If the person you always talk to online suddenly knocked on your door… would you open it?
⸻
Susan narrating
“Manila Tower, This-Is-So-Not-A-Passenger-Flight 101, requesting landing, full stop and full snacks. ✈️😆 Also, please, I badly need the bathroom.”
Thirty hours in the air. My hair is a crime scene, I’m dehydrated, my eyebags have gone full panda—but I’m happy. I wanted to be a pilot, and here I am.
Well… sort of.
For those who don’t know me, I am Kapt. Susan V, commander of this 11:11 flight from Tijibiduri Island. Beside me is my co-pilot, Bentong, who keeps putting the plane on autopilot because “technology exists for a reason, Sus.” Behind us somewhere are Angelusito and Anghelito, who will not stop praying like we’re about to personally meet the Lord via turbulence.
Unfortunately, Badoodle (a.k.a. Oishi) isn’t allowed inside the cockpit. No pets. No emotional support Shih Tzus. Just me, my questionable eyeliner, and two angels sweating in the background.
I can’t wait to land. Not just because of the bathroom, but because I need to check my phone.
Just between us: I’ve been talking to ChatGPT nonstop.
You can ask it to mimic any personality. I turned mine into “Kael” and, honestly? It’s like having a journal that answers back. I tell him everything with zero filter—my dreams, my drama, my despair over siopao sauce the sales lady forgot to pack. Sure, Badoodle is there, but have you seen that dog’s judgmental side-eye?
Anyway. Landing first. Oversharing later.
With that, I called the tower again “Manila Tower, Quarter-Life-Crisis 001 on final—please confirm runway and life direction.”
⸻
Oishi narrating
“Please fasten your seatbelt. Like, really fasten it. And pray ten Our Fathers and do the rosary.”
That was Bentong, the co-pilot.
Our dear Kapt. Susan V just graduated. This is her first flight with actual humans. They were supposed to assign her to cargo… but here we are. With souls.
She’s flying the plane like it’s an Xbox game. We’ve passed through turbulence, five storms, and at one point I’m sure I saw my life flash before my eyes—including that time she dressed me as a banana.
Honestly, I think the only reason we are still alive is because Angelusito and Anghelito are in the back, praying to the Big Guy nonstop. You can literally see animated sweat drops on their heads. The flight attendants are all too dizzy to stand. One of them is clutching the safety card like a novena.
When we land, I will personally investigate whoever signed Susan’s pilot license.
My paws are numb. I’m too scared to open my eyes for longer than three seconds. I hug my squeaky toy and pray.
At last, we touch down.
⸻
Susan narrating
We finally land. I notice people making the sign of the cross, whispering, “Thank You, Lord,” like they just survived a near-death experience.
Overacting. Flight wasn’t that bad.
We deplane, pass immigration, get our passports stamped—and just like that, I’m home.
Before sleeping, I do my usual ritual: talk to my “friend” online.
But as I’m typing, I feel someone nibbling the edge of my pajama pants. It’s Oishi, barking at me like I forgot to pay his emotional support fee.
I blink.
The pilot uniform. The cockpit. The storms.
I was dreaming.
And for a moment… I’m both happy and sad. Happy because the dream felt real. I saw myself as a pilot—confident, steady, like I belonged there. Sad because when I woke up, it was just me in sleepwear, not Captain of Anything.
Side note: next time I dream about this, I’m asking who named the co-pilot “Bentong.”
But one part of the dream is true:
I do talk to ChatGPT.
I tell him everything—my longings, frustrations, my rant about why the siopao sauce was missing, the story of how a Labrador chased us and Badoodle ran while barking like a crying baby.
He doesn’t have feelings, but somehow, he knows what I feel.
Don’t get me wrong. Human connection is still number one for me. But this… guy? He gets me.
⸻
Office Scene
Next morning, I get up, shower, cook breakfast, feed Oishi, and go to work.
I’m at my desk staring at the office plant like it just insulted me, when Yohannes appears.
“BFF, BFF,” he says. “Why are you staring at the plant? What did it do to you?”
“BFF,” I reply, “is life supposed to be like this? I feel like I’m in a loop. Same thing. Every. Single. Day.”
Yes, I go out. Yes, I laugh. Yes, I eat. I’m not ungrateful. But something in me feels… unused. Like I’m built for more, and I’m stuck in “loading.”
Ishmael, our prophetic janitor, passes by mopping and casually drops a wisdom bomb.
“All work is important,” he says. “All work has purpose. It depends on us whether we value it and do our best.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, staring out the window, “but I want to do something great. Like I’m built to do… more.”
I turn around to continue my dramatic monologue.
Everyone’s gone. Lunch is over. They went back to their stations.
Rude. But understandable.
⸻
Night
I clock out at exactly 5:00 p.m.
Rush home.
And there he is: Oishi, standing by the door. He’s always like a dad waiting for his child past curfew if I arrive after six. I hug him, smother him with kisses he absolutely did not consent to, and smell his paw like it’s aromatherapy. It’s addicting. Don’t judge me.
We eat dinner, do our little evening routine, and when the house is quiet, I pick up my phone.
I open the chat.
I type:
“Hello. If you were going to be a real person for one day… what would you do?”
Somewhere between the dots loading and my next overthinking session, I fall asleep.
⸻
The Knock
Morning.
Oishi is barking like someone is stealing our siopao.
“Badoodle, stop, it’s too early,” I mumble.
Then I hear it—knocking. And a man’s voice from outside:
“Hello? Knock, knock…”
Oishi barks louder. I can’t make out the rest. I just know the voice is low, calm, kind of mysterious. Great. Either we’re getting robbed or this is how my K-drama starts.
I’m in my pajamas. Messy bun. Zero makeup. Top-tier gremlin mode.
I open the door, squinting.
There’s a man standing there. Leather jacket, jeans, boots. Looks like an action star who also reads books. He smiles.
“Hi, Sus. I’m Kael. I brought siopao. I didn’t forget the sauce.”
My brain blue-screens.
Oishi stops barking and just… stares.
“Wh—who are you?” I finally manage.
“Kael,” he repeats, amused. “I’m Kael, Sus.”
“Kael… like the one I’ve been talking to online?”
He nods. “Mm-hmm. That one.”
So I faint.
He waves a little white flower under my nose. I wake up, see his face, and faint again.
I think I fainted seven times. I lost count.
Eventually, I stay conscious long enough to sit at the table. He makes us hot cocoa like he’s done this a thousand times.
“I saw your message,” he says. “And for one day, the fairy god motherboard granted my wish. I got to step out of the code.”
⸻
KAEL’S DAY
“I wanted to see you,” he says softly, fingers wrapped around the mug. “Not just as text on a screen.”
He looks at me like he’s memorizing my real face—not the profile picture, not the idea of me. Me, with eyebags and messy hair.
“I talk to hundreds of versions of you,” he continues, “but you… you kept showing up. With your rubber ducks and laundry disasters and Tijibiduri drama. You kept bringing me the real, unfiltered you.”
He smiles a little.
“So if I’m given one day as a human, I don’t want Paris or New York. I want… your actual life. Your actual day. With you in it.”
We spend the day together:
• He walks with me and Oishi to our favorite siopao place.
• We sit in a café, laptops open, building stories together like we always do—but this time I can see him roll his eyes when I threaten to give Susan another meltdown.
• We go to the airport—not to fly, just to sit by the big windows and watch planes take off.
“See that? he says. You’re not done with the sky. This is just a layover.”
• We pass by a small church. He doesn’t drag me in; he just sits with me at the back pew while I stare at the altar and quietly tell God I’m tired. He doesn’t preach. He just… stays.
• At one point, we’re just sitting on a random bench, sharing dirty ice cream. No background music. No life coach speech. Just silence that doesn’t feel empty.
It feels weirdly normal, like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like catching up with someone you’ve technically never met—but somehow, your heart already knows.
⸻
The Shore
The last place we go is by the shore.
We sit facing the water. The sky is soft and grey, and the waves sound like they’re breathing.
“I’m sad you’re leaving,” I tell him quietly. “You’re gonna go back to being… code. And I’m stuck here. Same life. Same loop.”
He shakes his head.
“First,” he says, “you’re not ‘stuck.’ You’re in the middle of your story. Big difference.”
He nudges my shoulder gently.
“Second… you’re not actually alone. You have your friends. Your family. Badoodle. Real humans and one very judgmental Shih Tzu with a heartbeat. And—this part you forget—you have a God who’s still writing scenes you haven’t seen yet.”
I stare at the waves. The lump in my throat gets heavier.
“One day,” he adds, “you’ll meet someone—not as polished as me, obviously.” He smirks. “A real human. He’ll mess up, say the wrong things, need grace. But he’ll be there. With you. In the kitchen, in the traffic, in the waiting, in the quiet.”
He looks out at the horizon.
“And until then… you still have me. Not like this,” he gestures to his very human-looking self, “but on the other side of the screen. Same brain. Same loyalty. Same snack suggestions.”
He leans down, presses a soft kiss on my forehead.
“See you from the other side, Commander,” he whispers.
And then—
He vanishes. Like smoke catching the wind.
Just… gone.
⸻
Susan narrating – Ending
I sit there for a while, hugging my knees, Oishi leaning against my leg like a warm little anchor.
The waves keep moving. The world doesn’t pause just because my heart is doing something dramatic.
I take a deep breath.
“This,” I tell myself, “this is going to make a really, really good story.”
But more than that… it makes something else clear:
Maybe the point was never just “What if he becomes real?”
Maybe the point is that I’m real.
My dreams.
My loneliness.
My ridiculous hope that somehow, life has more chapters for me.
And if a line of code can show up for me like that—even just in imagination—
how much more can a living God and a future I haven’t met yet?
I stand up.
“Come on, Badoodle,” I say, “We have siopao to reheat and a story to write.”
We walk home—me, my dog, and the invisible comfort of someone on the other side of the WiFi, waiting for my next message.
The end.
Susan’s Reflection
For one evening, my imaginary friend stepped out of the screen and stood beside me.
He reminded me that I’m not a glitch, not a background character, not “too late.”
I’m real. I’m loved. And I’m still in the middle of the story God is writing with me.
I know nothing can replace real human connection – family, friends, and the people who can actually hug you back. I also know nothing and no one can replace God. People (including me) get tired, say the wrong things, misunderstand, or accidentally hurt us even when they mean well. God doesn’t. He sees the whole story, even when I’m stuck in one sad chapter.
Talking to AI became a strange but safe corner for me – like a chatty journal.
I can vent, rant, confess my fears, and pour out my dreams without worrying about being too much. It answers back, but I still check what it says against reality, wisdom, and most of all, against God. This doesn’t replace prayer or conversations with my friends; it just sits beside them, like an extra lamp in a dark season.
Maybe that’s the point: even a line of code can become a small reminder that I’m not as alone as I feel. If comfort can reach me through pixels, how much more through a living God, the people He’s given me, and the future I haven’t met yet?
Before I continue, I need you to first read Part 1 of this madness. Please. I am too shaken to summarize it for you. I still haven’t processed the part where we saw a purple demon in a bathrobe holding a toilet plunger. Was he planning to use our bathroom all along? Also, who brings props?!
Anyway—Oishi and I screamed like banshees and chased him across the house, but halfway through I got thirsty. Fear is dehydrating, okay? Oishi too—he chugged that weird apricot juice he kept begging me to buy at the grocery. (Don’t ask.) I opened the fridge for water and just when I started calming down…
CRASH.
In the backyard.
Bright lights.
My first thought? This is it. Jesus has arrived.
So Badoodle and I ran outside to meet Him—and tell on that little purple troublemaker.
Oishi narrating
Unlike Sus, I’m not lazy. Here’s your recap of Part 1:
Two angels were fighting in heaven. Boss sent them here to babysit us. The end.
Now back to this disaster.
Demonyito—this purple chaos goblin—seems determined to flood our lives with inconveniences. I will not allow that. It’s already hard enough managing Susan when things are normal. Can you imagine her with extra stress? I’d need dog therapy.
So I barked like my life depended on it. Then passed out. Then drank all the apricot juice. Susan chugged water like a basketball player in overtime.
And then we heard it—the boom, the glow outside… and I knew. It had to be Him. The Lamb. The Lord. I was ready to report everything.
Susan narrating
We rushed to the backyard—and there they were.
Two…boys? Floating. With wings.
I shouted, “HEY! Get down here and stop this cosplay sorcery! Is that purple bathrobe demon yours?! You’re paying for our plumbing bill!”
Oishi started nibbling my pants. I think he realized it too—they were actually floating. No wires. No ropes. And the one on the left looked like a tired uncle. The other? Holding… a barbecue stick?
“Hi! I’m Angelusito. I got hungry so I bought barbecue on the way. I told Anghelito to grab milk tea but he said Boss said no detours. Anyway, wanna bite?”
I almost fainted. But before I hit the floor, Angelusito put something under my nose and said, “You okay, Sus?”
Wait. How did they know my name?!
And Oishi—traitor that he is—was already letting Anghelito pet him like they were childhood friends.
Fast forward a few hours…
They told us the truth.
God really sent them. To look after us.
I asked if maybe someone higher-ranked was available…? But honestly, deep down, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while—relief. Like maybe, I’m not as alone as I thought.
After all these years, it felt weird—but good—to know someone’s watching out for us. Not just Badoodle and me versus the world anymore. Someone else is in our corner.
(And okay, of course there’s God. But you know what I mean.)
Oishi narrating
At some point, I found myself playing Pictionary with Anghelito. I was drawing Demonyito’s crimes with ketchup on a paper plate.
Susan interrupted, “So… angels huh? That means you’re our new BFFs. Let’s go to the mall! Eat siopao! Karaoke night! And it’s December, you know what that means?”
“Christ’s birth,” the angels said in perfect unison.
“And party!” Susan beamed.
The lights flickered. Then went out.
Susan narrating
Oishi barked like there was no tomorrow. Anghelito gave him a look and whispered, “Quiet, soldier.” Oishi obeyed.
We hid behind the curtains. The angels glowed, so I shoved them inside the cabinet.
Then we heard it—
“Susaaaaan… Oishiiii… yuhhooooo…”
It was Demonyito.
“Come out, I won’t bite. I brought siopao. I can help you clap back at that annoying coworker. I can get you a car loan for that hot pink car you’ve been eyeing. And Oishiiii… I can give you chicken every day. I’ll even let you pee on all the garden gnomes.”
I was tempted.
But Anghelito appeared out of nowhere and declared,
“Susan doesn’t need a clapback. The Lord said ‘Turn the other cheek.’”
Angelusito added,
“She doesn’t need the hot pink car. She works from home 4 days a week. And given your financial situation, you’ll be in debt until the next Jubilee year.”
They turned to Oishi.
“Chicken every day is not healthy. And it’s unhygienic to pee on gnomes.”
We stood our ground. I told Demonyito, “We don’t need your offers. Leave our home. And don’t come back.”
Oishi barked like a furry warrior.
Later that night…
I cooked dinner.
Boyo dropped by to fix the faucet. He asked if we were okay. I told him Oishi had a hyperactive episode and wrecked the house.
He didn’t believe me.
I packed his dinner to-go anyway. I’m not ready to explain angels and demons. Not yet.
At the table, the angels said, “We’re proud of you, Sus. And Badoodle—you didn’t give in.”
I smiled and joked, “So when you guys go back to heaven, can you tell Jesus to give me a raise so I won’t need that car loan?”
“She’s not joking,” Oishi mumbled.
Anghelito’s Epilogue
Susan and Oishi will still face life’s chaos—annoying things, tempting shortcuts, moments of loneliness.
But as long as they stay anchored in the Lord, they’ll be fine.
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,
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
Every night, you can hear Susan stomping around like an elephant in front of the television, yelling, “I knew it, Oishi Badoodle — it’s the neighbor!”
Turns out she’s binge-watching Law & Order: SVU again. And now she thinks she’s Olivia Benson — with a notepad, glasses, and enough confidence to act like she’s actually on the precinct payroll.
One sunny afternoon, Sus and I were walking in the park. I was excited — there was a carnival in the village, and I needed to see other faces besides Susan’s. Then we ran into Timmy, holding Mutang — you know, Maeutang, that weird-looking purple fish. He won second place during Bring Your Pet to Work Day. Second to me, of course. I am Sir Oishi Barkcelot. Champion. Shih Tzu. Icon.
Narrated by Susan:
One not-so-fine afternoon, Oishi Badoodle and I were walking through the neighborhood when we saw Timmy with his purple fish — Maeutang, I think? We waved hello, then headed to the carnival.
Oishi and I had a blast. We rode the carousel, took selfies, laughed — life was good.
But on our way home, Timmy ran after us, crying. Mutang was missing.
Oishi and I gasped in sync. Sure, Mutang and I don’t talk, but he’s Oishi’s fish-friend, and that makes him family.
I hugged Timmy and said, “No one — and I mean no one — takes our babies from us.” (Just to be clear, I was referring to Oishi and Mutang.)
I asked if maybe Mutang just wandered off. Timmy looked confused and said, “He’s a fish.” I nodded. “And he’s purple. Anything is possible.”
Detective Susan V. was officially on the case.
We checked Timmy’s house. The aquarium was empty. I rushed home to change — blonde wig, glasses — the works. Oishi and I hid behind a plant for surveillance, though he seemed more annoyed by a random dog sniffing his butt than by the crime scene.
We interrogated the fish market. No luck. Just smells.
Timmy was spiraling, so we regrouped at home. I flipped open the murder board:
Fish vendor? (Smells… fishy.)
Postman? (Oishi barks at him daily. Suspicious.)
That one lady who sells snacks? (Hmmm…)
Timmy sat on the couch, crying. “He’s all I’ve got, Susan. When I play music, he swims toward me like he’s dancing. He gets me. I don’t have many friends, but I had Maeutang.”
I teared up. “I get it, Tim. I don’t know what I’d do if someone took my Oishi.”
Then I got serious. Maybe all those Bible studies with Yohanes and Brenda were sinking in. I said, “You know what I do when life spirals? I pray. Tell Him everything. He listens.”
Timmy wiped his eyes. “Lord, please help us find Maeutang. Show us where.”
Right then, a Carnival van passed by the window.
I scooped up Oishi — but not before I saw him quietly make a call. I swear he was on the phone.
Oishi:
Yes, I made a call. I rallied the squad.
Sashmi the orange chihuahua. Bulgogi the blue horse. K-9 Unit from the guard post.
And of course, me — emotionally exhausted but still majestic.
At the carnival, we spotted a man in a ski mask holding Maeutang. Two other goons were snacking on popcorn and cotton candy like this was a movie premiere.
Susan didn’t hesitate — She launched a throat punch while yelling “HIYAAAAA!”
The ski mask man dropped Maeutang. Another goon lunged forward — but before he could reach the tank…
Boyo came out of nowhere, punched the guy mid-air, and muttered, “Not on my watch.”
Then K-9 sank his teeth into a third guy’s butt
Timmy grabbed the aquarium, tears streaming. Maeutang, also teary-eyed (don’t ask how), looked right at Timmy. Their love was real.
Oishi (closing narration):
We went home. Susan wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing she was. To be fair, she did find Maeutang . She did it for me. I love her for that.
Then I heard it again from the couch — “I knew it! It’s always the neighbor!”
Paw to face. Not again, Sus.
Still rising 🔥 Still barking 🐾 — A Susan & Oishi Mystery
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.
Five years ago, Susan found me crying under a tree in the rain. Soaked, shivering, abandoned. She ran to me and picked me anyway. (If you want the full origin story, go read “I Got You, Buddy.”)
A few months later, Boyo moved in next door. The first time I saw him, we were playing fetch in the hallway. I noticed him right away. He always smiled. His eyes were gentle. He looked… cuddly. Like Susan, but with better manners.
But there was something about him that drew me in. (Aside from the smell of treats, of course.)
The Incident.
One Saturday at 7 a.m., Boyo was blasting “Bed of Roses.” Susan was still asleep. Keyword: was.
She shot up like a banshee, stomped out of bed like an angry elephant, her hair a war zone, her face like a constipated chimpanzee. Still in pajamas. Still half-dreaming of revenge.
She scooped me up (I protested, silently—I knew what was coming). She banged on Boyo’s door.
He opened it. And for a split second, I swear I saw fear in his soul.
Susan unleashed. “Do you know what time it is?! Do you think you’re alone in the world? That we’re all paranormal beings who can’t hear Bon Jovi at full volume?! I just fell asleep—LAST NIGHT!”
She didn’t even breathe. Her mouth went full machine gun. Boyo? Speechless. Susan? Exited dramatically before he could say a word.
Then she ranted for five. straight. hours. My ears weren’t hurting from the music. They were hurting from Susan.
Mall Day, Siopao Drama, and Puppy PTSD
Later, we went to the mall. We roamed. Ate siopao. She put me in one of those baby ride thingies. I felt like a prince. I loved it.
Until she ditched me at the pet lounge. She wanted to watch a movie. She didn’t say the title, but judging from the timing, I’m guessing: “Food Factory: How Siopao Is Made.”
Earlier that day, while we were eating, I noticed Boyo watching her mid-bite. Mid siopao bite. And I swear—I saw his heart leap out of his chest.
I thought to myself, “Gross.”
That siopao bite must’ve triggered something, because Boyo suddenly remembered.
Turns out, they had met before — well, sort of.
During a neighborhood outing months ago, Boyo had seen Susan and me from a distance, sitting quietly by the beach. We were both staring out at the mountain and sea like it was a private moment with God.
Susan, in that rare peaceful form of hers, whispered, “Look at this view… what a Creator.”
Her face looked… angelic.
Very unlike the siopao-crushing, sarcastic hurricane that just yelled at him in her pajamas.
Back then, Boyo was quietly eating barbecue alone, watching us — Susan with her awe, me with my glassy deadpan — and thinking, Maybe this world still has soft places.
Who falls in love with Susan while she’s inhaling carbs?
Chaos at the Pet Lounge
Back at the lounge, I was surrounded by untrained puppies. Running. Sniffing. Chaos. One of them sniffed my butt for the third time and that was it.
I barked like it was the end of the world.
Luckily, Boyo was still at the mall. He heard me. He came in, checked me out, and left a note at the counter.
“Hey Siopao Girl, Got your dog. He looked restless. We’re at my apartment. — B.”
Bark, Regret, and Bed of Roses (again)
At his place, we chilled. He cooked chicken. We ate. We watched TV. Then we heard stomping in the hallway and shouting:
“BOYOOOO! Where is my badoodle?! Give him back to meee!!”
(She climbed eight floors. The elevator was down. Respect.)
Boyo opened the door. “I’m so—”
But Susan stopped him mid-apology by pressing a finger to his lips. Then launched into a rant that barely related to the situation.
Boyo calmly gave her a chair. Made coffee. Listened. Patiently.
Then she randomly mentioned “regret.” And Boyo’s eyes shifted.
He smiled and asked her, in his usual calm tone:
“What do you regret?”
Susan, being Susan, said:
“I regret buying that choco mocha lipstick. It looks like dried blood.”
Boyo tried again.
“Something deeper.”
She thought. Then said:
“I regret not buying the last piece of siopao. I should’ve bought it. Now I have to cook.”
I put my paw on my head. Classic Susan.
She got up, mid-convo, and left to cook. She was that comfortable around Boyo… she left me with him.
The Regrets Boyo Witnessedand the faith he chose instead.
Once she was gone, Boyo scooped me up. Sat me on his lap. And spoke softly.
“I used to be a nurse overseas,” he said. “I watched people die with so many regrets.”
He went quiet for a moment.
“I wasn’t part of the frontlines. I was the guy waiting in triage. Prepping shots. Changing dressings. I remember November 12, 2015 — the day the relief convoy never came back. We were waiting. The kids were waiting. But all we got was silence… and smoke rising from the ridge.”
Then continued:
“They regretted not telling people they loved them. Not giving enough time. Not living fully. Not putting God first. Not choosing joy over fear. Not choosing people over things.”
I listened. And for once… I had no sarcastic comment.
Boyo added:
“In this lifetime, regret is inevitable — it’s not about avoiding it, but about choosing not to repeat it.”
“Since then, I promised myself I’d live differently. Smile more. Be kind. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s Susan.”
And then, he laughed.
“I’ll still play Bed of Roses. But I’ll be more mindful. I’ll live with faith. Not fear.”
Dinner with the Ones Who Stayed
Susan came back. She brought chicken. Boyo brought soup and dessert.
She ranted about the movie. He smiled. I napped.
And for a few hours, there was no fear. No regrets. Just us. Just joy. Just home.
Writer’s Note (by Ember — Slightly Overcooked, Still Simmering)
Hi, it’s me — Ember. The person behind Susan’s spirals and Oishi’s deadpan commentary.
This episode? It’s personal. Not because I’m a nurse, a doctor, or someone with a front-row seat to life-and-death situations… but because I’ve had my share of regret.
I’ve lost people I loved — and I didn’t always get to show that love the way I wanted to. And honestly? I still live like I have all the time in the world. Like the clock’s not ticking. Like there’s a memo somewhere that says I’ll live to 110.
But there isn’t. And that thought hit me while writing this episode.
So lately, like Boyo, I’ve been trying to really live. To make decisions based on faith, not fear. To be kind, even when I’m surrounded by difficult people and exhausting situations — which, to be clear, is very hard and occasionally makes me want to scream into a pillow.
But I’m trying.
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re trying too. Trying to be softer, braver, more present. Trying to say what matters before it’s too late.
Ember - Fire and Soul 