I could handle it. I didn’t understand why You said no.”

    But instead of scolding her (as I totally would have), Jesus smiled and said,
    “Let’s start over. This time, listen. Keep praying. Discern, okay, Sus?”

    Sus nodded like a toddler, then hugged Him tight. He hugged her back.
    And me? I nibbled at the edge of His robe — just to join the moment.
    We all laughed.

    Still Rising, Still Barking. 🐾🔥

    ✍️ Writer’s Note

    Most of us are like Susan — we keep insisting even when God says no. We rely on our own understanding, thinking we know what’s best. But sometimes, that no is God’s protection — a gentle way of saying, “Not yet, because you are not ready,” or “That’s not for you.”

    If she had the “training,” meaning maturity, readiness, or even discernment, maybe the answer could’ve been yes later on. But in that moment, Jesus knew she’d get hurt — literally blistered feet and all.

    Let’s learn to trust Him more, even when His answer isn’t what we wanted. Because His no always leads to something better.

    “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding;
    in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
    — Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV)

  • ✈️ Delulu Island: Where God Rerouted My Vacation

    Narrated by Oishi

    For the past few weeks, Susan’s been operating on full-blown Dramatic Mode. I—Oishi, her long-suffering emotional support furball—have reached my limit.

    It’s too hot. Then it’s too cold. It’s too noisy. Then too quiet.

    The food? Either too salty, too sweet, or “my siopao tastes different.”

    Mind you, she’s been buying siopao from the same store for the past five years.

    Every day it’s:

    “Badoodle, I need a vacation.

    A new place. Or a new planet.”

    She opens her laptop like she’s searching for a new galaxy. Then suddenly—sparkles.

    Cheap flight.

    Eyes wide.

    Voice dramatic.

    “Badoodle, prepare your things. We’re going to an island.”

    And then she goes full delulu:

    “I’m imagining myself in a swimsuit… hair down, sunglasses on…

    Then one Adonis approaches and says,

    ‘Hey, you look stunning. Can I have your number?’”

    She flips her hair like she’s on a shampoo commercial. Meanwhile, I’m internally bleeding.

    But okay—an island sounds nice.

    Sit by the shore.

    Coconut juice.

    Chicken on a stick.

    Heaven.

    Next thing I know, she scoops me up, throws me into a tote bag, and boom—we’re at the airport.

    Susan narrating

    I was so excited I packed light. Scooped Badoodle. Zipped out the door.

    But when we got on the plane… something felt off.

    No flight attendants.

    All the other passengers were in uniform.

    There were literal cargo crates.

    Then I gasped.

    “Badoodle…

    We got on the wrong plane.”

    I ran to the pilot—who, by the way, looked very serious—and said,

    “Miss Pilot, this is a mistake. I need to get off.”

    She looked me dead in the eye:

    “We’re airborne.

    Sit down.”

    “Where is this plane going??”

    “10 AM tomorrow. You’ll see.”

    It was 7 AM.

    Do the math.

    I croaked,

    “Where… are we going?”

    She looked back once and said:

    “Tijibuduri Delulu Island.”

    Excitement: gone.

    What kind of island has “Delulu” in the name?!

    We passed through three storms.

    There was turbulence that felt like someone was shaking a soda can.

    I’ve had smoother rides on roller coasters.

    Finally, the plane landed. The doors opened.

    And there were people waiting—hundreds of them.

    The military team started unloading boxes of food. One sergeant looked at me:

    “You. Help.”

    So… I helped.

    We were taken to a nearby camp.

    I found out that the people here had lost everything—to war and typhoons.

    They weren’t vacationers.

    They were waiting… for relief.

    So I cooked. I served.

    I lifted boxes. I cleaned up.

    I did what I could.

    And that night, I was exhausted. But not in a bad way.

    The kind of tired that comes after doing something that matters.

    Badoodle and I sat by the shore. Quiet.

    A soldier walked by and asked,

    “Where were you supposed to be going?”

    I smiled. Weakly.

    “Somewhere with sunsets, piña coladas, barbecue, and dancing.

    A vacation to stop complaining about my life…”

    But I sighed.

    “Lately, all I see are the things that are missing.

    So I booked this trip to escape.

    And instead

    I found perspective.”

    He nodded. And then he said:

    “I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

    Philippians 4:11–13

    Goosebumps.

    He walked away.

    I scooped Oishi, knelt by the sand, and prayed.

    “God… I’m sorry.

    For letting petty things blur the bigger picture.

    For complaining about things others are still praying for.”

    Life is like a pingpong ball.

    You get thrown in all directions.

    Sometimes up.

    Sometimes down.

    You can be bitter about it—

    Or laugh about it.

    Either way…

    Life will happen.

    And from now on

    I choose to live with love, laughter, and gratitude.

    With my furball by my side.

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • Badoodle, I’m Writing to My Past Self

    Susan Narrating – Past

    Five years ago, I was standing in the middle of my new apartment. Boxes everywhere.

    I had just moved because I found a little pup under a tree, soaking wet and crying like a telenovela extra. My old apartment didn’t allow pets.

    I rescued him and named him Oishi. My badoodle. He’s cute, but also weird—he refuses to take off the red bandana I put on him, and don’t even get me started on his glasses. But they look good on him, so they stay.

    I was happy. Hopeful. This felt like the start of good things finally unfolding.

    As I unpacked, I noticed something outside. The postbox was… glowing. My heart did little cartwheels. I scooped Oishi up and whispered, “Maybe there’s a Keanu Reeves out there, like The Lake House, sending me a letter.”

    I nearly tripped rushing out.

    When I reached the postbox, I prayed:

    “Please, God, a letter from my future husband.”

    It kept glowing. We just stood there—me and my badoodle—staring at it.

    Oishi Narrating – Present

    Badoodle? Where are you? Come hug me.

    I’m drained. My ears are bleeding from Susan’s dramatics these past weeks.

    She keeps asking: “Oishi, is this life? Is this it? We wake up, work, sleep, repeat?”

    We still walk in the park, sneak into cinemas, eat siopao at 2 AM, binge The Detective Agency.

    But she only sees the routine.

    I, Oishi, am actually content.

    Then she starts telling me her dreams, like I can make them happen:

    “I want to travel, Oishi. Imagine us on a desert safari in Dubai, swimming in the Maldives, watching a Phnom Penh sunset. Snow! Or a coffee shop in Paris where a handsome stranger asks, ‘Is this seat taken?’”

    I bark to snap her out of her delusion… but then I notice her teary eyes, wide with longing — like a ten-year-old begging for ice cream before dinner.

    I walk over and rest my face on her lap. She hugs me tight.

    “I’m so glad I found you,” she whispers. “Remember that day, badoodle?”

    Tears slide down her cheeks. “I’m tired, Oishi. It feels like I’m just working to live another day. I have friends, but I have longings too.”

    Susan is a lot, but she keeps showing up. I admire that.

    Then she stands up, grabs pen and paper.

    “I’m writing a letter to my past self—to remind her not to give up.”

    She still believes that glowing postbox has magic. So do I.

    Susan’s Letter to Her Past Self

    To my ever‑dramatic, ever‑beautiful self:

    Life will happen. You’ll hurt and you’ll hurt others, even unintentionally.

    You’ll stumble and fall. You’ll feel stuck even when you give your best.

    You’ll be afraid. Depressed. Anxious.

    Longing will hit deep.

    One day you’ll say you’ve had enough.

    But know this: We. Don’t. Give. Up.

    When you’re down, remember your blessings: Oishi, your walks in the park, family, friends.

    You can’t travel yet, but you can explore new recipes, try new things, live life while waiting for dreams to come true.

    Most of all, remember:

    God is with us.

    With us when our minds spiral like spaghetti.

    With us when pillows are soaked with tears.

    With us when we laugh at midnight siopao.

    Life isn’t all bad. Learn to count your blessings and work your dreams with God.

    Love, Me ❤️.

    Susan folds the letter. We walk outside. The postbox glows again.

    She breathes—inhale, exhale, like she’s been practicing.

    As she extends her arm to drop the letter, an eagle swoops down and snatches it.

    We stand there, jaws dropped.

    Then she scoops me up: “Badoodle, let’s go to Boyo.”

    Poor Boyo. He’ll hear the whole story.

    Later, as we’re about to sleep, I see her kneeling with tears in her eyes.

    And I know God is listening.

    She stays there quietly kneeling, her back slightly hunched as if the weight of everything is finally being offered up.

    And I stay close, like I always do. No barking. No judgment. Just stillness.

    The night doesn’t answer her out loud.

    But the stars don’t leave.

    The breeze doesn’t rush.

    And somehow, in all the silence,

    I feel it too

    a presence bigger than pain,

    a peace deeper than the questions.

    She stands up slowly and wipes her eyes.

    Then smiles at me, the real kind.

    Like maybe she doesn’t have it all figured out

    but she remembered she’s not alone.

    We head back inside.

    And as she locks the door, she whispers:

    “Maybe tomorrow will still be messy… but I think we’re going to be okay.”

    Writer’s Note 🐶📓

    We’ve all longed like Susan.

    We’ve all been hurt, anxious, depressed, stuck, lost.

    We ask ourselves: “Is this it? Is this life?”

    We chase what we don’t have, live in a future that hasn’t come, or a past that won’t return.

    This is your reminder—like Susan’s letter—that no matter what happens:

    We don’t give up.

    We keep pressing forward.

    We keep believing that Someone loves us enough to give His life for us ❤️.

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • When the Soul Is Tired

    When the Soul Is Tired

    So many nights no rest in sight,

    So many mornings start with ache.

    Thoughts that race, a heart that breaks,

    Memories too raw to fake.

    My soul is tired of waiting still,

    Of longing deep, against its will.

    Tired of drowning in despair,

    Tired of breathing heavy air.

    So I lift my voice and cry,

    “Jesus, don’t just pass me by!

    Save me from this anxious tide 

    Be my shelter, be my guide.”

    Then gently, softly, I hear Him say:

    “Come, My child, don’t be afraid.

    Lay your burdens at My feet,

    What’s too heavy let Me keep.”

    “I walk through shadows, winds, and waves,

    With you the soul I came to save.

    No path too long, no night too deep,

    I’m the Shepherd, and you’re My sheep.”

    “So trust Me now, and find your peace 

    My love for you will never cease.

    I will never walk away,

    I’m with you always. Come what may.”

  • Dinah’s Question Ep. 5 of The Questions They Carried

    What makes a person bitter?

    Narrated by Oishi (your local Philosufurr) 🐾

    It was Thursday night, 8:53 PM, and Susan wasn’t home yet. Your local Philosufurr was panicking. I called Sashimi, our bark-comm specialist, and Bulgogi the chaos intern, to track her location. Was she in danger? At the hospital? Had the Siopao finally done her in?

    Turns out she was at the park. Sitting. Wailing. Asking strangers things like,

    “Do I matter?”

    “Am I valuable?”

    “Is what she said about me true?”

    One passerby answered, “Ma’am, I don’t even know you.”

    Helpful.

    When she saw me, her face lit up like I was the second coming of carbs. She scooped me up and whispered, “I’m sorry, my badoodle. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

    And look—I’ve seen Susan at her most dramatic. But this time? This was different. She was shaken. So she told me everything.

    Flashback, a few weeks ago…

    Enter Dinah.

    Short black hair. Fierce eyeliner. Heels sharp enough to slice confidence.

    Jezzie B’s bestie. Signal Co.’s Gossip Kween™.

    Unlike our resident gossip analyst Yohanes—whose intel rarely ruins reputations—Dinah was surgical. She didn’t just talk. She targeted.

    She once appeared behind Susan so quietly I thought she was summoned by dark sorcery. She’s also the reason Horatio T. issued an official memo quoting Leviticus 19:16:

    “Do not go about spreading slander among your people… I am the Lord.”

    Dinah had been nitpicking Susan’s life like it was her day job:

    Her siopao intake.

    Her walk.

    Her top bun.

    Even said Susan walked like a penguin — in front of people.

    Susan tried to laugh it off. But it chipped away at her. Especially the day Dinah crossed a line.

    She caught Susan sneaking a glance at Macchismo (yes, the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing prince of jawlines, now married), and said—loudly:

    “No matter what you do, Macchismo will never see you as a romantic partner. Have you seen his wife?”

    To which Susan replied, “Duh. I was at the wedding,” trying to hide her tears.

    Macchismo heard it. He said,

    “Okay, Dinah. That’s enough.”

    But Dinah pushed further:

    “If you were single, Macchismo, would you ask Susan out on a date?”

    He didn’t answer.

    And in that silence, Susan’s heart shattered.

    But then…

    Philip stepped in:

    “Dinah, I don’t remember Macchismo ever asking you out either.”

    Yohanes and Brenda joined in:

    “Beauty’s nothing if your attitude is toxic.”

    “Susan may stumble, but she never hurts anyone—unlike you.”

    Macchismo, guilty and speechless, reported everything to HR.

    Ten minutes later, Horatio T. called an emergency meeting.

    The Conference Room.

    Horatio stood in the center.

    Susan, Philip, Dinah sat.

    Macchismo and Pete crossed their arms like protective uncles.

    Yohanes and Brenda were flanking Susan like bodyguards.

    Then, Dinah spoke.

    “What makes a person bitter?”

    The room went quiet.

    “My parents are doctors. Always on call. We lived in a big house that echoed with silence. I was the only child. I had everything—clothes, travel, comfort—but no connection.

    I did everything to make them proud. Languages. Medals. Grades. Nothing worked. And slowly, that absence turned into bitterness.

    I started hating people who seemed happy. Who looked… content. Like Susan. She messes up. She eats too much siopao. But people like her. She has friends. She has that smug little shih tzu.”

    (I accept this compliment.)

    “And Pete—you and your wife. That street food moment? It looked like a scene from an underrated K-drama. It made me angry.”

    “Over the years, my heart got harder. I told myself—if I can’t be happy, no one should be.”

    She paused. Then added:

    “I don’t know how to undo it.”

    And from the back of the room, Ishmael—the janitor with a soul full of sermons—spoke:

    “Forgiveness.”

    He stepped forward.

    “Bitterness poisons the heart. But forgiveness—*even if undeserved—*heals it.”

    He quoted Ephesians 4:31–32:

    “Let all bitterness and wrath and anger be put away from you…

    Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.”

    Then Dinah said something that jolted half the room:

    “It was November 12, 2015. My dad called me. He was overseas…”

    Philip and Ishmael exchanged a glance.

    Yohanes froze.

    The date meant something. More than one person in that room had scars from that day.

    “He said a patient had died. The man’s younger sister—about my age—was sobbing. My dad remembered me. He told me, ‘No one gets used to death.’ Then he admitted he regretted not being present for our family.

    I brushed it off. I never called him back.”

    Susan interrupted softly,

    “Boyo was a nurse overseas…”

    Dinah nodded.

    “Maybe I’ll give healing a try.”

    She stood up, walked to Susan and said:

    “I used to envy your joy. I mocked it. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

    She turned to Pete and apologized. And this time—it was real.

    Susan and Pete forgave her.

    Back to the park.

    So why was Susan still dramatically crying hours later?

    Because one line wouldn’t leave her head:

    “Macchismo will never see you as a romantic partner.”

    Even if it was true.

    Even if he was married.

    What if every guy only saw her as the funny friend? Or a siopao buddy?

    Then came Boyo.

    Holding an umbrella.

    Susan refused it.

    So he scooped me up and said:

    “Fine. I’ll take Oishi then.”

    Susan ran after us:

    “Wait! I was kidding! I’m not that dramatic!”

    We went home.

    Boyo made soup and meatballs (yes, I tasted both).

    Susan told him the whole saga—cinematic-style, with hand gestures and reenactments.

    As she ranted, Boyo leaned by the door and whispered:

    “Your time will come, Sus. Just… pay attention to what’s already in front of you.”

    She didn’t hear him.

    She was listening to a podcast titled: How to Attract a Man With a Jawline.

    I put my paw on my forehead.

    Classic Sus.

    Writer’s Note 📜

    Bitterness doesn’t always look evil.

    Sometimes it wears heels, carries pain, and covers a wound that’s been ignored too long.

    We all feel it.

    When we’re overlooked.

    When we’re hurt again and again.

    When what we do is never enough.

    And the Bible’s call to forgive? It feels almost unfair when we’re still bleeding.

    But bitterness is a slow poison.

    Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s letting Jesus carry what’s crushing us.

    It won’t happen overnight.

    🧡But when we finally give Him what’s been weighing us down,

    our hearts breathe again

    and joy finds its way home.

    —Ember

  • Yohanes Question Ep. 4 of The Questions They Carried

    Why do we keep comparing ourselves to others?

    Narrator: Yohannes

    Yes, I’m the narrator. For those who don’t know me, I’m Yohanes Abimbola, gossip analyst of The Signal Co., certified Libra, and BFF to Susan and Brenda. And no, I didn’t want Susan narrating this because she’d botch my story with her dramatic side comments.

    I’ve carried this question since childhood: why do we compare ourselves to others? Back then, I didn’t understand it. Now, as an adult, I know exactly how it feels.

    I grew up with my sister, Sergeant Mekena Abimbola — a combat medic. She’s brave, brilliant, and the family’s unofficial superhero. My dad, Dakarai, is a platoon leader, so of course Mekena got the “chosen one” treatment.

    When we were kids, Mekena loved rescuing strays. Our house looked like a veterinary clinic — cats, dogs, turtles, you name it. One time, we were walking down the road and this giant beast appeared. I was about to sprint, but Mekena held me back. “Don’t run,” she said. Okay… maybe it wasn’t a lion. Maybe it was just a very big cat. But in that moment? I swore it was Simba’s uncle.

    Since then, she was always “the brave one.” In college, she was top of her class. Me? I was “Mekena’s brother.” Relatives never helped: “Yohanes, be brave like Mekena. Be smart like Mekena.” Even Susan once blurted out, “Why aren’t you like her?” (She still denies it. Classic Susan.)

    Eventually, Dad asked Mekena if she wanted to be a medic. She didn’t hesitate. My parents were bursting with pride. And me? I was proud too… but jealous. Relatives whispered: “Be like her, Yohanes. Save someone too.” And all I could think was, I’m the one who needs saving.

    That’s the poison of comparison. The more you try to ignore it, the louder it gets. I loved my sister, but it felt like she excelled without even trying, while I worked twice as hard and still came up short.

    Then came November 12, 2015. My sister called late at night, crying. She had lost a patient in the field. She’d lost others before, but this one — Joseph — was different. Before he died, he looked at his comrade and whispered, “Truly live.”

    Through tears, Mekena said, “Yohanes, you’ve been comparing yourself to me since we were kids. That’s not living. Comparison makes you a prisoner. People see me rescuing lives, but they don’t see you rescuing me when I was drowning in sadness. They don’t see the cards you never forget to send, or the way you keep Mom and Dad smiling. Heroes don’t always wear uniforms. Sometimes they’re silly, gossiping little brothers who keep showing up. You may not save strangers, Yohanes, but you’ve saved me more times than I can count. And that’s enough.”

    At that point, Susan was blowing her nose like a trumpet, hugging Oishi and sobbing, “That is sooo touching, BFF!” Oishi looked trapped in her arms, and if he could talk, he’d probably say: “Put me down, hooman.”

    Oishi escaped, grabbed a Bible from Susan’s room, and dropped it on my lap like an annoyed librarian. It flipped open to Psalm 139:14:

    “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

    It hit me. If God Himself thinks I am wonderfully made, why do I keep selling myself short? Why compare my story to anyone else’s?

    So why do we compare ourselves to others? Because we doubt our worth. Because we want applause, hoping it will fill the emptiness inside. Because we think life is a competition when it’s really a calling. But comparison is a thief — it robs us of joy, peace, and even gratitude for what God already placed in our hands. If my Creator thinks I’m wonderful, why would I argue with Him? Why would I trade His “well done” for anyone else’s opinion?

    Susan, being Susan, ruined the tender moment by blurting out: “When you’re dead, BFF, comparing yourself to Beyoncé won’t matter — you’re six feet undah!” Harsh… but true.

    And so, from your local philosofurr:

    I don’t get humans. They sell themselves short without realizing how lucky they are. Not lucky — chosen. God created them with purpose. If they saw themselves through His eyes, they would know: they are unique, fearfully and wonderfully made.

    Good night. 🐶

    Still Rising 🔥 Still Barking 🐾

  • Susan’s Romance Fever (And My Burnt Chicken)

    Susan’s got a romance fever, and I (Oishi) am the collateral damage. Milk on my head, burnt chicken in my bowl, and zero park trips for two weeks — all because of a pocketbook and some French guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut siopao. When I finally staged a hostage crisis with the book, Susan snapped back… sort of. Boyo showed up with chicken (praise be), and Sus prayed for a “ride or die.” Me? I just want my siopao back.

    Oishi Narrating

    For the past few weeks Susan has been ignoring me. She’s hooked on this little book and can’t put it down. The other day she even poured milk on my head without noticing! She cooks without looking—left hand holding the book, right hand stirring the pot. Guess what happened? My chicken got burnt. And then she had the audacity to say, “Oishi, just eat your dog food!”

    Excuse me? Dog food?! She has always called me badoodle or baby fur. Now suddenly I’m dog? The nerve. And those kibbles taste like sand, thank you very much.

    The laundry is piling up, the house is a mess, and she hasn’t taken me to the park in two weeks. Two. Weeks! But the last straw wasn’t even that—it was when she kept giggling at night, flipping her hair, whispering that she felt like Madeleine. Who the heck is Madeleine?

    Last night I couldn’t take it anymore. I bit the book and ran. Susan yelled, “Oishi, give that back!” But I stood my ground, clutching it in my teeth like a hostage situation. She finally surrendered, scooped me up, and said, “Okay badoodle, I’ll tell you the story.” She was flipping her hair like she was in a dog shampoo commercial.

    She began “This is called a pocketbook, badoodle. Mostly romance.”

    (Like I care—but fine, maybe this will get her back to normal.)

    Then she added with a dramatic hair flip:

    “This book—The Tower, the River, and the Jawline—is a romance masterpiece.”

    She continued: “Paris, 1950. Madeleine, with long wavy hair, luscious lips, lashes for days…” She glanced at me and whispered, “Like me.” I gave her a blank stare.

    Madeleine, apparently, was waiting for a man—steady, brave, confident, godly. (Susan sighed loudly at this part. Dramatic much?)

    Then came François. Crisp white shirt, suspenders, broad shoulders, jawline sharp enough to cut siopao. Susan was floating as she described him. I barked to break the spell.

    “He sat by the Seine River, gray eyes brooding, and said, ‘Somewhere between the silence and the stars I will find you.’”

    Susan jumped, checked the mirror, picked me up, put me down, paced to the toilet like she was possessed.

    Then she whispered, “And badoodle, Madeleine met François mid-road and he said, ‘Every step through silence led me to you.’”

    Susan clutched her chest and sighed: “How I wish I could meet a man like that. Someone who treats me like a princess.”

    I thought: Exaggerated princess, sure.

    Just then, Boyo barged in with siopao, milk tea, and chicken (finally, someone useful). My ears perked up—chicken trumps romance any day. Boyo spotted the book and asked, “Love story? Any good?”

    Susan retold the whole thing while Boyo nodded and yawned. I didn’t care. I was busy demolishing chicken. At least Susan snapped back to reality. She started cleaning again, Boyo helped with dishes, and she tucked me into bed later, whispering, “Even if I don’t have a companion just yet, badoodle, I’m happy because I have you.” Then she glanced at Boyo and muttered, “…Fine. And Boyo too.”

    But then Boyo said:

    “Sus, find a man who’ll cherish you no matter what, who stays through happy and hard times, who gives as much as he receives. A relationship is a partnership. Your ride or die.”

    To my surprise, Sus nodded. She even asked, “Anything else?” Paw-to-forehead!

    Later that night, she tucked me in and whispered, “Don’t tell Boyo, but I agree with him. Oh Oishi, how I wish I could find someone like François…”

    She prayed that night, asking God for her ride or die. A man steady in faith, someone who would cherish her and keep God at the center. And, of course, she asked for a sign—like flickering my toy lamp three times.

    Paw to forehead. Classic Sus.

    Still Rising. Still Barking ❤️🐾

  • Susan & Oishi in the 1950s: A Vintage Glimpse

    Ever wondered what Susan and Oishi might’ve looked like in the 1950s? We took a playful trip back in time to imagine their everyday lives in a simpler, sassier era — when feather dusters were weapons of housewife pride, phones had rotary dials, and televisions had antennas you had to bite (well, if you were Oishi).

    Here’s a peek at their retro routine: Susan in full housewife mode doing laundry and cleaning in heels, dolled up at the diner while Oishi steals her burger, and of course, barking at furnitures.

    Set in a time of pastel kitchens, vinyl booths, and Saturday cartoons, this vintage-style series celebrates the timeless chaos of fur and friendship — no matter the decade.


    Susan, armed with sass and a feather duster.

    Susan: dolled up. Oishi: full belly. The date? Never showed up.

    Laundry day blues, 1950s edition

    When your dog thinks the TV antena is edible

    Susan’s trying to gossip with the neighbors… meanwhile Oishi is eating the telephone chord like it’s spaghetti. 📞🐶🍝

    And that’s your glimpse into the world of Susan & Oishi — 1950s edition.

    StillRising. StillBarking 🧼📺☎️✨

  • Pete’s Question Ep. 3 of The Question They Carried

    What makes someone believe they have the right to stand above others?

    Susan Narrating

    It was an ordinary Wednesday — that “meh” middle of the week. Not the chaos of Monday, not the slow fade-out of Friday. Just… Wednesday.

    Well, ordinary for everyone else.

    For me, the morning started with Oishi giving me those puppy eyes as I was leaving for work. Tail wagging, looking up at me like he’d just been abandoned by the entire cast of a soap opera. Obviously, I caved and took him with me.

    At my desk, Oishi curled up under the table with his squeaky toy. Then Yohanes barged in, dramatic as ever, announcing there was chaos in the customer service lounge — customers fighting over who should be served first. One claimed she was a doctor, the other a lawyer. Dinah, our resident gossip, just said, “Let them fight it out, see who wins.” I chimed in, “The lawyer, duh.”

    Pete — our by-the-book accountant (and unsolicited tax adviser) — picked up Oishi and calmly told Yohanes to defuse the situation by figuring out whose need was more urgent. Yohanes agreed and left.

    For those who don’t know Pete, he’s our accountant — a good one. He even lectures me on filing taxes. I pretend not to care, but I remember every tip when it’s time to file. If it weren’t for him, your girl’s butt would’ve been in trouble last year.

    Pete sat across from me, Oishi still in his lap, and suddenly asked:
    “What makes someone believe they have the right to stand above others?”

    I froze mid-siopao bite. “What made you ask that?”

    Pete’s Story

    November 12, 2015. Pete said he’d never forget that day.

    We didn’t know he was a volunteer worker. That day, he was in El Shur — a small, beautiful country with its share of darker realities.

    He was assigned to distribute relief goods. As soon as the chopper touched down, people ran toward them. He told them to line up, assuring there was enough for everyone. But desperation overpowered order. People shouted, cried, begged to be served first.

    Pete understood. Hunger does that.

    But then, someone approached him privately, offering money — a bribe — to get their goods first.

    “Why not buy food instead?” Pete asked.

    The answer hit him hard. They couldn’t. Their area was on lockdown, boundaries guarded so insurgents wouldn’t cross over. They were stuck in the crossfire. Still, relief goods had been delivered regularly — they had enough for months.

    But this person said,
    “We’re prominent. We should be served first.”

    Then, almost as an afterthought, they added, “Besides… you don’t want trouble with the K.N.A.V.E.S.”
    Pete didn’t know who or what that was. But the way they said it — calm, low, like a warning — stuck with him.

    “That’s what made me ask,” Pete said quietly. “No matter how much you have, no matter who you are, that’s not the right perspective. We should help each other up. Respect authority, yes — laws exist to protect us. But some people use their position to lift themselves higher, not to lift others. Not all of them. Some leaders genuinely serve. Others… they make the people serve them.”

    Ishmael’s Answer

    That’s when Ishmael, our prophetic janitor, glided in with his mop.

    “People think they’re above others for many reasons,” he began. “Pride, fear, insecurity — even upbringing. Some were taught from childhood that status equals worth. Others hide their own sense of smallness by making others feel smaller. And there are those who genuinely believe their achievements or titles make them more valuable than the next person. But Christ showed us another way.”

    He set the mop aside.
    “Christ washed the feet of His disciples. An act of humility and service. Imagine — a Master washing His followers’ feet.”

    John 13:16-17 — Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor a messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.

    I leaned in. “Pete, you said the place was chaotic. They were in survival mode. Of course they’d put themselves first.”

    Ishmael looked at me.
    “Susan, imagine the building is on fire. What’s the first thing you’d grab?”

    “Oishi Badoodle!” I said instantly.

    He smiled.
    “Okay. But imagine Oishi’s in the other room. As you rush to him, you hear a baby crying — Melinda’s son. You can’t save them both.”

    The tears came before I could stop them. I hugged Oishi tight.

    “I know your answer, Susan,” Ishmael said gently. “You’d give up what you love most to save a life.”

    I sniffled. “Why did you have to make it a baby? Couldn’t it be a unicorn? Or Chad?” But deep down, I understood. God made us to help and protect one another — not to think we’re above anyone.

    Closing

    Right then, Yohanes stormed back in, panting and sweaty.
    “After two hours, the customers and I reached an agreement.”

    Pete patted his back. “Good job. You diffused it.”

    That evening, Pete treated us to a park-side meal. Oishi was over the moon.

    Oishi Narrating

    When we got home, Susan went straight to the bedroom and knelt to pray.

    “God, thank You for this beautiful life — for waking up each day safe and sound. Thank You for the kindness we’ve received. I pray for those who live day by day just trying to survive. Help us understand that we’re not above one another, but created to bless each other, inspire, and lift one another up. And God… please don’t ever make me choose between saving Oishi and saving a life. You know I’d do it, but with a heavy heart.”

    Her voice broke. I understood why.

    I know you’d pick the baby, Sus. And that’s okay. I get it. Life is precious. I’m happy, I’m content, and I hope you are too.

    Good night. 🐾

    And then… the snore. Classic Sus.

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • The Sacred Simplicity of Sunday Mornings

    Trusting God Beyond Material Wishes

    Susan Narrating

    I love Sunday mornings.

    They’re slow, soft, and sacred  like a fresh start wrapped in sunlight. Every time I wake up, I feel happy, alive, and oddly hopeful. There’s a golden ray peeking through our window, and somehow… the world just feels kind.

    Then Oishi, my badoodle, wakes up. And I kid you not, he opens my drawer (yes, really) and pulls out my small Bible. The one my mom gave me back in my rebellion days. That’s Oishi’s way of saying, “Let’s pray.”

    So we did.

    “Thank You, Lord, for this beautiful day.”

    Just then, we heard a knock.

    It was Boyo, our neighbor. “Get ready for church!”

    So we got moving. I took a shower and regretted doing it before giving Oishi a bath. He wagged, shook, and soaked me in dog-scented droplets. He hates showers. I love watching him look slightly less composed, no glasses, no red bandana  just soggy and suspicious.

    We got dressed, grabbed a quick bite (quick, not full  because the best part of Sundays is post-church barbecue). So. Much. Fun. 😆💃🍢✨

    Oishi Narrating

    The streets were alive. The  sun is shining, people are dancing Zumba. Barkmates were out. My cat “friend” Fippo was sitting on the mailbox, judging every passerby like it’s his job. Joggers jogged, others chatted, and someone even let the sunshine kiss their face while sitting peacefully on a bench.

    Susan scooped me up. I thought it was because she was feeling holy.

    Nope.

    She leaned in and whispered, “Oishi… I’m hungry.”

    Of course.

    I had been nudging her toward the rice cooker earlier, but she refused. She said she’d eat after church.

    Inside the church, the priest began reading:

    “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you…” — Matthew 7:7

    Susan knelt down. I thought, Wow, she’s being sincere today.

    And then I heard her whisper:

    “Lord, please… iPhone 16. And PRO. Maybe plant the idea in Boyo’s head? He seems to like me.”

    🐾 Paw to my forehead.

    The priest continued:

    “Which of you, if your child asks for bread, would give them a stone?
    Or if they ask for fish, would give a snake?
    If you who are flawed know how to give good gifts…
    How much more your Father in heaven?”

    Then he preached.

    He said:

    “Yes, God invites us to ask. But that verse isn’t about a shopping list  it’s about trust.
    A relationship.
    Sometimes, we ask for an iPhone. Or a car.
    And sure, those desires aren’t bad.
    But like a loving father, God sees what’s actually good and what isn’t.”

    Susan and I side-eyed each other. She tried not to laugh. I barked once in support of the priest.

    Sermon Summary (a.k.a. What Susan Needed to Hear)

    🔸 Asking means pursuing God, not just gifts.
    🔸 The “good things” He gives? Think peace, wisdom, strength — not just gadgets.
    🔸 Not everything we want is good for us.
    So God sometimes says:

    • Yes (because it’s right – and we’re ready)
    • No (because it could harm us)
    • Not yet (because we’re not ready – maybe because He’s still pruning us, helping us grow before the gift comes)

    It’s not about being perfect in prayer — it’s about being close.

    God isn’t a vending machine. He’s a Father.

    And somehow, that’s better.

    Susan nodded during the homily.
    I could tell she got it.

    Later That Day…

    We left church. Susan walked directly to the siopao stand. Halfway through her first bite, she asked Boyo, “What time is the barbecue?” Turns out… it was lunch. She lit up like a child on Christmas.

    We ate, we laughed. I got a chicken skewer. (Don’t judge me — I’m part of the family.)

    It was a good day.

    Susan forgot about the neighbor who sang “My Way” at 11 PM the night before.

    We went home.
    Tired, full, happy.

    And before the day ended… we both whispered:

    “Thank You, Lord.”

    God’s love is fatherly, not transactional. He’s more into our growth than our wish list.

    But He’ll always listen to the wish list too  because to Him, it’s part of loving you.

    Still rising. Still barking. 🐾
    Susan & Oishi