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

Tag: Illustrated Comic Series

  • The Resolution List and the Heavenly Audit

    Susan narrating (while eating siopao):

    Christmas was a blast! Let’s see—I lost count how many Christmas parties we went to. I ate so much I think I could live off fat reserves until mid-January. I sang, danced, and won games with Badoodle, my smug little shih tzu whose tail couldn’t stop wagging from sheer victory.

    We rode the ferris wheel, watched fireworks, walked under the stars, visited the North Pole, met Santa—and Jesus tagged along. He gently reminded me that He is the gift, not the hot pink car I keep putting on vision boards.

    Now it’s New Year’s Eve. Oishi and I are preparing to welcome the new year—me, with a resolution list and reheated siopao; him, with a suspicious eye and a belly full of leftover ham.

    My New Year’s Resolutions:

    • Eat less siopao (cutting down from 5 to 4—I call that discipline)
    • Weekly massage at the spa
    • Visit the derma to achieve telenovela-level glow
    • Salon visits, false lashes, and plumped lips (subtle, classy, fierce)
    • Buy Oishi a luxury dog bed
    • Work 25 hours a day to fund all of the above

    I was about to post this on the fridge like a manifesto, when Anghelito and Angelusito appeared. My personal heavenly CCTV duo. I sighed, sat down, and mumbled, “Alright, here comes the unsolicited divine coaching.” Oishi barked like he was in on it.

    Angelusito, the sweet one, started gently: “Susan, your list shows you want to care for yourself, which is good.”

    Before he could finish, Anghelito rolled his eyes. “But you’re broke, Sus. No offense, but you work from home and have six potholders shaped like elephants. You don’t need more Shopee.” He nodded toward a pile of unopened packages.

    Then the mini-sermon began:

    • Add fruits and veggies to your diet. They’re not decorations. (Angelusito, gesturing to the rotting apples I bought to impress a guy who never visited.)
    • Mind your own business. (Anghelito. Of course.)
    • Only go to the salon if it fits the budget. (Angelusito, lovingly.)
    • Stop being dramatic. Your neighbor’s toddler crying isn’t a trauma response trigger. (Guess who.)
    • Work smart, not nonstop. Hustle culture won’t save you from burnout. (Thank you, Angelusito.)

    I burst into tears, siopao still in my mouth. “I’m tired. I’ve waited so long. I just want to feel alive again.”

    Oishi, breaking his usual sarcasm, rushed to lick my tears. (Salty. Regretted it. Still loves me.)

    Oishi narrates:

    In all my days with Susan, this was different. She wasn’t just being melodramatic. She was worn. She always gives, even when people misunderstand her. She says yes when she wants to rest. She takes care of others but forgets herself. I get why she wants something just for her.

    Angelusito and Anghelito narrate:

    We’ve watched over these two for years. Oishi, despite his side eyes and obsession with chicken, is the most present being on earth. Susan, meanwhile, is a complex emotional lasagna. Layers.

    So when she asked:

    • What’s wrong with taking care of myself?
    • Why do I feel stuck even if I’ve been good?
    • Why do I feel invisible?
    • Why can’t I enjoy life without going broke?
    • Why does everything feel like a never-ending waiting room?

    We didn’t know how to answer. So we went home.

    To heaven.

    At Heaven’s Gate:

    “It’s us!” Angelusito shouted. “We need to speak to the Boss.”

    The gates opened. The King of Kings, radiant and humble, walked toward us. “How are my children? Are they safe?”

    We told Him everything. He handed us a Bible and a laptop. “Give her answers. But first, remind her: I will never leave nor forsake her.”

    Back at Susan’s apartment:

    She was washing dishes, still crying. Oishi glared at us like, “Took you long enough.”

    We sat Susan down. Here’s what we told her.

    1. What’s wrong with taking care of myself?

    Nothing. If it’s stewardship, not image control. God calls us to honor the bodies He gave us (1 Corinthians 6:20). Self-care is holy when it’s about preserving what God entrusted. It becomes a trap when it’s about fixing your worth.

    2. What’s wrong with wanting my life to get better?

    Also nothing. But Jesus defines better as deeper peace, steadier joy, and a heart aligned with heaven. (Matthew 6:33)

    3. What’s wrong with wanting to be seen and feel important?

    You were made to be known. Psalm 139 says God sees everything about you. But don’t turn life into a stage. Let God see you first. Then applause won’t define your worth.

    4. What’s wrong with wanting good things but still have money to eat?

    Desiring joy is not sin. But clinging to money like it’s your savior is dangerous. Hebrews 13:5 says, “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you”

    5. I’m tired of waiting. I’m drifting.

    Isaiah 40:31 says those who hope in the Lord renew their strength. Waiting is not punishment—it’s formation. And if you feel restless, maybe that’s your soul saying: you’re made for more than this moment.

    6. How can I be happy with small, daily irritations?

    You don’t have to fake joy. But don’t waste your pain either. James 1 says trials build character. And small irritations can train you toward maturity, not bitterness.

    7. I’ve been good. Why is life still hard?

    Because goodness is not a currency. Grace is a gift. God’s love is not a salary you earn. You don’t work for it. You walk in it.

    8. Oishi is the only constant thing in my life.

    Sweet, fluffy Oishi is a comfort. But your real Anchor is Jesus. He says: I will never leave you or forsake you.

    Psalm 23 says:

    “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He restores my soul.”

    Even in waiting, even in worry, He restores you.

    Susan wiped her tears. We made her hot cocoa. Oishi curled beside her like a weighted blanket with legs. We tucked her in.

    “I didn’t sign up to babysit humans,” Anghelito muttered.

    That night, right before midnight, there was a soft knock at the gate. Boyo showed up holding a thermos of hot cocoa like it was a peace offering, Brenda arrived with something sweet because she refuses to let anyone end the year empty, and Yohannes came in waving sparklers like he was personally assigned to keep hope alive. Susan laughed—real laugh, not dramatic laugh—and for the first time all day, the house felt roomy. The countdown began, Oishi sat proudly like the host, and when the fireworks finally lit the sky, Susan realized she wasn’t just surviving the year… she was ending it loved.

    But as we watched her finally at peace, we knew one thing:

    Susan may not know what’s next. But she finally believes God is with her.

    And that, dear humans, is the only true resolution you need.

    Still rising. Still barking.

  • The Night Susan Got a Rubber Duck

    A Susan & Oishi Christmas Story About the True Gift of Christmas

    Oishi narrating

    Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock…

    My tail has been on overtime lately. Christmas party here, Christmas party there. And you know what parties mean?

    Chicken.

    Kris Kringle.

    Dancing.

    By the end of the night, Sus and I were so tired she gave me a bath like the baby prince that I am, made hot cocoa, and turned on the Christmas tree.

    Our living room is small and simple, but when the tree lights up, it’s like someone pressed “cozy mode” on heaven’s remote. Rain outside, warm lights inside, hot cocoa in our paws and hands… I thought, Perfect. I’m going to sleep like the emotionally stable dog I am.

    And then Sus sighed.

    I knew it. The moment was too magical. She was about to ruin it.

    I braced myself.

    Susan narrating

    Badoodle and I were staring at the Christmas tree. It felt magical.

    Rain tapping on the roof, hot cocoa beside me, a little cold breeze coming through the window. I hugged my teddy bear. I used to hug Oishi, but he secretly hates it. He won’t say it, but his face screams, “Ma’am, boundaries.”

    Tonight he looked extra soft, eyes shining at the lights like a little kid. I was about to tease him for being dramatic, then I realized—wait. Are those tears? Wow. Okay. Dog is emotional.

    A soft “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” was playing in the background. That song always hits me in the chest. And suddenly, under all the party food and Christmas noise… I felt it.

    This tiny ache.

    Discontent.

    Not because I don’t have blessings. I do. But still… something felt missing. Like everyone else got a manual for “How to Live a Beautiful Life,” and I’m just here winging it with coffee and petty thoughts.

    Then I had an idea.

    I know what will make me happy.

    I grabbed paper and pen like a woman on mission.

    Dear Jesus,

    How are You? I’m okay but I feel sad and discontent.

    I know what will make me happy:

    – a new iPhone

    – the hot pink car I’ve been eyeing

    – a trip to Paris (yes Lord, PARIS)

    And please, no more Tijibiduri Island, I learned my lesson.

    Thank You, Lord. I’ll wait for my gifts tomorrow.

    I was about to add a fancy closing line when a light turned on in the kitchen.

    Badoodle and I jumped.

    He’s here.

    Jesus.

    He did say, “Ask and you shall receive,” right?

    Oishi narrating

    Every time I see Him, my tail acts like it’s on praise-and-worship mode. I don’t know how to explain it—I just feel safe around Him. Peaceful. Like everything noisy inside my head suddenly sits down.

    He smiled at us, and my heart did a little flip. I still don’t fully understand why His hands have scars, but I know it must have hurt… and yet His eyes are kind.

    I ran to Him and gently nibbled the edge of His robe. Sus hugged Him like a kid who just spotted her dad at the airport holding balloons and Jollibee.

    She went on and on about her letter.

    “Lord, I feel sad and I know what can make me happy…”

    She recited the list like a shopping catalogue. New iPhone, hot pink car, Paris trip.

    Jesus listened, smiled, and said calmly,

    “Go and get your winter clothes. We’re going somewhere.”

    I got excited. Also scared. I don’t own winter clothes.

    Susan narrating

    We changed as fast as we could—jackets, bonnets, boots for me; tiny winter outfit for Badoodle. One blink later, we were standing in a place covered in snow.

    Real snow.

    I’d never seen it before. Oishi immediately dove nose-first into it like a furry torpedo. He barked at the reindeers. Rudolph barked back. Next thing I knew, they were playing tag.

    We were at the North Pole.

    This day was getting better and better.

    Santa was exactly how you imagine him: big, jolly, and definitely not keto. I won’t describe his whole look—you know the brand. But I will tell you this: the way his face lit up when he saw Jesus…

    “Lord! I’m so happy to see You again!” he boomed.

    “What brings You here? Another mixed-up wish?”

    Jesus smiled and handed him my letter.

    For a second, I froze.

    Why was Jesus giving SANTA the wish list I wrote for HIM?

    I tried not to overthink it. Maybe this is like divine logistics, I told myself. Outsourcing.

    While they talked, we wandered around. We played with the reindeer, tasted candy canes, and watched elves work. For a moment, I felt like a kid again.

    Then an elf walked up to me.

    “Sus! Here’s your gift!”

    He placed something in my hands.

    A rubber duck.

    Not even a regular one—a rubber duck doing a duck face, like it was judging my life choices.

    I stared at it.

    I stared at the elf.

    “You must be mistaken,” I said. “I asked for—”

    and I showed him my list: iPhone, hot pink car, Paris, the works.

    But Jesus was nowhere to be found.

    And for the first time that day, something stung.

    Did He… leave without saying goodbye?

    Why did He hand my list to Santa?

    The elf looked at me kindly.

    “It’s simple,” he said. “Santa is for toys. Jesus is for the important things. Toys are the material stuff—phones, cars, even trips. Jesus is… well, Bread of Life. Living Water. Peace.”

    He shrugged.

    “Not saying toys are bad. Some things we ask for are real needs. But they’ll never be as important as Him.”

    I didn’t know what to say. I just squeezed the duck. It squeaked at me like it agreed with the elf.

    Oishi narrating

    Santa asked us to help with gift-giving.

    To this day, I still don’t understand how Susan and I fit through chimneys. Must be a miracle or an animation budget thing.

    We handed out gifts. Kids squealed, jumped, hugged their toys like treasure.

    Watching them, I felt something strange—soft and quiet. They were so easy to please. A small doll, a car, a stuffed animal… and their faces glowed. Content.

    For a moment, Sus looked like she wanted to be a kid again too. Just happy with small things, not haunted by bills, deadlines, and existential dread.

    We hopped back into the sleigh. I loved it. Wind in my fur, stars overhead, whole world below us. Sus… not so much. She clutched her rubber duck like a seatbelt and screamed every time the sleigh tilted.

    Eventually, we were tired. And underneath the fun, I could feel it—Sus kept glancing around, searching.

    For Him.

    She wanted to tell Jesus about the duck.

    So did I.

    Susan narrating

    Santa dropped us off with a warm “Ho ho ho!” and a wink. We waved goodbye, and as the sleigh disappeared into the sky, my heart felt oddly heavy.

    I still had the rubber duck.

    I still didn’t have an iPhone.

    Or a hot pink car.

    Or tickets to Paris.

    And I still hadn’t seen Jesus since He handed my letter to Santa.

    I opened the front door—

    —and my knees almost gave out.

    He was there.

    Standing behind the kitchen table, light warm around Him, like the whole room had been waiting too.

    “I’ve been waiting for you two,” He said gently. “Come. I prepared food.”

    On the table: a simple loaf of bread. Two mugs of hot cocoa. No feast, no lechon, no unlimited milktea. Just… enough.

    “How was your day? Did you like your gift?”

    Before I could answer, He picked up a small box on the table. It glowed softly.

    This time, I wasn’t thinking about gadgets or cars. I only knew—whatever was inside, it mattered.

    He placed it in my hands.

    When I opened it, a glowing heart rose like a little hologram. On it, one word:

    LOVE.

    And suddenly it hit me.

    How could I forget?

    Jesus isn’t just the Giver—He is the gift.

    It doesn’t mean I’ll never ask for “toys” again. I still want trips and phones and maybe that car (not necessarily hot pink—mature growth, hello). But I finally saw what mattered more.

    Someone once said He became human, carried our sins, and suffered… just to be with us and save us. Sitting there, it wasn’t just a line from a sermon. It felt personal.

    I could almost hear Angelusito whispering,

    “Imagine a God who does all that… just so He can sit at your small table tonight.”

    I started to cry.

    I hugged Jesus like I wasn’t afraid to need Him anymore. Somehow Oishi managed to hug Him too—I don’t know how; the physics of dog hugs are mysterious.

    We broke the bread.

    We drank the cocoa.

    No fireworks. No background choir. Just deep, quiet peace.

    Best dinner ever.

    The end. ♡🐾

    Short Reflection 

    Sometimes we treat Jesus like a more powerful Santa—someone who exists mainly to deliver the life we’ve imagined: better gadgets, nicer house, easier story.

    But the heart of Christmas isn’t that He upgrades our wish list. It’s that He came down to sit at our small, imperfect table. In the Bible, Jesus calls Himself the “bread of life” and offers “living water” that truly satisfies. The idea is: material gifts can be good, but they’re never enough on their own. They expire. He doesn’t.

  • What is the meaning of Christmas? 🎅🎄☃️🎁🐑⛪

    OISHI (Narrating, tail wagging like he just sniffed bacon):

    Ah, December. The most wonderful time of the year. People seem… happier. Less annoying.

    Even Susan hasn’t cried over burnt rice in days.

    The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of parties, gifts and food. Brenda gave me a new lion squeaky toy. Told me to throw away the old one because it was “ugly” from all the chewing.

    Rude. But sure. More to chew. I win.

    And the food? Oh, the food. Fried chicken. Chicken adobo. Chicken with mystery sauce that I don’t trust but still eat. I’m drooling.

    Am I in heaven?

    SUSAN (Narrating, halfway between Mariah Carey and crisis):

    🎶 “All I want for Christmas is youuuu!” 🎶

    Yes. You heard that in your head, didn’t you?

    It’s been a fun, chaotic, delicious blur. Badoodle (Oishi) and I have attended every party we were invited to. I’ve probably eaten enough lumpiang shanghai to be considered a walking spring roll.

    And sure, it’s the season of giving. People seem kinder, more generous, like we’re all pretending we’re not normally tired, passive-aggressive versions of ourselves.

    It’s lovely.

    But underneath the laughter and chicken grease… I feel weird. Not sad exactly. Just… empty. Like everyone got the memo on joy, and I missed the group chat.

    OISHI (Narrating, now annoyed):

    After one party, Susan scooped me up, stared into my soul (again), and whispered,

    “I feel sad, Badoodle.”

    Excuse me? You just inhaled lechon and danced to Last Christmas like it was a spiritual experience. How are you sad?

    She grabbed a pen, sat dramatically, and wrote to Jesus.

    “Dear Jesus,

    How are You?

    Me, I’m not fine. I feel sad. Why are You not giving me what I asked for? Why are You not giving me a gift? I’m not asking for much—just make me beautiful, slim like a Victoria’s Secret model, a hunk husband, and a million dollars (yes Lord, dollars, not pesos, so I can buy what I want when I want it).

    Thank You, Jesus, and goodnight.”

    She turned off the lamp and whispered,

    “Lord, I’ve been waiting a long time.

    When are You going to answer me?

    When are You going to give me my gift?”

    And I thought, finally. A real prayer.

    SUSAN (Narrating, 3 a.m. existential mode unlocked):

    It’s 3 a.m., December 24.

    I couldn’t sleep. Christmas is near, and I feel… off.

    I’ve been wallowing, wondering why God still hasn’t given me my Christmas miracle. My feed is full of people posting new houses, new cars, new babies, new flight ticket to Europe. Meanwhile, I’m still here in the same room, same job, same face, same dreams on hold.

    And then I feel guilty. Because I am blessed. We’re healthy. We have a home. Life is better than it was five years ago. I know all of that.

    But my heart still hurts.

    I looked at Badoodle, snoring like a tiny old man. My ridiculous wish list replayed in my head: VS-model body, husband, dollars, new life abroad. They sound shallow when you hear them in prayer form. But they’re real desires. They’re my desires.

    “They’re achievable, right?” I told myself. “

    So I kissed Badoodle on the head and whispered,

    “I’m just going out for fresh air. No, do not call the precinct, do not launch search and rescue. I’ll come back before your next snack.”

    I had to warn him. He’s dramatic.

    SUSAN (Narrating):

    The streets looked magical. Christmas lights. Parols. A few people heading to Misa de Gallo. I haven’t attended in years. Christmas in Our Hearts was playing faintly somewhere.

    For a moment, I just stood there, breathing in December. The good kind of cold.

    “Lord,” I muttered, “everyone says Christmas is about You… but why do I feel like it’s about everything I don’t have?”

    Suddenly there was a whoosh and a light.

    My heart leaped—finally! Jesus is here to hand me my gifts personally!

    My smile dropped.

    Of course. Not Jesus.

    Just Angelusito, the Seraphim Sweetheart in Sneakers, floating in with his usual pep and a clipboard full of divine errands.

    Don’t get me wrong. He’s an angel and all, but we’re buds, so I wasn’t that thrilled.

    “Why are you here?” I asked.

    ANGELUSITO (Narrating, soft but slightly panicky cherub):

    The over-eager, always-running, “people-I’m-praying-for-today” kind of angel, not the sarcastic one.

    He said, “Well, heaven received all your love letters to the Boss.”

    My heart jumped.

    Then he said, “Luke 2:1–20.”

    I blinked. “What?”

    He rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t know.”

    And then he began:

    And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

    Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

    “Glory to God in the highest heaven,

    and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

    When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

    So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.”

    ANGELUSITO (now in full fairy-god-angel mode):

    Angelusito looked at me and said, “Sus, heaven already gave you a gift—way more than you asked for. The Father gave you His Son, to save you and all humanity.”

    He floated a little closer, lowering his voice like someone about to drop premium-grade gossip.

    “Listen carefully, Christmas is not just a vibe, or ham, or 13th-month sale. It’s not even mainly about you finally getting the sneakers you want, or the husband you keep ordering from heaven like online shopping.

    Christmas is the night God came close.”

    I stared at him.

    He went on, hands moving like he was explaining a group project:

    “The God who made galaxies chose to have… a body. Tiny fingers. Baby lungs. He got hungry. He cried. He needed to be carried. The King of the universe entered a mother’s womb, was laid in a manger, grew up in a simple home, and later allowed Himself to be laid in a tomb—just long enough to break it from the inside out”

    “He didn’t send a memo, Sus. He didn’t send a Google Doc of instructions. He came Himself. Emmanuel. God with us. Not ‘God watching from the sky with a clipboard.’ Not ‘God far away, judging your life choices and siopao intake.’ God with you — right in the middle of poverty, fear, anxiety, and despair… and just as present in your joy, your laughter, your quiet moments of peace, and all the tiny good things you forget to notice.”

    My eyes started to sting.

    “Look at the story you just heard,” he said. “God didn’t announce Jesus to emperors or influencers. The first people to hear the news were shepherds—night-shift nobodies watching smelly sheep. No filters, no followers. And heaven said, ‘YES. Them first.’

    “He could’ve announced it to kings first, but He chose night-shift shepherds. That’s how God loves to work—starting with the people who feel small and overlooked.”

    He glanced at me with that half-teasing, half-tender look he’d perfected.

    “So when you say, ‘Lord, everyone else seems happy and I feel like the extra in the background’—guess what? You’re actually standing closer to the center of the Christmas story than you think. Because the people who feel most aware of their need are usually the ones who can feel Christmas the deepest.”

    I swallowed hard. My chest felt tight, the way it does when I see our electricity bill.

    “I was waiting for gifts,” I whispered, “like God was Santa… but He already gave… Himself.”

    “Exactly,” he said.

    “The manger is not just a cute baby photo op. It’s the start of a rescue mission. The Baby in the manger is the same Jesus who grew up, carried your sin, your shame, your envy, your loneliness, all the ‘Why not me, Lord?’ moments—and nailed them to a cross. Christmas is the opening scene of that rescue—God stepping into your world and saying, ‘I’ll come down to you, right where you are.’”

    I sobbed. I imagined the Son of God, lying in a manger. No hospital. No epidural. No Instagrammable nursery. Mary and Joseph’s journey wasn’t exactly five-star comfort—more like budget airline, delayed flight, lost luggage, and no hotel booking.

    And here I was, sulking because I didn’t get what I wanted on my wish list.

    ANGELUSITO (sassy but sacred):

    “Sus, if you want a better body, stop eating siopao like they’re vitamins. Take care of the one you have. It’s a gift too.

    As for your other requests—only God can answer those. Wait patiently. Keep praying. Discern. Ask for wisdom. If you don’t know what to do, just do the next right thing. Pick one and start from there.”

    “And while you’re waiting, stop looking at what you don’t have like it’s a verdict. Look at what you already have like it’s evidence of grace.

    You’ve got a good life. A weird life, sure. But a good one.

    A Shih Tzu who’d bite the mailman for you. Friends. Family. A home. A job that pays the bills and still lets you dream. You will face pain, envy, loneliness—but also joy, courage, peace… and love. Christmas doesn’t erase the hard things, but it proves you’re not facing them alone. The God who came as a Baby is still Emmanuel—God with you in every season of waiting and uncertainty.”

    Then he quoted Philippians 4:8 and vanished into the night like a sparkly motivational speaker:

    “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

    OISHI (Narrating, Christmas Day!)

    I woke up with a mission.

    The house smelled like joy and barbecue. Susan was in the kitchen, humming, mixing a bowl of macaroni salad like it held world peace. Her mom was cooking. Her brothers were in the backyard roasting meat like cavemen with Spotify.

    Then Boyo walked in.

    He handed Susan a box.

    She squinted. “Boyo, if this is a self-help book I’ll throw it at your head.”

    It wasn’t.

    It was the white sneakers she’s been dreaming of—the ones she wouldn’t buy because they weren’t on sale. Turns out Boyo listens when Susan talks.

    Brave man.

    We spent the day eating, dancing, laughing, giving out sandwiches, and collecting joy like it was buy-one-take-one.

    At night, Sus was sniffing her new shoes like a weirdo.

    I get it. New shoe smell is powerful.

    Susan’s Prayer:

    Lord, thank You for this day.

    For the blessings—the food, the family, the friends, and the strength to give back.

    For months, I’ve been focused on what I don’t have, comparing myself to people who seem to have it all. I kept asking You for gifts, but I forgot what Christmas truly means.

    I see it now.

    It’s about You—Your birth, Your peace, Your love, and the hope that came wrapped in swaddling cloth. Not just the hope of better days… but the kind that saves. The kind that changed the world.

    Help me carry that in my heart every day. Help me love like You—especially when people test my patience.

    Lord, thank You for Oishi. He’s one of the few consistent good things in my life—and he doesn’t even talk, although I’m pretty sure he silently judges everything I do.

    P.S. If You could still make me look like a Victoria’s Secret model, that’d be great.

    Good night.

    Love, Sus.

    OISHI (Narrating, tail thumping against the bed):

    She gets it now. Finally.

    Also… she better share that macaroni salad.

    THE END.

    Still Barking. Still Rising. 🐾

  • 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 ❤️🐾

  • 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 🐾

  • 🕵️‍♀️ Case File: The Missing Maeutang — A Susan & Oishi Mystery

    Narrated by Oishi:

    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

  • 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

  • Boyo’s Question – Ep.2 of The Questions They Carried

    What do you regret?

    Narrator: Oishi (This time, I volunteered.)

    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 Witnessed and 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.

    Let’s live better.
    While we still have time.

    Still rising, still barking.

    — Ember & Oishi 🔥🐾

  • What is Love?

    🛋️ A Susan & Oishi Bible Study (1 Corinthians 13:4–7)

    It was a Sunday afternoon.
    Rain outside. Siopao inside.
    And the living room smelled like shampoo, soy sauce, and spiritual awakening.

    Oishi and I were hosting Bible study again — I say “we,” but between you and me, he’s the holy one. I just make snacks and dramatic confessions.

    This week’s topic?
    “What is love?”
    Which I assumed would be a casual chat over cupcakes — not a divine ambush on my character development.

    Brenda opened her Bible.
    Yohanes brought popcorn.
    And me? I brought my best behavior.
    (That lasted 6 minutes.)

    Still… I have to admit…
    I like hosting Bible study now.
    Don’t tell the Lord, but I think He’s… smoothing my rough edges.
    Like a cheese grater.
    But for the soul.

    Love is patient.

    🔹 Snapshot:
    Brenda: “You’re singing in your goat voice.”
    Susan: “And yet… Oishi stays.”
    Oishi: “That’s love. That’s patience.”

    🔸 Soul Note:
    Love is patient — like a mother whose toddler just broke her favorite mug but still gets a hug.
    Like a friend who listens when your story takes 47 detours.
    Like a God who waits while you’re still learning to trust Him.

    Love is kind.

    🧡 Snapshot:
    Susan: “For me?”
    Boyo: “It’s the last one.”
    Oishi: “He give food. Marry him.”

    🧠 Soul Note:
    Love is kind — like when someone offers you the last siopao without a second thought.
    But it’s also kind when your coworker gently corrects your mistake without shaming you.
    Kindness is not just warm—it’s wise. It knows when to offer comfort and when to speak truth softly.
    Like Jesus, who welcomed the outcasts, washed the feet of His friends, and restored dignity with a word. He never humiliated, only healed.

    Love does not envy.

    🔹 Snapshot:
    Susan (grumbling): “She probably doesn’t even eat carbs.”
    Oishi (deadpan): “Love no envy. But Sus do.”

    🔸 Soul Note:
    Love celebrates — even when it’s not your turn.
    Like when two friends apply for the same role, and one gets the position.
    Love is the one who didn’t get it… but still claps the loudest.
    It’s trusting that what’s for you won’t pass you by.
    It’s knowing that comparison kills joy, but celebration multiplies it.

    Love does not boast. Love is not proud.

    🟤 Snapshot:
    Susan: “It’s just a siopao. No big deal.”
    Oishi: “She skipped lunch to give that away. No one saw. I did.”

    🧡 Soul Note:
    Real love doesn’t need an audience.
    It shows up when the camera isn’t rolling.
    It’s the quiet kind — the one that pays someone’s tuition, feeds a stranger, or forgives without needing a follow-up post.
    Love doesn’t broadcast kindness to boost its ego.
    It just does — because that’s what love would do.

    Love does not dishonor others

    📸 Snapshot:
    Susan: “I’m not gossiping.”
    Brenda: “You literally whispered and said, ‘Don’t react, but…’”
    Oishi: [holds sign] “Love does not dishonor others. Unlike this table.”

    🍂 Soul Note:
    Dishonor doesn’t always shout — sometimes, it hides in the small jabs.
    In mocking someone’s cooking.
    In rolling eyes at someone’s work.
    In reducing their story to a punchline.
    Love doesn’t strip dignity — it covers it.
    It sees the effort behind the awkward presentation and chooses grace.
    Because love doesn’t humiliate.
    Love honors — even when no one else does.

    Love is not self-seeking

    📸 Snapshot:
    Brenda: [yawns]
    Susan: [slides the siopao] “You look like you haven’t eaten since last week’s WiFi outage.”
    Oishi: observes silently, notebook open: “Susan – 1, Hunger – 0”

    🌾 Soul Note:
    Love is not self-seeking.
    It shows up not just in grand gestures, but in quiet surrender of comfort —
    When you offer your seat to a stranger whose legs are more tired than your entitlement.
    When you take the smaller piece of cake.
    When you let someone else go first —
    even if you’ve been waiting too.
    It’s when you could claim the spotlight, but choose to lift someone else instead.
    Because love doesn’t demand center stage.
    It’s content with the back row if it means someone else gets to rest.

    Love is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs.

    🔹 Snapshot:
    Dinah: “You ate my donut again?! That had my initials!”
    Philip: calmly holds a ‘Sorry’ mug
    Susan (muttering): “I told you to use invisible ink.”
    Oishi (deadpan): “0 Days Since Dinah Drama.”

    🔸 Soul Note:
    Love doesn’t keep score.
    Even when someone eats your lunch. Again.
    Even when the apology is on a mug, not from the heart.
    Love chooses peace over pettiness, even if your inner scoreboard is glowing red.

    🟤 Susan’s Commentary (a.k.a. emotional meteorology):
    “If I were God, with the way we act? I’d throw a meteor at Earth every 30 minutes. Like clockwork.
    But He doesn’t.
    Because…“The Lord is compassionate and gracious,
        slow to anger, abounding in love”
    — Psalm 103:8, proudly retold by Susan after skipping breakfast

     Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth

    🟤 Scene
    “Love doesn’t clap for karma.”

    🛋️ Panel Breakdown:
    Susan’s on the couch, clutching her phone like it just served her favorite dish — gossip.
    She just found out that someone she can’t stand got offloaded from a flight. Her smirk is instant. Victory sip pending.

    But the moment doesn’t last.
    Oishi looks at her. Not with judgment — just that quiet, philosopher stare that says, “And then what?”

    And something shifts.
    Susan puts the phone down. Her grin fades. There’s a pause.
    She remembers: Love does not delight in evil… but rejoices with the truth.
    (1 Corinthians 13:6)

    📖 Soul Note
    Real love doesn’t get high on someone else’s downfall.
    It doesn’t pop popcorn when people fall.
    It prays, exhales, and chooses the higher road — even if it’s uphill.
    But it does rejoice when truth shows up.
    When grace wins.
    When healing begins.
    When someone takes the hard step toward what’s right — even if it’s messy.

    Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres

    📖 Soulnote

    Love isn’t just sweet moments and sunny days.
    It’s sharing umbrellas when the storm hits.
    It’s trusting again after disappointment.
    It’s holding on to hope when things feel uncertain.
    And it’s staying — especially when it’s easier to walk away.

    Because real love… shows up.
    In the rain. In the waiting. In the mess.
    Not perfect. But present.
    Always.

    🐾 Oishi’s Commentary:
    In case you’re wondering why Susan isn’t in this photo…
    Let’s just say she’s waiting for someone with a pilot’s license, a prayer life, and a jawline that can part seas.
    She says it’s “standards.”
    I say it’s selective delusion with snacks.

    Either way, she’s thriving.
    Alone. But thriving.

    ✍️ Writer’s Note

    When I was younger, I thought love was just for husbands and wives — rom-com stuff. Candlelight and couple shirts.
    But the more I live, the more I see it’s deeper than that.

    Love is how parents sacrifice for their kids.
    It’s how friends check in when you’re falling apart quietly.
    It’s choosing kindness with your neighbor… even when they vacuum at 6 a.m.
    Or worse — sing karaoke at 2 a.m. like they’re auditioning for heaven.


    And yes — it’s that very uncomfortable, gospel-level command: Love your enemies.

    Hard pill to swallow? Try loving someone who tests your patience like it’s their spiritual gift.

    Sometimes, it hurts — especially when you don’t receive the same love you gave.
    But when I feel unseen, unloved, or overlooked, I remember this:

    God loved us first.
    And He proved it — not with chocolates or flowers —
    but by giving Jesus, so we could have eternal life.

    That’s not just love. That’s divine stubbornness.
    The kind that doesn’t give up.
    The kind we’re called to learn.

    —Ember 🔥🐾

  • Park, Pain & Petty Thoughts

    Macchismo Got Engaged and All I Got was This Emotional Damage

    🦴 Narrated by Oishi

    It was a lazy weekend afternoon. Susan and I had just finished our chores—well, I supervised. She flopped onto the couch with the full weight of an emotionally distressed hippo. I bounced. My squeaky toy took flight. It hasn’t been seen since.

    Still, I love Susan. So I sat beside her, placed a paw on her lap, and she hugged me like a drama queen needing a life raft.

    Then she whispered, “Macchismo is getting married. He’s engaged. That woman even posted the ring… for the whole world to see.”

    (Cue tragic violin)

    For those not emotionally entangled: Macchismo is her co-worker at The Signal Co. and her not-so-secret office crush. Tall. Handsome. Jawline. Smelled like toner and danger.

    Susan used to glance at him during lunch breaks like she was auditioning for a music video. He smiled once. She nearly dropped her donut.

    Susan wailed, clutched her tote, and announced in her signature goat-in-distress voice,

    “Oishi, badoodle! We’re going to the park so I can distruct myself. We’ll eat siopao. Donuts. I’ll buy you KFC.”

    At “KFC,” my ears perked. Chicken heals all wounds, including hers.

    At first, the park was peaceful. The breeze danced. Birds sang. Then—

    “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

    That was Susan.

    “Look at them, Oishi! They’re kissing in the park!”

    And with that, the Bitter Commentary Hour began.

    “This park is not your personal romcom! Other people walk here. I hope you both step on gum. She’s not even that pretty—sure, her hair is long and shiny and ugh fine, she glows, whatever. AND LOOK AT HIM, HE IS SO HANDSOME.” Who even has a jawline like that? And that chiseled face—he looked like a man who stepped out of a rom-com movie… or a romantic pocketbook from a bookstore. You know, the ones with titles like “Forever Mine (But Not Hers)” and “Just Kiss Me, Architect Daddy.”

    After half an hour of Olympic-level sulking, I stood up and waddled toward the restaurant. She followed, dragging her broken heart behind her like a weighted blanket of regret.

    We sat down. She kept glancing back at the lovebirds. I felt sorry for her, honestly. I wanted to say: Your time will come, Sus. So I did my part.

    “Don’t worry,” I told her.

    “She probably eats salad without gagging. And you and Boyo? You’d look good together.”

    Boyo is our neighbor. Kind. Chubby. Soft-spoken. Not an Adonis or a superhero god, but he has a superpower: patience. Especially with Susan. He cooks. He listens. He once fixed her door with nothing but a screwdriver and a sense of duty.

    But Susan? She ignores him like she’s the lost Victoria’s Secret model.

    Still… I can’t blame her. Watching that couple in the park felt like binge-watching an action movie—high-stakes, dramatic, painfully public.

    Eventually, we finished our food and walked a little more. Then home.

    Back in the living room, Susan scooped me up, hugged me, and said,

    “Thank you, badoodle. For being there for me. For looking at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

    (I’m not.)

    “For putting up with my drama.”

    (Barely hanging on, Sus.)

    “And for never leaving me.”

    (Okay, that one’s true.)

    I sighed. This is love. This is loyalty.

    This is the emotional labor of a Shih Tzu with a PhD in patience. 🐾