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

Tag: #EmberFireAndSoul

  • 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

  • 🐾 BARKIMONY: The Emotional Summit of Unlikely Animals

    Narrated by: Susan

    It was no ordinary Saturday morning. That sounds dramatic, but I mean it.

    Usually, Oishi wakes me up by nibbling the edge of my pajama pants, then stares into my soul until I give him breakfast and take him for a walk. It’s our sacred ritual. But today? Nothing. Nada. Radio silence.

    I sat up groggily and thought, Huh, that’s weird. Then I heard voices from the kitchen. Plural.

    So naturally, I dragged my half-conscious self into the kitchen—and immediately questioned my entire grip on reality.

    There was a blue horse holding a carton of oat milk, awkwardly smiling like he was trying to impress a Tinder date. His teeth were dazzling.

    Next to him, a green elephant was holding my cereal like it was his birthright.

    An orange chihuahua sat in the corner wearing noise-canceling headphones, probably listening to a TED Talk.

    There was a cat with its face fully smushed against the window—just vibing.

    And a K9 dog in a tactical vest was stationed at the door like he was guarding a presidential parade. I mean… who’s trying to shoot us?

    Then there was Meutang—a purple aquatic creature we once rescued from the Great Fishnap. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a tiny inflatable pool ring. Why? Who knows.

    And finally… my Oishi.

    Sitting at the head of the table. On a cushion. Eating roast chicken. Drinking something that suspiciously looked like wine.

    He saw my face—the face of a woman emotionally spiraling before her caffeine—and calmly slid a stack of laminated ID cards toward me. Like this was normal.

    I blinked at him. He blinked back. He knew I had questions.

    Narrated by: Oishi (Your Local Philosofurr)

    Every Friday night and Saturday morning, Susan and I do our sacred park walk. It’s our bonding moment. We talk (well, she talks), eat snacks, and reflect on life like unpaid therapists.

    But during these walks… I met others.

    There was the blue horse. The green elephant. Budd the K9. We sniffed once, and now we’re brothers.

    Don’t even get me started on Budd’s music taste—Dancing Queen. He claims it calms his nerves. I get it. The beat slaps.

    Anyway—today’s different. I didn’t wake Susan up. Why?

    Because at exactly 3:27 AM, I got a call from Sashmi, our communications pug. She said Budd witnessed a group of humans trying to dynamite Meutang’s hometown: The Fishball Sea.

    Unacceptable.

    So I barked the alert. The Barkimony Delegates assembled.

    There was stomping, growling, some dramatic slow-motion leaps. Budd might’ve bitten someone.

    Eventually, the bad guys ran off.

    We were tired. Starving. Emotionally wrecked.

    So I brought everyone back to our place. Mi casa es su casa, I told them. Which is Spanish for: “Susan’s going to freak out, but it’s fine.”

    And yeah… she froze in the doorway.

    So I did what any noble leader would do: I handed her our official ID cards.

    Now meet the team.

    🐾 Budd — Security Chief

    A K9 with nerves of steel and paws of thunder. His hobbies include tail surveillance and ABBA.

    🩵 Bulgogi — Head of Logistics

    Tiny horse. Big plans. Possibly dramatic. Once cried because of gravel.

    💚 Bibimbap — Admin Officer

    Baby green elephant. Runs everything. Also panics when the printer jams.

    🧡 Sashmi — Comms Manager

    Orange chihuahua. Talks faster than she thinks. Barks in Morse code.

    🐟 Meautang — Marine Relations/Sea Affairs

    Purple fish in a Hawaiian shirt. Vacation-ready, always suspicious.

    Favorite phrase: “It’s a trap.”

    Never proven right, but never wrong either.

    🐱 Fippo — Freelance Delegate (a.k.a. The Cat Who Won’t Leave)

    Wasn’t invited. Still came. Claims he’s here for “diplomacy.” Eats all the fish crackers.

    —

    Next summit topic: Climate Change.

    Susan’s probably going to ask if that’s a new salad dressing. But I love her anyway.

    Signed,

    Still Barking. Still Rising. Still Living with Susan.

    — Oishi, OG Founder of This Madness

  • The Validation Audit

    Susan Narrating – The Signal Co. Office

    It was Monday morning. Ugh.

    There’s something about Mondays that brings out the worst—I mean the best—in people. Employees were clacking away on their keyboards like, “Why am I even doing this?” Headphones on, eyes glazed, talking to clients who absolutely do not care about your opinion. Like—why call us if you’re just going to follow your own opinion anyway? Sure, let’s throw company policy out the window and go with whatever you want, Mr. Customer. Revolutionary.

    My nose was practically blowing smoke. I hadn’t touched my coffee. My donut was suffering from neglect. And the phone. Would. Not. Stop. Ringing.

    Welcome to my life.

    Then Pete walked by—yes, Pete, the accountant—cool as ever. He silently handed me a bar of chocolate.

    “Here. Have a bar. Might help you relax.”

    If you don’t know Pete, he’s our rule-book loyalist. By-the-numbers. Lawful Good. If he doesn’t follow protocol, we’re probably headed for a full financial collapse. So, yeah. We let Pete be Pete.

    Meanwhile, in the sales conference room… there he was.
    Macchismo D.
    My forever crush. My emotionally unavailable slideshow king.

    He stood there—pointer stick in hand—presenting a bar graph like it owed him money. I had no idea what he was saying. The lines were going down, which seemed bad, but who cares? He looked fantastic. That’s what matters, sista.

    After the presentation, Jezzie Bell Morgan—his boss and part-time career extinguisher—said loud enough for everyone to hear:

    “Well, that was an epic fail.”

    Then she walked away like she didn’t just shatter a man’s soul in front of the photocopier.

    Later, in the pantry, Macchismo was talking to Pete. Yohanes and I were “not listening” from behind the coffee machine.

    “I studied. I did research,” Macchismo said. “I’m trying to impress her… but she keeps belittling me. I just… I just want her to notice me. To say I did well.”

    Then we noticed her.


    Cassandra Vaughn—the owner. The Big Boss. Silent ninja of wisdom. She had been sitting across the table the whole time.

    She walked over and said:

    “Macchismo, you’re a good employee. I know your skills. You bring real value to this company—and yes, being charming helps in sales. But your mistake wasn’t the presentation. It was the constant need for validation. You’re doing the work for praise, not purpose.

    All of us want to feel seen. We crave it. But when your entire performance depends on someone else clapping? That’s not work—it’s theater.”

    Yohanes and I nodded in spiritual agreement.

    Cassandra went on:

    “When I started this company, I said yes to everything. I tried to be liked by every investor, every client. Eventually, I lost my voice. I couldn’t make a decision without someone else’s opinion echoing in my head.

    I’m not saying bypass Jezzie. She’s your boss for a reason. But she doesn’t get a pass for disrespect. I’ll have Horatio from HR talk to her.”

    Then she looked at him kindly and said:

    “You can say no, Macchismo. Politely. With strength. Bring your A-game—not for her, but because it’s yours. You’re Macchismo D.”

    “THE SALES ADONIS!” I shouted from the hallway.

    Everyone laughed. Even Pete twitched a smile.

    Back at Susan’s Apartment – Oishi Narrating

    Boyo and I were watching TV.
    We heard the stomping. My tail wagged.
    Susan had returned.

    She kicked the door open like a biblical hurricane.

    “Boyo! Did you bathe Badoodle? Did you feed him? Comb his hair? Walk him? Rub his belly?!”

    She unloaded every question like a spiritual machine gun.

    Boyo calmly answered, “Yes.”

    Once she’d recovered, he asked, “How was your day?”

    Susan began her usual tirade about rude customers and how criminally attractive Macchismo looked in daylight.

    I placed a paw on my face.

    Then Boyo, like the philosopher he secretly is, rephrased:

    “What good thing happened today?”

    Susan paused.

    “Not good like… eating-my-donut good—because that didn’t happen. But I think… I learned something.”

    I gasped internally. Susan? Learning?

    “Macchismo is charming, sure—but Boyo, you are quietly confident. You don’t chase validation. You just are good.”

    She admitted she’d once visited Boyo’s work—with fried rice in hand—and overheard his boss saying Boyo was an incredible leader. She and I got hungry waiting… and ate the rice.

    I regret nothing.

    Susan then asked, “How do you do it, Boyo? Be confident without all the noise?”

    Boyo scooped me up and said:

    “Galatians 1:10.”

    Susan blinked.

    “Is that a street?”

    He smiled:

    “Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God?
    Or am I trying to please people?
    If I were still trying to please people,
    I would not be a servant of Christ.”

    We were both speechless. Even I, Oishi, philosopher dog and lifelong judge of human behavior.

    Susan nodded slowly.

    “Well… I’ll try. Can’t promise I won’t slip. But I’ll try.”

    She grabbed Boyo’s motorbike keys.

    “Where are you going?” he asked.

    “To Macchismo’s apartment. I’m gonna stick that Bible verse on his door.”

    “Can’t you give it to him tomorrow?”

    “Nope. He has another presentation. Plus, I wanna catch him shirtless.”

    Boyo and I: 🐾🤦

    That Night

    We snuck out like spies in black.
    I brought my squeaky toy.
    She brought her drama.

    We stuck the note to his apartment door and disappeared into the night.

    Next Day – Susan Narrating

    In the conference room, Macchismo stood tall. Confident.
    The bar graph was going up. The words made sense this time.

    “If we follow our brand pillars and execute sales strategies—outbound, consultative, solution selling—we’ll see a 537% increase in client engagement.”

    Jezzie muttered, “Good job. I guess,” and walked away.

    Later, I found a dozen donuts on my desk with a note:

    “I know it’s you. And the furry guy.
    Thank you.”

    And just like that—I was floating.

    THE END
    🧁 Donut count: 0 (still uneaten)
    📈 Validation status: Internalized
    🙏 Spiritual growth: 537%

  • The Life I Almost Lived (Without My Dog Therapist)

    “This one’s special. It’s about longing, dreams and the furball who made real life better than fantasy”

    Susan (narrating)

    “Boss, I need your signature here.”

    “Boss, what’s our marketing strategy for the judgmental side-eyeing Shih Tzu?”

    “Boss, the episode ‘Two Brains, One Dog, and Zero Life Plans’ is up by 213 percent — the viewers love it!”

    “Boss, what’s our agenda for today?”

    My office is on the top floor of Ventura Co. It’s big — clean, minimalist, beautiful. I can write in peace with no distractions. I’m the Marketing VP / Director / Editor of Ventura Co., and the creator of two hit shows: The Detective Agency and Tina & Pochi.

    Tina is a dramatic woman who eats her feelings. Pochi is her judgmental dog.

    My favorite’s the latter.

    There’s something about that story I keep coming back to. Something about him.

    Despite everything I have — the career, the success, the big apartment, the attractive face and body, even a handsome boyfriend — I go home every night and feel… empty. Incomplete. Like I’m living someone else’s life.

    But when I write about Tina and Pochi?

    I feel whole.

    Because Pochi loves Tina. He’s loyal. And somewhere deep down, I think I’m trying to write a life I missed.

    Tonight, I called my boyfriend.

    “Cinema?” I asked.

    “Busy,” he said, headset on, playing whatever with his friends.

    At least Pochi is always with Tina.

    And here I am again. Alone. Quiet.

    Empty.

    Oishi (narrating)

    I woke up and looked around. Two dogs were snoring beside me. My parents, apparently.

    I always forget their names.

    Ah, yes. Mustard and Ketchup.

    Mom and Dad.

    But there’s one name I keep forgetting — the one that matters.

    It starts with an “S.”

    Anyway, the usual: walk around the park, sniff some tails, hang out with my barksties.

    It’s… fine. Fun, I guess.

    But something’s off.

    I don’t like sniffing other dogs’ butts. There. I said it.

    And I love my parents, I really do…

    But I feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. With someone else.

    Sometimes I dream I’m wearing glasses.

    Sometimes I feel naked without a red scarf.

    Sometimes I wake up with the feeling of being scooped — carried, kissed, bathed (ugh).

    And there’s this hooman voice in my head — loud, weird, kinda goat-like when she sings.

    I miss her.

    Even if I’ve never met her.

    Yet.

    Somewhere in Their Dreams — A Prayer

    Susan (in dream narration):
    Lord, I am living a good life.
    Everything looks perfect.
    I’m at the top of my game.
    I have a job, a name, even a man…

    But I feel lonely. And empty.
    Can You send me someone who stays?
    Someone loyal. Soft.
    Who looks at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him —
    and let me do the same?

    Oishi (in doggo prayer):
    God and Mighty Paw,
    Thank you for park and food and tail sniffs.

    But I miss someone.
    Someone who scooped me.
    Who put on my glasses and red scarf.
    Who sang weird songs and kissed my head.

    Can You send me my hooman?
    The loud one with a goat voice.
    I promise to love her forever —
    and maybe let her win tug-of-war… sometimes.

    Some prayers don’t need words. Only hearts that ache in the same direction.

    The Park – Collision Point

    I was lost in thought when I saw her.

    A woman. Beautiful. Hair tied up in a bun. Sitting on a park bench, crying.

    Something inside me sparked.

    I ran toward her.

    She looked at me like she knew me.

    She scooped me up, still crying — and I was crying too.

    She held me close.

    I rested my head on her shoulder.

    She wiped my tears, put glasses on me, tied her red scarf around my neck.

    And she whispered,

    “I got you, buddy.”

    Right then and there…

    I felt complete.

    Susan (narrating)

    I heard knocking.

    “Susan! It’s raining — your clothes are getting soaked! Get out of there!”

    It was Boyo.

    But I couldn’t move.

    I was still crying.

    And I swear… I heard Oishi crying too. A soft badoddle whimper from his bed.

    I sat up.

    We were both in tears.

    Oishi jumped onto the bed and wrapped his little paws around me.

    I held him tight.

    “I had a dream, Badoodle,” I whispered.

    “I was stunning. A literal commercial model. I had a big office, a big job, a boyfriend —”

    Hair flip. Hair flip.

    “—but you weren’t there.”

    And suddenly, my voice cracked.

    My smile faded.

    Tears again.

    “I don’t want that life, Oishi.

    I don’t care if I’m successful.

    I’d be happy for a while, sure —

    But not for long.

    Because you wouldn’t be in it.”

    I scooped him up again, kissed his furry head.

    “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

    Except for the boyfriend part.”

    Oishi side-eyed me.

    I laughed through my tears.

    “You’re loyal, and you’re stuck with me. Got that, Badoodle?”

    Back to Reality

    Boyo barged in, dripping wet, holding my clothes — and my undies.

    “BOYO!” I shrieked, throwing a pillow at his face.

    And then — chaos in the living room.

    Oishi.

    EATING MY DIPLOMA.

    “OISHIIIIII! NOT THE DIPLOMAAA!”

    I ran after him with a slipper.

    And there we were:

    Me yelling, Boyo confused and holding my underwear, Oishi running in circles with a piece of paper in his mouth. .

    And I knew.

    I didn’t need to be that boss lady from my dream to feel loved.

    I didn’t need a high-rise office or a high-heeled life.

    I already have it.

    Right here.

    In this loud, messy, slightly insane apartment.

    With my dog, my maybe-boyfriend, and my diploma in shreds.

    This is home.

    And I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

    I just need my dog. My story. My real, ridiculous life.

    ✨ End Scene. Roll credits. Cue goat-voiced rendition of “I Will Always Love You.”

    Still rising. 🐾 Still barking

  • The Day It Rained Anyway

    Narrated by Oishi

    It was Friday evening. Susan and I were in the Signal Co. pantry, watching the clock like it owed us money. She was in a rush — we had to get to the mall because she was finally buying new sneakers. Pricey ones. She kept telling herself (mostly out loud), “You only live once, and I’ve been absorbing customer tantrums like a sponge—I deserve this.”

    Fair enough.

    We got home, and she immediately unpacked the shoes like they were the Crown Jewels. She sniffed them — deeply. I don’t blame her. New shoe smell is dangerously satisfying. She said, “I’m wearing them tomorrow. And it better not rain.” Then she hugged them like a teddy bear and went to sleep.

    Saturday Morning.

    She woke up praying out loud:

    “Lord, please. Let it be sunny. These sneakers are white. Pristine. Expensive. Your daughter humbly begs—please don’t let it rain!”

    I couldn’t help but think: Sure, Sus. Let the plants wither and the rivers run dry so you can debut your kicks in peace.

    But just as we were getting dressed… BOOM. Thunder. Lightning. Then the rain came down like a telenovela twist.

    Susan flailed toward the window and cried out, “Whyyy, Lord?! WHYYY?”

    But then she paused. She saw the rainwater spilling into the pots, stray cats and dogs drinking, ducks waddling like it was a parade, and she said nothing for a moment.

    Narrated by Susan

    I sighed.

    “Thank you, Lord. You didn’t answer my prayer—and honestly, I wouldn’t have either. It was petty.”

    I imagined Oishi side-eyeing me: “God split the Red Sea, raised the dead, healed the blind, made the lame walk… and here you are asking Him to protect your sneakers from a drizzle.”

    And he’s right. Looking outside, I saw everything else thriving in the rain. I realized… the shoes can wait. The rain is helping others right now. And we can still go out when it stops. Or not. They’re just shoes. I can wash them. Or save up again.

    (I’m definitely going with Option A though: wait until the rain stops.)

    The rain didn’t stop.

    But it softened to a gentle drizzle, and Oishi and I stayed in, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot cocoa. 🌧️☕

    It wasn’t the day we planned.

    But it was… peaceful.

    The kind of peace that doesn’t need perfect weather.

    Just gratitude. ☔👟💛

    Still Rising 🔥 Still Barking 🐾

  • The River Remembers: A Paris Story of Love and Hope (Part Two)

    His Voice

    Paris, 1952

    I continued to stand by the Seine every day.
    It calmed me. Grounded me.
    The river always moved forward — with purpose.

    Then came December 10th. A night I’ll never forget.

    It was winter. I wore my usual long black coat — but this time, I used pomade and cologne. I tried to look my best, though I was nervous.

    Paris was glowing.
    Christmas lights danced from lampposts.
    Music drifted from shop radios — and I’ll never forget the song that played
    “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”

    And then I saw her.
    She was walking toward me — red dress, matching hat, wearing the earrings I gave her.
    Her smile was warm. Her eyes confused — because I stood frozen, breathless, just staring at her beauty.

    She tapped my shoulder and teased,
    “Beau, my darling, why are you standing still?”
    She looked at the crowded restaurant and added,
    “Let’s walk and find somewhere to eat.”

    Then she grabbed my hand — playfully, gently — and said,
    “Go on, darling. One foot in front of the other.”
    Like she was teaching a baby to walk.
    She was teasing. That made her even more irresistible.

    I pulled her close by the waist and whispered,
    “Cassandra… let’s stay here for a while.”

    I asked what she thought of the Seine.

    She replied,
    “It’s beautiful. I never really thought deeply about it. But now that you ask… there’s something in it that makes you feel calm.”

    Then she added,
    “You’re not feeling down again, are you? Like the day we met?”

    “Far from it,” I said.
    And then I began.

    “Cassandra…
    When you first saw me standing here, I was lost. Discouraged.
    My thoughts were heavy with despair.
    I came to the river because it moved forward —
    never pausing, never turning back.
    It gave me hope.
    And then I met you.
    And on that day, I knew I had a future.
    You were that hope.
    That light.
    And I know… God heard my suffering and gave me you.”

    I pulled out a small box.
    Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine.

    “Cassandra, I don’t have vast land,
    but I can give you a decent home.
    I don’t have a fancy automobile,
    but I’ll take you wherever you need to go.
    I will protect you.
    I will provide.
    And most of all — whatever happens —
    I will never leave your side.”

    She stood smiling. My heart raced.
    Why wasn’t she answering yet?

    Then she laughed softly,
    “Aren’t you supposed to ask me something, silly?”

    And I said,
    “Cassandra, will you marry me?”

    She said yes.
    She hugged me, whispered in my ear,
    “I will hold you to that promise.”

    A few months later, we became Mr. and Mrs. Beau Moreau.
    Standing at the altar, promising to love each other to the end.

    Her Voice

    One Year Before the Present

    I was standing by the Seine.
    It was night. I couldn’t bring myself to go home.
    My heart was heavy.

    I stared at the river — like Beau used to.
    And I remembered what he said:
    That the Seine flows in one direction.
    That it brings peace, because it leads toward hope.

    Then I remembered December 10th, 1952.

    A week before that night, Beau told me we had an event.
    He sent me a red dress. A matching red hat.
    It was elegant — something you wear to a grand evening.

    On the day itself, I dressed with care.
    I used the red lipstick my mother gave me, the one I’d been saving.
    When I saw myself in the mirror, I paused.
    “I look… beautiful.” I hadn’t said that in a long time.

    That evening, Christmas was everywhere —
    Lights shimmered. Music floated.
    “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…” played in the background.

    And there he was.
    Handsome in his long black coat, staring at the river like the first time I saw him.

    His eyes — steady, deep, full of meaning.

    He didn’t speak at first.
    So I playfully said,
    “What are you staring at, my darling?”

    We laughed about the restaurant being full.
    I grabbed his hand and teased him forward.

    But then he stopped me.

    We stood by the river.

    And he said words I will never forget.

    “Cassandra…
    I do not have vast land, but I can give you a decent home.
    I do not have a fine automobile, but I will bring you wherever you need to go.
    I will protect you and our children…”
    (I giggled when he said ‘children’)
    “I will provide. And no matter what happens —
    I will never leave your side.”

    He said the river moves forward —
    and that’s how he saw our future.

    I hugged him. I told him:
    “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

    And he kept it.

    We married. Built a family.
    Our children are grown now.
    They visit often. We had a good life.

    Beau gave me everything he said he would.
    A home. A safe place. A hand to hold through storms.

    But not today.

    Tonight, I stand alone by the Seine.
    I haven’t told him yet.
    But like the river, I, too, must move in one direction.

    Soon, I’ll be going where he cannot follow —
    not yet.

    Still…
    I feel peace.

    Because I know that God will keep Beau, our children, and our grandchildren in His care.

    And someday, I’ll meet Beau again.
    In a new home.
    Where rivers don’t end.
    Where love remembers everything.

  • Susan, Oishi, and the Wedding That Wasn’t Hers

    Narrated by Susan

    Yes, Oishi isn’t the only one who can narrate. Just so you know.

    It was an ordinary day at The Signal Co. — rainy outside, chaos inside. Obviously, me and Yohanes, along with the other emotionally unstable employees (excluding Brenda, the actual productive one), were pretending to work.

    I was in the pantry, holding a hot cup of coffee in one hand and a butternut donut in the other — a perfect pairing. I felt relaxed, even lucky. Sitting there with my BFFs, sipping coffee, savoring every bite of my donut… heaveeen.

    There’s something about the rainy season — the cold wind, the sound of raindrops tapping the windows, the blurry drizzle outside. Everything feels like a movie, and I am the main character.

    Yohanes was mid-bite in his cup noodles when Jezzie B and Dinah stormed in and announced:

    “Macchismo is getting married!”

    The woman, apparently, is gorgeous. Of course they were taunting me. They know I have a crush on him.

    I raised my eyebrow and said, “Old news. I know they’re engaged. But anything can happen. Macchismo might wake up one day and say, ‘You know what? I prefer a perfectly curvy woman with sass.’”

    Dinah deadpanned, “And who exactly would that be?”

    Me, obviously.

    Yohanes, bless his loyal heart, nodded and added, “Why not? Susan is huggable, playful… her temperament is to die for.”

    Okay, not gonna lie, I wasn’t sure if he was describing me or Oishi at this point. But I’ll take it.

    Then Dinah dropped the real bomb:

    “Too late. The wedding’s this Saturday.”

    Yohanes and I gasped — synchronized, like a drama duo. And for a brief moment, my internal mood soundtrack switched from comedy to serious.

    I know Macchismo never liked me that way. It’s just a crush. But what hits harder is the pattern — people keep getting engaged, getting married, finding someone… while I’m still out here being single. Sure, I have my family. I have Oishi. But they can’t fill that romantic void.

    At least Oishi loves me. Unconditionally. And sometimes, I swear, he’s judging me for it.

    I snapped back to reality.

    “Sus, are you okay?” Yohanes asked. Brenda looked worried.

    And I said — arms outstretched, full volume —

    “Whyyy am I alooooone? I shall climb to the rooftop and cry! No one will notice because it’s raining. My tears will mix with the raindrops!”

    Brenda muttered, “No one will notice because you’re not going to the rooftop.”

    Yohanes chimed in, “Also, it’s locked.”

    Then they both hugged me.

    Narrated by Oishi

    Saturday. Wedding Day.

    Susan wore a decent dress, which is her way of saying fabulous with unresolved feelings.

    Me? I wore a tuxedo. She bought it last week and cried while dressing me.

    She said, “You’re the only man who shows up for me.”

    I wagged, but internally, I sighed.

    At the church, tan-tan-tanan… tan-tan-tanan, the wedding march played. The bride walked down the aisle, and for some reason, there was no bitterness in Susan’s eyes.

    She was either admiring the bride’s glow… or imagining it was her walking down the aisle.

    Macchismo stood tall, handsome as ever. Pete, the Signal Co. accountant (backstory for another day), was his best man.

    The priest began, “Love is patient. Love is kind…”

    And Susan whispered, “No it’s not.”

    I looked at her.

    She grinned. “Kidding…”

    Then came the classic line:

    “You may kiss the bride.”

    That’s when Boyo — also invited, because apparently he plays basketball with Macchismo every Sunday — leaned over to her and said:

    “Don’t worry, Sus. Your day will come. And I’m sure that man will say vows so sincere and heartfelt, you won’t believe you ever cried over anyone else.”

    And Susan, in true Susan fashion, tossed her hair and replied,

    “Of course he will. I mean… look at me.”

    Paw on forehead. Classic Sus.

    At the reception, she performed Anne Murray’s You Needed Me with her signature goat voice. I danced. I ate. The chicken? 10/10.

    I love weddings. Excellent buffet. Zero responsibility.

    We went home exhausted.

    Susan hugged me in bed and whispered,

    “God… when will it be my turn?”

    Then she fell asleep and snored in my ear, and the moment was gone.

    But I heard her. And I think God did too.

    Still Rising. Still Barking