It was a Sunday morning — but not just any Sunday. Susan and I woke up unusually early and started bouncing on the bed. She was already in her green bathing suit. (My eye twitched. I considered pretending to be blind. But I let it slide. I was excited too.)
For weeks now, our neighbors had been planning a neighborhood outing. Post-dinner meetings, heated debates about who brings the rice cooker, and of course, the classic standoff over who would drive. Everyone wanted to be on the trip, not responsible for it.
So they voted. And the unlucky winner? Boyo. Yes — that Boyo. The guy who once blasted “Bed of Roses” on repeat until even the cats started howling.
Susan and I were packing. She handed me my goggles, and for a moment — I felt something. (Not quite a heart flutter. Let’s call it… elevated awareness.)
The thought of the beach — the breeze, the barbecue, the possibility of new hoomans who weren’t from The Signal Co. — it thrilled me. I even wagged.
The van ride was chaos and joy. Singing, laughing, someone choking on chips. Susan was screeching “Apt! Apt! Apt!” from that Bruno Mars/Rose collab like she was auditioning for the role of “Off-Key Hype Woman.” No one minded. We were all just… in it. Present.
When we arrived, we stepped out and took it all in. The salty air. The breeze. The mountains folding into the sea. It was perfect.
Neighbors got to work — grill stations, beach mats, someone trying to build a tent they clearly never read the manual for. Susan peeled off her cover-up, scooped me up like the emotional support king I am, and together we sat by the waves.
We played fetch. We ate like we hadn’t seen food in years. We talked. We laughed. And for once, she didn’t complain about work, or traffic, or slow Wi-Fi. She just smiled.
As the sun dipped low, we sat quietly on the sand, wrapped in the afterglow of joy and grilled meat.
And then — she said it.
“God must have a beautiful imagination. Look at this view. It’s perfect. What a Creator.”
I was stunned. Usually, she reserves her poetic moments for when she’s holding a donut in one hand and ranting in the other.
But this? This was awe.
✍️ Writer’s Note:
I stumbled upon this line today: “Worshipping God means acknowledging and celebrating His power and perfection in gratitude.”
And maybe… that’s exactly what this moment was.
No music. No altar. Just Susan and Oishi, sitting by the sea — surrounded by mountains, waves, and the quiet company of God’s imagination.
“What a Creator.” “Look at all this.”
Sometimes worship is loud. Sometimes it’s a soft whisper wrapped in awe.
Narrator: Oishi (as if there’s anyone else classy enough for this role)
As usual, Susan was at work — emotionally caffeinated, philosophically unprepared — and last night she dumped an entire story on me. I must now share it with you, dear reader, so I don’t suffer alone in silence.
It was Friday — the world’s emotional support day. Busy, but chill. The boss lady, Cassandra, had just called in a food order for the staff. She’s not always in the office, but she shows love the best way she knows how: carbs.
Now Cassandra is so poised, even Jezzie Bell and Dinah get insecure just by breathing in her cologne mist. She walks by, and suddenly everyone’s fixing their posture and pretending their spreadsheets aren’t fanfiction.
At The SIGNAL Co., gossip is a language. A lifestyle. Possibly an inherited condition. It was barely 8:00 AM when Yohanes crashed into the department like a news anchor possessed, shouting,
“MAKE WAY! I am reporting live from Rome — I have pope-level information.”
Susan, mid-donut. Brenda, the only one actually working, half-listening. Yohanes? Fully seated on Susan’s desk, wearing the energy of a caffeinated pigeon.
“There’s a reshuffle coming! Someone’s getting transferred!” Gasp — Susan almost drops her donut. Gasp — Yohanes inhales like he saw his own funeral. Gasp — Brenda doesn’t gasp. She fact-checks.
And then… Dinah.
Lurking. Listening. Lurking again.
She swoops in with that “just sharing, not saying” energy and drops this:
“I heard it’s Pete from Accounting. Apparently he messed up the company taxes.”
(No source. No logic. Just Dinah.)
Let the record show: Pete didn’t mess anything up. He asked Dinah for her tax computations, and she didn’t submit them. So now she’s blaming him for the delay. Classic.
Susan nearly faints. Yohanes looks ready to call CNN. Brenda, still grounded, says:
“Pete is the spreadsheet. He once calculated his way out of a traffic ticket.”
Dinah shrugs, throws her hands in the air and goes,
“Well… maybe he’s getting old. Just saying.”
Meanwhile, Jasper the intern approaches to give Susan her coffee. Unfortunately, Dinah’s hand is involved. A dramatic wrist flourish sends the coffee flying — all over Susan.
And Dinah?
“Ugh. Stupid intern. Why didn’t you walk around me?”
Jasper is mortified. Susan is sticky. And Ishmael, the janitor, glides in like a mop-wielding monk.
“Ma’am,” he says gently to Dinah, “he couldn’t have predicted your… hand choreography.”
Enter Horatio T. HR rep. Memo collector. Passive-aggressive with a soul.
He bursts from his office and booms:
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF DATA PRIVACY AND EMOTIONAL DAMAGE IS GOING ON HERE?!”
Dinah (of course) points at Yohanes:
“He started spreading gossip about Pete!”
Yohanes panics. Apologizes. Dinah smiles like a cat that deleted your files.
But even Horatio — who writes memos for therapy — can see the truth.
“ENOUGH. If there’s any transfer happening, I’ll be the one to announce it. I am HR. And FYI… no one’s being transferred.”
Yep. It was Dinah. Making things up. Again.
Later that day, Susan, Yohanes, and Brenda are whispering at the fire exit, still doing a full debrief. Then they hear two male voices from below.
One says:
“‘Do not go about spreading slander among your people. Do not do anything that endangers your neighbor’s life. I am the LORD.’ – Leviticus.”
Susan gasps:
“Wait — who’s Leviticus?! Is that Pete’s replacement?”
Yohanes:
“Or the new Data Analyst?”
Brenda rolls her eyes so hard the floor shakes:
“It’s a book in the Bible. That’s a verse. From the actual Bible Leviticus 19:16 !
They peek down and see… Ishmael. Quietly chatting with Horatio, who — surprisingly — sometimes seeks Ishmael’s advice.
Turns out, the janitor isn’t just wise. He’s scripturally sharp. Horatio had asked how to handle gossip. And Ishmael simply quoted the truth.
MEMO from Horatio T. – Subject: Defamation of Character (aka Gossip Ends Here)
To all employees (even if you’re morally bankrupt):
Gossip is part of our survival strategy in the office. Without it, how else would we bond over microwaved spaghetti? But let me make this clear—if your gossip causes harm, it will be your employment status that gets reshuffled.
Let’s build each other up, not burn each other down. In accordance with company policy… And the Book of Leviticus.
Or pack up your decorative mugs and leave.
Later that day, Susan and Yohanes didn’t gossip. They talked about the weather in Spain.
And Dinah? Well… she was unusually quiet. Either she’s reflecting, plotting, or Googling “Leviticus.” Who knows?
✍️ Writer’s Note
Hey, it’s me — Ember.
Just a little disclaimer:
The people in this story? Fictional. The chaos? Slightly exaggerated. But the message? Very real.
After nearly 20 years in different workplaces, I’ve seen how gossip — even the “light” kind — can spread fast and hit deep. I’ve been a Susan and a Yohanes. This episode isn’t just for laughs… it’s a gentle reminder: Let’s build each other up, not tear each other down.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for growing with me.
—Ember 🐾
Still learning. Still rising. Still talking to Oishi.
Narrator: Oishi Susan woke up early. Excited. (Overreacting, as usual, about something that’s not even life-altering.)
I, on the other hand, was still in bed—peacefully judging the world in my sleep. Then it happened. She scooped me up and—without warning—threw me straight into bath time.
Susan, what the heck. It’s 6 AM. I’m emotionally unprepared. Where are we going?
Narrator: Susan HORATIO T. from HR made an announcement yesterday: “Activities! Bring Your Pet to Work Day!” And you know I love Oishi like he’s my emotional WiFi.
So naturally, I screamed. My heart raced. I jumped like I’d just won a blender in a church raffle.
Today was finally the day I got to dress Oishi in something other than that tired red bandana.
I chose a Mandalorian-style knight costume. Because my little PhilosoFurr isn’t just cute— He’s my ProtectPaw.
Narrator: Oishi(in full knight mode) I am Sir Oishi, the Paw Knight. Protector of the Living Room. Sworn defender of Susan the Melodramatic. I lay down my sword and vow that no sock, squirrel, or passive-aggressive neighbor shall harm us. WOOF WOOF.
At the Office: (You can picture the scene: barking, meowing, tail-wagging chaos.) Food everywhere. Hoomans showing off like it’s the Met Gala for pets.
Horatio T. (still trying to be the main character) tapped the mic and paused for maximum drama.
“First, we’ll announce the raffle winner. Then… the Best Costume Award.”
He pulled out a name from the raffle box, squinted, then said:
“The lucky winner of a brand-new rice cooker is… SUSAN V!”
Susan got up like she was accepting a Grammy. Photos were taken. Hugs were awkward. She grabbed the mic:
“Thank you for this opportunity—”
But Horatio snatched it back mid-sentence:
“Thank you, Susan. You may go now.” (Tragic.)
Then… the main event.
“3rd Place: A Chihuahua in a pink dress.” (Original. Groundbreaking. We’ve seen it before.)
“2nd Place: A fish… in an aquarium.” (Why is this in the same category? Who approved this?)
“And 1st Place goes to… Sir Oishi, The ProtectPaw!”
Susan gasped. Tears. She scooped me up like Simba on Pride Rock. Everyone clapped. I blinked twice, unimpressed, but internally flattered.
She whispered,
“You did it, my little warrior philosopher.” And I knew then… I may not understand her human drama, but I love how proud she is of her emotionally distant dog.
Narrator: Oishi (Reluctant. Tired. Overqualified for this nonsense.)
Oishi (narrating): I don’t want to do this, but apparently, I’m the designated narrator of this madness—so here we are.
I’m surrounded. Literally. To my left: Sahsmi, an orange Chihuahua with eyes big enough to reflect existential dread. On the rug: Bibimbap, our baby green elephant with the emotional intelligence of a therapist. Next to him, reclining like a celebrity scandal: Tteokbokki, the baby monkey—mid-burger, always. Staring from the aquarium with judgey bubbles: Maeutang, the fish. And stretching out in full drama-pony glory: Bulgogi, the baby blue horse who thinks he’s majestic. He is. He’s also clumsy but he’s not on the picture yet.
Anyway. The past few days, Sus—my melodramatic, overcaffeinated hooman—has been coming home from work absolutely buzzing with chaos. She bursts through the door, scoops me up like I’m a purse dog, pins me under her arm, and says:
“Oishi, my badoodle—I have a juicy scoop for you!”
Then she monologues. For hours. Through dinner. Through dessert. Through my will to live.
But I love Sus. So even if her voice pierces my eardrums like a kazoo powered by drama, I listen. Because love is patient. And she has the snacks.
That said—my emotional support battery is draining faster than her phone at 3%. So each morning, when she leaves for work, I call my friends here and unload the tales before I emotionally combust. This, dear listener, is our ritual. And yes—there’s always a lesson, brought to you by yours truly: Oishi, your neighborhood PhilosoFurr.
There are 11 coworkers—and one very dramatic hooman.
Meet the team behind the drama. And the abs behind the confusion.
There’s ten of them. Yes, 12 if you will count my Sus. So don’t fall asleep on me—I know it’s a lot, but trust me, they’re all important. Every single one of these characters is either a blessing, a lesson… or a cautionary tale wearing business casual.
So listen up. Grab a fry. Let’s begin.
Character 1: Susan V. – The Exaggerated Princess
Susan V. is what happens when espresso, glitter, and unchecked emotions form a union. She’s in Customer Service but believes she’s in a high-stakes drama. Her morning mood is sponsored by “don’t talk to me,” and by dinner she’s dramatically whispering secrets into my ear like I’m her furry therapist.
She calls me her badoodle, scoops me up like I’m a plush toy, and unleashes daily monologues that rival Netflix dramas. She wears shirts that say “Exaggerated Princess” because truth in labeling is important.
But hey—she’s loyal, loud, and loves hard. So even if my ears suffer emotional damage, I listen. Because I love her.
Character 2: Yohanes Abimbola – Gossip Analyst
Yohanes isn’t technically paid to know everything—but he does. He doesn’t spread gossip to hurt. He spreads it because he’s got a talent for “informative observation with jazz hands.”
His eyes sparkle with curiosity. His tone? Pure brunch gossip. He’s like the Wi-Fi of workplace drama—always on, mostly harmless.
He wears mint green, pumpkin orange, and positivity. Even when he delivers eyebrow-raising intel, it’s with a smile that says,
“I come in peace… but with details.”
We love him. Even when we pretend we don’t.
Character 3: Horatio T. – The HR Memo Monk
Horatio T. is the kind of guy who walked into HR one day and never left. Not physically. Not spiritually.
He’s got reddish-brown hair, thin-framed glasses, and a beige checkered suit so aggressively neutral it could erase your personality by eye contact alone. His tie? Pumpkin orange. Not because he’s fun. Because it’s mandatory brand compliance.
He doesn’t talk—he issues memos. He doesn’t walk—he stomps silently, like a disappointed librarian.
But here’s the twist: Deep, deep down in that spreadsheet-shaped soul… he has a heart. He’s helped employees file insurance claims like they were personal quests. He’s just trying to keep us from setting the place on fire—with rules.
We call him the Memo Monk because if enlightenment had a PowerPoint, he would’ve written it.
Character 4: Brenda Mondragon – The Voice of Reason
Brenda is the reason this workplace hasn’t collapsed into a flaming pit of passive aggression and bad decisions.
She’s 5’6″ of calm, moisturized authority. Her hair? Long, curly, hydrated. Her skin? Watered like a houseplant that knows its worth. She wears a calm green outfit paired with a delicate star pendant, like a walking parable with a good skincare routine. And her white sneakers? Spotless. Like her reputation.
Brenda is the only one who can:
Shush Yohanes mid-scoop.
Block Susan from eating a dozen donuts.
And disarm Horatio with a perfectly timed “Thank you for the memo, Horatio. We’ll take it into prayer.”
She doesn’t say much—but when she does? It’s with biblical judgment and motherly precision.
And rumor has it—she’s inviting Susan to church.
Brenda doesn’t chase drama. Drama knocks and Brenda answers with a raised brow and a scripture.
Character 5: Pete Erickson – The Number Snitch
He’s pale. He’s nervous. He clutches his calculator like it’s the last loaf of bread in a zombie apocalypse. His glasses are thick enough to see into next fiscal year. He dresses like someone who gets mad when people use the color ink in the printer. (Because he does.)
Pete’s superpower? Making everyone remember their taxes… in January.
“Don’t forget to file your W-2.”
He once tripped over a paperclip and filed an incident report… on himself.
But here’s the thing: Pete means well. He’s just… Pete. He’s the human version of a paper jam. Awkward, unavoidable, and kind of tragic. But he keeps us legal. Barely.
So we nod. We thank him. And we keep our receipts—just in case.
Character 6: Macchismo D. – The Sales Adonis
According to Susan, Macchismo is “so hot, volcanoes feel self-concious.” Her pupils turn into tiny cartoon hearts every time she talks about him. It’s deeply concerning.
Macchismo D. works in Sales, but let’s be honest—he sells himself just by walking into a room. He’s tall, muscular, and his raven-dark hair is so flawless. His smile sparkles. Literally. I suspect teeth glitter. Still investigating.
He wears light blue polos like a superhero costume, and he says things like,
“Let’s close this deal, team!” with the exact tone of someone who thinks that’s how you get promoted.
People love him. People trust him. And honestly? That might be the real danger.
He works under Jezzie Bell, who seems to have a lipstick-shaped leash on him. But hey, I’m just the dog. What do I know?
For now, let’s just say this: Macchismo D. is dazzling.
Character 7: Dinah Montgomery – The Gossip Queen
If Yohanes is the office sparkle of harmless scoop, Dinah is the cold-brew version—strong, bitter, and served with no remorse.
She walks in like she owns the building’s secrets. Black hair sleek as betrayal, snarky eyes, and glasses that serve zero optical purpose but scream “I see everything.” Her dark brown lipstick says “professional,” but her tone says “you’re about to get emotionally audited.”
Dinah doesn’t just spill tea—she serves it pre-scorched. She’s not loud, but when she talks, people lean in… or leave. Because if Dinah says:
“I saw Pete at the store,” you know she’s about to follow it up with something like: “…and the woman he was with wasn’t wearing a ring. Just saying.”
She doesn’t ask questions—she plants landmines.
Nobody really likes Dinah. But nobody wants to be on her radar either. Because if she doesn’t know your dirt… she’ll make some for you.
Character 8: Jezzie Bell Morgan – The Corporate Siren
Jezzie Bell Morgan doesn’t walk. She glides. Like a well-funded lawsuit in designer heels.
Her red hair? Volcanic. Her lipstick? Same color as danger. Her vibe? “Sign here, sweetheart, and lose your soul in quarterly installments.”
She’s the manager of the Sales department, which basically makes her the queen of convincing people to do things they’ll regret and thank her for afterward. She commands with a smile that says:
“I already know what you’re going to say, and I’ve planned five responses, three bribes, and one perfectly timed sigh.”
Jezzie doesn’t need to raise her voice. She just tilts her head and suddenly Macchismo is nodding like a bobblehead in a sauna.
Her earrings sparkle. Her fingernails point like accusations. And when she says “trust me,” your instincts scream no—but your career prospects whisper yes.
No one’s sure what she wants. But they know not to get in her way.
Character 9: Philip Vaughn – The Office White Knight
Most people in the office don’t pay much attention to Philip Vaughn. He’s listed as Internal Ops Assistant, which is corporate speak for “does everything quietly and without applause.”
He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t insert himself in gossip. He just shows up—early, focused, clean notebook, clean shirt, eyes like he’s reading your soul and your Google search history.
But here’s the part no one really gets: When things go wrong—when Jezzie’s manipulating, Dinah’s detonating, and Macchismo is flexing his moral confusion— Philip steps in. Not loudly. Not dramatically. He just does the right thing like it’s muscle memory.
Word around the breakroom is he’s a war veteran, which makes sense. He’s calm in chaos. Gentle with people. But firm when boundaries are crossed.
He’s got white knight energy—the kind that doesn’t ask for credit. The kind that protects without performance. The kind that doesn’t bow to office power games or ego theatrics.
You’ll probably overlook him. But he’s watching. And if you’re one of the good ones? He’s already in your corner.
Character 10: Jasper P. – The Intern Who Spills Coffee and Feelings
Jasper P. is the intern. You’ll know it the second you meet him—partly because he’ll tell you, and partly because he’ll already be apologizing for something.
He’s got long-ish curly hair, permanently startled eyes, and the overall energy of someone who’s late for a meeting that doesn’t exist.
He talks like a rapper who’s been hit with a mild anxiety attack:
“Yo, yo, my bad, my fault, I was gonna fix that spreadsheet but then I spilled my latte and—uh—Pete slipped on it but he’s fine I think, and also the printer’s making a weird noise?”
Jasper spills coffee, tea, water, information, and vibes. But he means well. And that’s the part that matters.
And every time he spills something (which is… often), Ishmael appears—quietly, mop in hand. Never scolds. Never sighs. Just cleans up.
Jasper may be clumsy. But he’s trying. And that makes him important. Not because he’s perfect—but because he wants to be better.
Character 11: Ishmael – The Janitor With a Mysterious Calm
Ishmael is… different. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to.
He wears an old janitor uniform, faded and clean. Silver hair, quiet eyes, and a beard that says “I’ve seen things, but I’ve forgiven most of them.”
He’s always there. Not in a creepy way—more in a divine timing, slow-motion mop-wielding kind of way.
Someone spills coffee? Ishmael’s already halfway there. Printer explodes? Ishmael’s got a wrench, a rag, and a quote from Proverbs. Jezzie tries to verbally flatten a coworker? Ishmael makes eye contact once, and she forgets her next sentence.
People treat him like just a janitor. But those of us who watch—we know. There’s something about him that feels bigger.
He moves like a man with nothing to prove and everything to teach—if you’re paying attention.
They call him Ishmael the Janitor. But honestly? We don’t know who he really is. Not yet.
And that’s the crew.
Now you know who’s who. So when the drama starts—you won’t get lost.
The real office saga begins in Episode 2. See You! 📡 Totally Made-Up Company Alert:The Signal Co.: Not your internet provider — but we will disconnect your emotional stability. We don’t sell broadband. We sell breakdowns.
Susan’s not home. My tummy’s rumbling. I’m lying belly-up on the cold floor, tongue out, eyes glazed like a sad donut.
To distract myself from my slow starvation, I watched my fellow barkmates outside. And then—slam.
Car door.
Heavy footsteps. Dramatic entrance.
Susan flung the door shut behind her and did the thing—pressed her back against it and slowly slid down like a soap opera star whose whole life just aired on primetime.
I thought, “Not this again, Sus. What did you do?”
But I love her.
So, I walked over and licked her tears. It was salty. I immediately regretted it. But I stayed. Sat beside her. From time to time, I rested my face on her lap—just so she knows: I’m here. I love her. And also, I still haven’t eaten.
Narrator: Susan vs. The HR Department
It was Monday.
The office was busy—or at least everyone was pretending to be.
I naturally ignored the chaos and bee-lined to my besties, Yohanes and Brenda. Gossip time. Yohanes was mid-scandal-reporting like he was hosting a weather disaster special:
Then it happened.
“SUSAAAAAN! Where is Susan? Someone bring me Susan!”
Plot twist: Horacio, my manager (thin guy, brown hair, 90’s suit, glasses that scream I haven’t slept since 1998), was looking for me.
I nearly dropped the donut I was holding.
With the huskiest voice I could muster, I said, “I’m here. To what do I owe the pleasure of your royal summons?”
I was trying to joke away my panic. But then he pulled out an email I wrote to a very difficult customer.
He waved the email like it was Exhibit A. In front of the entire office.
Subject: Re: Your Eternal Confusion
Dear Customer,
Hi. 👋 I’m not sure why the basic concept of “no payment = no service” is harder to understand than my dating life, but here we are.
To clarify, once again, for the people in the emotional back row:
💳 + 💰 = 🎉 Service No 💳 + 🥱 = 🚫 Service
Hope this helps (but deeply suspect it won’t). Please refrain from calling us again unless you’ve paid, grown as a person, or both.
P.S. Get a hobby. Or a succulent. Something low maintenance—unlike this conversation.
Goodbye. Susan V.“I Haven’t Had My Coffee Yet” Customer Service (Reluctantly)
The SIGNAL Co. – “We test your patience, so you don’t have to.”
The silence was deafening. Horacio crumpled the email and stormed off like a rejected telenovela villain.
Oishi (a concerned but emotionally repressed Shih Tzu): Fortunately, Horacio calmed down and gave Susan another chance—on one condition: behave
.
I was relieved. Because how will we eat if she loses her job? Who’s going to pay rent? We’ll be out there with my barkmates, living in snackless sorrow.
Life Lesson (from Susan, surprisingly):
I know what you’re thinking: “Oishi’s the only philosopher in the room.” But hear me out.
Some customers are difficult. And sometimes you do want to scream. But there’s no excuse for the way I responded. Even if the customer was unreasonable, even if Horacio made a show out of it, I should’ve taken a breath before writing.
We both apologized. We laughed it off.
But I wall-slammed at home because… I panicked. What if I lost my job? Where would I get rent? Would I have to give up Oishi? (Just typing that makes me want to eat six donuts and cry.)
I was walling not just from shame… but from fear. Fear of losing the one soul who never judged me—just licked my tears and waited for dinner.
Moral of the Episode:
Some people are annoying. Some people are surprisingly good. Both will test your Wireless Fidelity and your patience.
So be kind—always. Be wise—especially. And whatever you do…
Feed your dog.
PS from Oishi: “After Susan’s full-on telenovela performance 🎭, we curled up in bed 🛏️ and slept like emotionally exhausted champions 🐶💤. Good night and sweet dreams 🌙✨.”
It was just an ordinary day — raining outside, chips in hand, cuddling on the couch with Oishi. We were watching our favorite show: The Detective Agency, starring Sera, Rhys, and Nova (you remember them from Episode 4: Oishi’s Nightmare).
It was all fun and fiction until — BOOM. A car exploded on screen right as thunder cracked outside.
Then came another boom — lightning struck the electric post. And just like that, the power went out. The house went dark. The neighborhood? A blackout.
Narrator: Oishi, Scared to Death
I was about to suggest we get the flashlight when we heard it — Footsteps. Wind howling. A loud “awooooooo.” Like a ghost-wolf who forgot to mind his volume.
Susan clutched me like a stuffed toy, and I — a brave, diaper-wearing Shi Tzu — called upon the Mighty Paw. Susan, on the other hand, went full Pentecostal. “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, I rebuke you!”
Whoa. Sus? You believe in the Big Guy? You don’t even read the Bible. You read “How to Get Slim Without Exercising” and air fryer recipes.
And… “Listen, I was so scared I didn’t even notice Susan changed outfits. One minute she’s in orange, next she’s in green — either we’re haunted or she packed for the apocalypse.”
Suddenly, the Mighty Paw appeared — calm, glowing, mildly judgmental. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Mighty Paw! Use your powers! Make the ghosties disappear!”
He shook his noble head. “Oh, you silly Little PhilosoFurr. I don’t have that kind of power. But I know someone who does. He’s the One who can calm bad spirits — and even Susan’s tantrums. You can tell Him anything — even how much you love chimken.”
My tail twitched. “Please just tell me who! I’m scared! My soul is shaking and my diaper is full!”
Before he answered, a bright light filled the room.
Narrator: Oishi, Humbled & Slightly Wet
He wore white. He raised His hand. He smiled at me — gently, warmly — and said:
“Hi Oishi. I’m Jesus.”
I was in awe. He looked so peaceful… unlike me and Susan, who were still running around like squirrels on espresso. But I noticed something: He had a hole in His hand. And yet — He smiled.
Then, without a single word, the ghosts — human and paw — saw Him and immediately vanished.
Susan fell to her knees, sobbing. I think she howled. Like… elephant-style. “THANK YOU, JESUS!!”
And me? No, I didn’t hug Him right away.
I peed first. Then I hugged Him.
He whispered:
“I love you, Oishi. I love Susan. And I will always protect you.”
And I believed Him. Because no matter how brave I try to be — Susan’s kind of a lot. (And if you haven’t noticed, she’s… large.)
PS. She really committed to that praise pose like she was trying to send a signal to heaven and win an Oscar. 🙄 I didn’t say anything… but in my mind? “Not this again, Susan.”
Alpha, Bravo, Zulu, Ketchup, Tomato — do you copy?!
The wind howls. Sand whips around like it’s mad at someone. I blink awake (apparently I passed out) and find myself in a helicopter, strapped to a brooding, muscle-bound hooman who looks like Spartacus. (Listen, I’m a dog, not blind. The man has arms carved by destiny.)
The pilot’s voice crackles: “You are clear to jump.” Jump?! From what? Why?! Where even are we?!
Beside me is a woman with glasses, wearing a laptop like it’s tactical gear. She looks ready to leap. I, on the other paw, am internally crying and possibly externally peeing. But thank the heavens I’m in diapers.
We reach the edge. Broody McMuscles gives me goggles. I whisper, “You got this, Oishi. You’re on a mission.”
But I’m not. I don’t know the mission. I am a Shih Tzu. I do not jump. I nap. I lick Susan’s forehead during meltdowns. I eat chimken.
So I panic. And I pray: “Suuuuusaaaaan! Where are you?!” I call out to the Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light: Your Little PhilosoFurr is in deep doodoo!
The Landing
The chopper hits the ground. My legs are jelly. They take off my goggles.
I expect chaos. Instead, I see her — a beautiful woman in uniform walking toward me like she’s on the cover of a holy calendar. She smiles, pats my head, and I blush like a puppy in love. I gently lick her hand and touch her crucifix.
She smells like stability. Unlike Susan.
But still… where is Susan?
The Briefing
Briefing room. Hooman’s been talking for 27 minutes. No one asked for this. I see an opening. Slide over to the computer. Type one name: Susan. She understands me. She has snacks. She doesn’t say “circle back.”
The Combat: “Firewall & Furballs”
And then — BOOM.
Explosions. Gunfire. Yelling. The woman with the laptop is typing like a demon while dodging bullets. The muscley hooman is flipping bad guys like pancakes. I, meanwhile, am sprinting around like a squeaky toy possessed.
I have no idea what’s going on. But I’m in it now. I bark. I run. I don’t fetch — I philosophize under pressure.
Eventually, we all race back to the helicopter. There’s smoke, shouting, maybe a slow-motion shot of me flying through the air like a furry meatball.
The Aftermath:
We make it.
And finally, I learn their names:
The radiant woman I licked? Sera Wilde. A fitting name for a goddess in camo.
The smoldering weapons expert? Rhys Halden.
The laptop warrior queen? Nova. Unshaken. Unbothered. Unmatched.
Rhys pats my head. “You did good today, buddy.”
Darn right I did. I’m also 80% fear pee and 20% dignity right now. And… I miss Susan.
The Awakening
And then — I hear her.
“Just when I thought I was over you…” It’s Susan. Singing Air Supply with the same goat-on-a-sunset-hill voice she used at karaoke with Yohanes and Brenda.
I have never felt more seen. It’s her. My melodramatic, emotionally unstable hooman. My Susan.
Final Thought from the PhilosoFurr
It was a nightmare. (Except for Sera. Sera was a dream.)
But I’m back. Susan won’t stop singing, but I don’t care. I am safe. I am loved. And I love my one and only… Sus.
Narrator: Susan, the Emotionally Unsupervised Hooman Friday night: the people’s champion. Universally voted the second-best day after Saturday. After a long week of Zoom meetings, adulting, and Pete’s never-ending monologue about accounting taxes (ugh), it was finally here.
Narrator: Oishi (yes, I’m a dog—keep up) Susan came bursting through the door like a caffeinated hurricane, slamming the car shut and storming into the house. I was mid-nap, belly-up, living my best Shih Tzu life, when suddenly—scoop!
She squealed, “OISHI! We’re going Karaokeeeee with Yohanes and Brenda! They booked a bar!” Then she tied my red bandana like I was going to prom. I licked her face out of sheer survival instinct. She tasted salty, but emotionally enthused. I tolerated it.
We arrived. It was a tiny room with a screen, two mics, and the heavy scent of regret. Susan grabbed the remote and went full maniac mode. The second the intro played, she clutched the mic like she was accepting a Grammy. Yohanes and Brenda screamed “GO SUS!” like she was Beyoncé’s backup singer.
Then it started. 🎵 “I cried a tear, you wiped it dry…” 🎵 Yes. Anne Murray’s You Needed Me. The drama. The vibrato. The unblinking eye contact.
I was concerned. But that concern escalated when Yohanes and Brenda started singing APT by Rose and Bruno Mars. Not just singing—dancing. If I were a human, I would’ve put my hand on my forehead and softly muttered, “No.”
But… it wasn’t all bad.
There was food. Savory. Glorious. Human-grade food. While they performed their emotional talent show, I worked the snack table like a professional. I’m not proud. I am full.
We went home. We ate more. Then I passed out.
Oishi, out. 🎤🐾
No deep reflections from your Little Philisophurr today. Why? Because Susan said this one’s just a regular Friday. Not everything has to be profound. Sometimes, we just vibe.
Have you ever felt like something good is about to happen?
I did—in the shower. There must be something magical in tap water, or maybe it was just the conditioner finally reaching my brain. Whatever it was, I felt a shift.
For the past few years, my heart has been heavy with sadness and discouragement. My mind? Full of anxious thoughts doing laps. I hit that weird emotional state where I wasn’t happy or sad—just okay. The “emotionally buffering” zone. I even lost count of how many times I Googled “drifting through life means.”
(And yes, I might look ten years younger than my age, but I’ve lived through enough plot twists to earn those Googles.)
I used to cling to a quote I found online—“live life moment to moment.” It helped, kind of. For a while. But eventually, I realized: I need more than a Pinterest mantra.
What I thought I needed was a man. A strong, strategic, steady man. Translation: a husband. A handsome one who would sweep me off my feet, take me on wild adventures, and look good in travel selfies.
Look, don’t judge me. I’ve been single for a long time. Let a girl dream.
But here’s the plot twist: I didn’t need a man. I needed healing.
I kept looking outward—promotion, success, plane tickets—chasing things I thought would make me feel whole. But the advice always circled back to the same things:
“Find happiness within.” “Help someone in need.” “Be grateful.”
And I was like: I am someone in need. What do you mean “be grateful”? I’m barely hanging on!
But then… I came across this verse again. And something in me softened:
Philippians 4:6-7 “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
So I tried. I prayed. I thanked Him—even when I didn’t feel like it at first. And something shifted.
No, I’m not suddenly problem-free or perfectly happy. But I feel different. I feel a quiet strength, a steadiness. A sense that even if I don’t get what I’m asking for, He hears me. And that’s enough.
To my fellow citizens of the Republic of Anxiety: Try gratitude. Not just the hashtag version. The raw, shaky kind. Memorize that verse. Whisper it when the spiral starts. Put it in your heart.
Because something good is about to happen. Even if it’s just peace. And honestly? That’s more than enough.
My hooman Sus officially filed for “mental health leave” to prepare for my birthday. (Don’t tell her I ratted her out, but let’s be real — I am the mental health issue. You’re welcome.)
We hit the supermarket first. And by “hit,” I mean I was chilling in the cart like royalty, surrounded by groceries — fruits, cereals, milk, and most importantly, chimken. It felt like I was floating through heaven with the Mighty Paw and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light blessing my snout. Divine.
Back home, Sus started cooking like she was hosting the Barklorette finale. Chimken. Porky. Beef steak tenderloin. Mashed potatoes. I was drooling so hard my tail created its own wind pattern. And the cake? I wanted to dive in face-first. This smart, handsome, totally humble pup was ready for a FEAST.
And then… doom arrived.
The doorbell rang. My heartbeat spiked. I was sweating. Shaking. Existential dread. Sus opened the door and there they were — strangers. Loud ones. Touchy ones. Hoomans. Everywhere.
My brain tried to calm me down: “Oishi, they don’t bite.” My inner savage replied: “Yeah, but I do.”
Guests started eating. I was silently beefing with Steve, who wouldn’t stop taking my chimken. Bro, eat a banana and leave me the meat of heaven! Brenda? Oh, Brenda kept rubbing my ear and giving me belly rubs. I hated it. Then… I didn’t. It tickled. It was weirdly pleasant. (This is a safe space, right?)
And then came the singing.
Everyone gathered around me like I was some kind of plush deity. As a stoic pup, this level of attention is not my thing. So naturally, I coped the only way I knew how:
“In the name of Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot the Eternal, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light… Disappear, party hoomans — except my loving unstable hooman. WOOOSH!”
Yeah, I imagined that. I regret nothing.
But despite the commotion, I had the best barkday. My Super Sus went above and beyond. And that means something — even to a licensed Pawtherapist.
Oishi’s Barkday Wisdom (you knew this was coming):
Loosen up, hooman. If you stay stiff and serious, you’ll miss the fun. I hated the party. Then I belly-laughed during the belly rub. Coincidence? Nope.
Appreciate the real MVPs. I was so busy side-eyeing guests, I almost forgot the mountain of love Sus put into this day. She faked a mental health breakdown. For me.
Be present. Don’t be like Yohanes glued to his phone. Or Pete from accounting organizing receipts and trauma-dumping tax advice on Sus. Be like Brenda. She lived in the moment. Ate well. Rubbed bellies. A queen.
“By the end of the night, it was just me and Sus again.
She was watching a crime doc, breathing like she’s on the case herself.
I wanted to say, ‘Sus… breathe. You’re not on payroll.’
But hey—she threw me a memorable barkday.
So I curled up beside her, accepted the weird show,
and whispered in my mind:
‘It’s the neighbor. It’s always the neighbor.’”
So here’s my official prayer for you:
Dear Mighty Paw, bless this hooman with a softer heart, looser spine, and better pawmate appreciation. No to defeatism. Yes to optimism.
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” — Matthew 6:34
We worry about everything. Money. Jobs. Bills. What people think. Where our lives are headed. Whether we’ll ever get the things we’re longing for. (Or in my case, whether I’ll ever get a husband. Yes, I’m single — waving at all the single guys out there. 👋)
And for parents? Add a few more layers of worry — spouses, kids, school fees, and why the electricity bill suddenly looks like it was written in Greek.
Let me tell you a story from my early days in the UAE. Spoiler: it includes heat, humility, near-starvation, and one small miracle with a side of dates.
Welcome to RAK, the Budget Adventure Package
I loved my life in the UAE. The desert safaris, the food, the stunning buildings, and friendships with people from all over the world — it felt like a movie. But here’s the truth: even the best movies have a few horror scenes.
One day, my company decided to transfer me from Dubai to Ras Al Khaimah (RAK). I was nervous, sure — I didn’t know anyone there. But also excited… because I’m stubborn like that. ✨New experience! ✨No backup plan! ✨What could go wrong!
Well. Let’s talk about the part where I only had 20 dirhams to my name. Not 200. Not 2,000. Twenty.
And I had to:
Move to a new city
Pay rent in advance
Pay a carlift (no car!)
Exit the country soon (visa expiring, fun yaay!)
Eat food like a regular human
Mood? Full-blown panic. Budget? Spiritual Options? Cry, pray, or cry-while-praying.
Enter: The Unexpected Provision
My manager told me to go visit Al Hamra Mall before the move. It was new, bright, and weirdly empty. Retailers were chilling outside their stores like it was their front porch.
There, I met a woman — let’s call her M. We started chatting and I told her I’d be moving to RAK but didn’t have a place yet.
And then… she offered me a place to stay. No advance rent. Just, “You can live with us.”
She even let me crash that same day and cooked for me. Hot. Cooked. Food. Reader, I almost cried on her plate.
Ramadan & the 20 Dirham Diet
Then came the real test. Ramadan started. I had no money. The carlift driver kept asking for his fare and I kept pretending I didn’t hear him. (Sorry, Mohamed. God bless your patience.)
But he kept picking me up anyway. Problem #2 solved.
Food? I pretended I was fasting. I’m Catholic, but I used the season to embrace spiritual minimalism (aka, I was broke).
Local people gave out dates and water at sunset — that became dinner. And then, M noticed… and started feeding me lunch and dinner.
And then — family to the rescue. One of my cousins from Dubai showed up out of nowhere with bags of groceries. She said she had a gut feeling I was starving.
“Turns out God has a way of whispering into your cousin’s heart mid-grocery run.”
One by one, God crossed off every worry I had — housing, transport, food — with quiet, gentle kindness.
And Then Joy Walked In
That season taught me that Matthew 6:34 is real. Don’t worry about tomorrow. Not because tomorrow is magical — But because God already lives there.
Anxiety makes you spiral. It clutters your mind like tangled wires. It keeps you up at night rehearsing disasters that never come. But joy? Joy shows up with 20 dirhams and no plan… and still believes something good will happen.
I still feel anxious, of course. I’m human. But now, I don’t let anxiety drive the car. I acknowledge her, let her sit in the back… and let Joy take the wheel.
Let Me Leave You With This
We still need to plan — don’t get me wrong. You can’t say “I want to be a pilot” and then not learn how to fly a plane. But what I’ve learned is this:
One by one, every need I was anxious about — housing, transport, food — was covered by kindness I didn’t see coming.
When you don’t have anything, trust God’s provision through the unexpected people He sends your way. Sometimes it’s not a miracle falling from the sky… sometimes it’s a carlift driver who keeps showing up even when you pretend you didn’t hear him.
Do not worry about tomorrow, He said and He meant it.
See you in the next story. Where the budget was tight, the visa was tighter… and somehow, I ended up in Iran. Not by choice, but definitely with emotion.
Once upon a mildly humid afternoon, a male dog named Ketchup and a lady dog named Mustard locked eyes at the park.
Boom. Romance. Scandal. Questionable leash etiquette. And nine weeks later, me: a squishy, judgmental little pup with excellent hair and no inheritance.
From the moment I opened my eyes, I was filled with wonder. Big world. Big feelings. So naturally… I got lost. Because of course I did. Born with curiosity, not GPS.
I wandered. Sniffed some trash. Contemplated the void. Then, tired and slightly dramatic, I collapsed under a tree, waiting for fate. Or snacks.
Enter: Susan. A human. Hair flying, eyes wide, full rescue-mode activated. She scooped me up like I was a clearance item at an emotional Black Friday sale. She whispered, “I got you, buddy.”
Cue slow-motion. Wind. Music. Oscar-worthy emotional zoom. In that moment, I made a vow:
I will stay by her side.
I will protect her.
I will ignore most humans unless they have beef jerky.
Life was good. Susan worked. Came home. Pet me like I was therapy wrapped in fur. On weekends, we hit the park. Simple. Wholesome. No drama.
Until… drama. She went from “I got you, buddy,” to “Why is this happening to me, Oishi?”
Former queen. Now a stressed-out goblin powered by caffeine and online shopping.
Every night, she’d hold me like I was an emotional stuffed toy and mumble about:
how work drained her,
how the pizza guy was late,
and how our neighbor keeps blasting “Bed of Roses” like they’re were trying to summon 1992.
I stared at her like, “Susan… are you okay? Do I need to stage an intervention or just knock over a wine glass dramatically?”
I’m a Shih Tzu. I don’t know much about existential dread, but I do know when someone’s spiraling into a mid-level life crisis while holding a dog like a support burrito.
Narrator: Susan (The Melodramatic Hooman)
It was raining. I was overworked, overcaffeinated, and probably emotionally bankrupt.
Then I saw him—tiny, soaked, pathetic in a cinematic kind of way. I pulled over. Ran to him. Scooped him up. Whispered: “I got you, buddy.”
And that was it. We didn’t know it then, but maybe that moment was heaven-sent.
Me — drenched in burnout. Him — lost, tired, and hopeful. We found each other.
And somehow, we both knew… “God must’ve been listening.” Because He didn’t just give us a rescue story. He gave us a companion.
Oishi became my emotional WiFi. He doesn’t speak, but I swear he judges with love.
Sometimes, I imagine him saying things like:
“Susan… the pizza guy isn’t a villain. He’s just late. Like your rent.”
“Yes, life is hard, but maybe don’t buy three pairs of shoes during a panic spiral?”
“Maybe your coworker wasn’t rude. Maybe… you were just hungry.”
Oishi doesn’t stress. Doesn’t overthink. He naps like it’s a paid job. He exists like every day is just another opportunity to sit in a sunbeam and ignore everyone.
So now, I’m trying. To slow down. To be present. To learn from my emotionally distant dog guru.
Because sometimes, the best life coach is a furball with great hair and zero emotional baggage.
MEMO from Horatio T. – Subject: Defamation of Character (aka Gossip Ends Here)
“Activities! Bring Your Pet to Work Day!” 
Character 1: Susan V. – The Exaggerated Princess
Character 2: Yohanes Abimbola – Gossip Analyst
Character 3: Horatio T. – The HR Memo Monk
Character 4: Brenda Mondragon – The Voice of Reason
Character 5: Pete Erickson – The Number Snitch
Character 6: Macchismo D. – The Sales Adonis
Character 7: Dinah Montgomery – The Gossip Queen
Character 8: Jezzie Bell Morgan – The Corporate Siren
Character 9: Philip Vaughn – The Office White Knight
Character 10: Jasper P. – The Intern Who Spills Coffee and Feelings
Character 11: Ishmael – The Janitor With a Mysterious Calm
“Just when I thought I was over you…”
“In the name of Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot the Eternal, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light… Disappear, party hoomans — except my loving unstable hooman. WOOOSH!”
Oishi’s Barkday Wisdom (you knew this was coming):
Ember - Fire and Soul 