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

Tag: Illustrated Comic Series

  • The Signal & STATIC Co.: The Great Panic Rebrand

    “Susaaan! Don’t you dare leave your station. You just clocked in.”

    “No, Yohannes, you cannot sit beside Susan. This is not a sit-beside-your-BFF workday.”

    “Macchismo, do you really need to flex your muscles in front of the customers?”

    That was Horatio T., our HR.

    Technically, he handles HR.

    Unofficially, he handles almost every department because of budget cuts. The company couldn’t afford to hire department managers, so Horatio became them.

    All of them.

    Meanwhile, Dinah and Jezzie B. are gossiping nonstop in the hallway like two college students in heels, walking across campus with not a single care in the world.

    Jasper, our intern, keeps spilling coffee in the kitchen, so Ishmael can’t stop mopping the floor.

    It is chaos.

    Imagine a jungle.

    Now remove the animals.

    Add employees.

    That’s us.

    Brenda and Philip are the only ones actually working.

    Now, rewind to many moonlights ago.

    It was an unforgettable day for me.

    The sky was cloudy.

    The wind was strong.

    I was sad and slightly dramatic.

    To be fair, there was a typhoon coming. So my drama had weather support.

    I had just come home after ten years of living abroad. I felt like a foreigner in my own country. Everything was familiar, but somehow not mine anymore.

    And I couldn’t believe I had to start over.

    Then, in the blink of an eye, I burned through my savings.

    So, naturally, I had to get a job.

    I applied everywhere, but the job posts were ridiculous.

    “Do you have 47 years of experience in this skill?”

    Ma’am, that skill was discovered five years ago.

    “Can you work two graveyard shifts continuously?”

    I am not a doctor.

    “Can you type 900 words per minute?”

    I only have ten fingers.

    “Can you close your eyes and keep your mouth shut when you see something… let’s say 20% not legal?”

    No. Just no.

    That was it. I was out.

    This was my life now.

    No work. No resources. No salon-silky hair. No foot spa. No chocolates. No massages.

    And for those wondering why Oishi’s chicken and kibble are not on this list, it is because, dear reader, I had not met that smug little Shih Tzu yet.

    I was already working here before he came into my life.

    Maybe everything would have felt a little lighter if he had been with me back then.

    Anyway. Back to my tragedy.

    I was walking when I saw a bench.

    I sat down, looked up at the cloudy sky, and opened the last chocolate bar I had brought with me from overseas.

    I was waiting for the rain to fall.

    Because obviously, eating chocolate while crying in the rain is more dramatic. I am not saying I planned it. I am saying I understood the assignment.

    I was about to take a bite when a man and a woman sat beside me under an umbrella.

    The man looked at me and said,

    “Girl, why are you out here? There’s a lot of shade over there.”

    Then he sarcastically pointed to the covered area nearby.

    The woman, much sweeter than him, gently tapped my shoulder and asked,

    “Are you okay, miss?”

    Right then and there, lightning flashed. Thunder cracked.

    And I cried out loud.

    “I neeeed a joooob!”

    They both laughed.

    Then they brought me inside what we now call The Signal Co. building.

    Those two people became my BFFs until now: Brenda and Yohannes.

    Just so you know, Yohannes is the sarcastic one. Obviously.

    Apparently, the company had a vacancy. Horatio T. interviewed me that same day. He seemed desperate to fill someone else’s position.

    And I was desperate to be filled with salary.

    So it worked out beautifully.

    Now, back to the jungle.

    Yohannes, my BFF and our official gossip analyst, came rushing in with a juicy scoop.

    “Make waaay,” he announced. “I have news.”

    Suddenly, the whole office went quiet and gathered in the pantry, where I was peacefully eating breakfast.

    “There will be changes in the company,” he said.

    Nobody responded.

    No gasp.

    No commentary.

    No sarcastic clapback.

    Not even from Jezzie B and Dinah, who both possess the spiritual gift of turning a small discussion into a full-blown argument.

    Even Horatio froze.

    His mouth opened like he was about to tell us to stop gossiping, but even he looked surprised.

    Because “changes” could mean anything.

    Reshuffle.

    Layoffs.

    A new system nobody asked for.

    My eyes started to tear up.

    I left my breakfast and went outside. I sat on the same bench where I had first met Brenda and Yohannes.

    I looked up and whispered,

    “God… is this change necessary?”

    This company is not perfect.

    The people are not perfect either.

    We fight.

    We argue.

    We say hurtful things sometimes.

    But we also laugh.

    We solve problems together in the messy way we know how.

    For years, I waited to experience this: to feel comfortable around people I see every day. They are not my family, but somehow, a little care grew in our hearts.

    And I love my two best friends.

    In my darkest days, they gave me motivation to go to work.

    So did Pete’s nonstop reminders to file our taxes.

    Jezzie B.’s heels clicking down the hallway.

    Philip saving me from irate customers.

    Macchismo, my crush, who contributes mostly by existing.

    And Ishmael, who always has wisdom.

    Speaking of Ishmael, he sat beside me.

    We both looked up.

    “I know what you’re thinking, Sus,” he said.

    Before he could continue, I burst into tears.

    “This is all I’ve got.”

    He turned to me gently.

    “No, Sus. You have your family. A house. That plant you barely water but somehow still grows. And you have that little dog.”

    “But if I get reshuffled, or worse, laid off, I’ll have to start over.”

    “Sus,” he said, “change is inevitable. It’s part of life.”

    “But what if I don’t like the next chapter? What if I never meet people like Brenda and Yohannes again? Sure, I can still see them after work, but it’s not the same when you see people every day. You know what I mean.”

    “I know what you mean,” Ishmael said.

    Then he looked at the bench.

    “I’ll tell you a story. Many moons ago, I was outside this office waiting to bring in production materials. A typhoon was coming. While I waited for Philip to help me, I saw a woman sitting right here on this bench.”

    I looked at him.

    “She was dramatically sitting in the open, even though the typhoon was clearly about to start. She had an open chocolate bar in her hand.”

    I swallowed.

    “It was me.”

    “Yes,” he said. “It was you.”

    He smiled a little.

    “Then Brenda and Yohannes sat beside you.”

    “Why are you telling me this?”

    “Because that same day, I saw you in the interview room with Horatio. When I looked at you, I thought, I hope she gets the job.”

    I blinked.

    “When you left,” Ishmael continued, “I asked Horatio about you. I was curious because he hired you almost instantly, unlike other applicants who had to survive five interviews and a personality test created by someone with unresolved issues.”

    “What did he say?”

    “He said, ‘She lived abroad for ten years on her own. Based on her story, she built a life little by little. Her circle grew in a foreign place. Ten years of living through constant change builds resilience. We need that kind of employee. Someone who won’t back down just because the work is hard, the customers are unreasonable, or office politics exist.’”

    I stopped crying for a second.

    “He said that?”

    Ishmael nodded.

    “Then he added, ‘She’s a little melodramatic, though. But I like her.’”

    I cleared my throat.

    “That sounds accurate.”

    Ishmael smiled.

    “You see, Sus? Whatever change happens, you will bounce back. You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again.”

    He paused.

    “Pray, Sus. You will need Him more in times of transition. Most of the time, change can lead to something better. But the transition is the hardest part. Once you adjust, things begin to fall into place.”

    I nodded.

    “Thank you, Ishmael.”

    Then, from inside the office, Horatio shouted,

    “Gather round! Gather round!”

    It was Horatio T. and Cassandra Vaughn, the owner.

    Brenda and Yohannes rushed toward me and handed me a paper.

    Apparently, while I was outside being melodramatic with Ishmael, they had already created a meet-up schedule in case one of us got reshuffled or laid off.

    I hugged them both.

    We went into the conference room.

    Cassandra was seated. Horatio stood beside her. Behind them was a covered whiteboard.

    I told myself,

    This is it.

    Those are our names.

    Dinah and Jezzie B. were holding hands.

    Philip had his arms crossed, staring into the void.

    Macchismo was pacing back and forth, probably making sure his muscles were visible from all angles.

    Cassandra began to speak.

    “There will be changes in the company.”

    Then she immediately removed the cover from the whiteboard.

    It happened so fast that nobody understood what we were looking at.

    Written on the board was:

    The Signal & STATIC Co.

    The word STATIC looked like a lightning bolt.

    Cassandra smiled awkwardly.

    Horatio, being Horatio, blurted out,

    “Our company name has changed from The Signal Co. to The Signal & Static Co. So nobody is getting laid off or reshuffled. You’re all stuck here until you’re ninety.”

    For a second, nobody moved.

    Then we all clapped.

    Someone shouted, “Woohoo!”

    People hugged each other like we were in a movie and had just survived something profound, even though technically we had only survived a rebrand.

    Still, I was relieved.

    Before I went home, I sat once more on the same bench.

    I looked up at the office and smiled.

    “See you tomorrow,” I whispered. “I still have plenty of shenanigans for you.”

    And I couldn’t wait to go home and tell Oishi.

    Please, Sus. Don’t.

    —Oishi

    The end.

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • The Case of the Missing Matcha Cake

    Susan narrating

    It was a very relaxing Saturday morning.

    Oishi Badoodle and I had just woken up. Rain was drizzling outside. Raindrops tapped softly on the roof, the windows were blurry, and the air was cool and sleepy. Yes, we slept with the window open. Do not judge me.

    I put on some jazz and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I was swaying a little, slow-dancing with my own peace, when Oishi followed me in — one eye open, the other still half-closed, looking like a tiny retired uncle who got called back into service.

    Then his ears perked up.

    Someone was knocking at the door.

    “Susaaaaan! Are you there? Come out, I need your help!”

    It was BimBim.

    She came in crying so hard she could barely breathe.

    “Bentong ate my matcha cake!”

    And then she cried harder.

    BimBim is a cute kid. Oishi and I sometimes look after her when her parents are out of town. She actually kind of looked like me when I was a child — adorable, dramatic, and robbed by life.

    Oishi narrating

    I love Saturdays.

    Susan has no work, which means she can focus on the things that matter:
    feeding me,
    walking me,
    admiring me,
    and unfortunately, bathing me.

    I still do not understand the bath issue. I smell good. I smell like wisdom and fur.

    Anyway, the morning was peaceful. It was raining outside, so maybe no park today, but I was already hopeful because rainy mornings usually mean Susan cooks, and when Susan cooks, I become a man of faith.

    Then BimBim arrived crying.

    I like BimBim. She is smart and only occasionally dramatic, which already puts her ahead of Susan in emotional discipline. Also, she shares her chicken with me. A child after God’s own heart.

    So naturally, when she cried, “Bentong ate the matcha cake for tomorrow,” I paid attention.

    Bentong is her cousin. They are both ten years old, both smart for their age, and both capable of chaos.

    Susan, being Susan, straightened her back and declared:

    “I am Detective Susan V, and I will investigate what happened.”

    I knew then that peace had left the building.

    Susan narrating

    I changed into a long black trench coat, grabbed a magnifying glass, and marched to Bentong and BimBim’s house like I had my own crime documentary.

    At the scene, I found:

    • leftover matcha cake in the trash
    • icing on the fridge
    • an empty Tupperware container
    • and Bentong, still cute, still lying

    “Sus, I did not eat that cake,” he said. “Aunt Marie told us to eat the cake for tomorrow. I am a good boy and I follow instructions.”

    Cute? Yes.

    Convincing? No.

    Because there, on his white sando, was the green stain of a guilty man.

    And lying, I decided, was not cool.

    So I ran back home, panting like an elephant in active labor and shouted:

    “Oishi! Gather all your might and your judgmental attitude. We are going to prosecute Bentong!”

    I had gathered all the evidence:

    • the trash can photo
    • icing on the fridge
    • the empty Tupperware
    • and Bentong’s stained sando

    We immediately went to court.

    Bentong, in a bold display of confidence rarely seen in people so obviously guilty, called his dad’s friend to defend him — a lawyer named Marcus Timoteo Juan Espasol Bayani Magiting Y Liwayway.

    In short: Pedro.

    Do not ask.

    Courtroom

    Susan narrating

    Oishi Badoodle entered the courtroom wearing his gray suit, holding his orange squeaky lion in one paw and polishing his glasses with the other like he was about to ruin a life professionally.

    I have never been more proud.

    Back to Oishi

    I began my opening argument.

    “On the night in question, Monday at 11:58 PM, the defendant, Bentong, was accused by BimBim of eating the matcha cake that was clearly meant for tomorrow — and for both of them.

    Let the court note that Aunt Marie said it was for both of them. I repeat: for both of them.”

    In the background, I could hear Susan clapping like a proud mother at graduation.

    “I, Atty. Oishi Badoodle V, will not tolerate lying. And Bentong needs to learn two things:
    one, the truth;
    and two, how to share.”

    Pedro, defense lawyer

    “I’m calling my first witness, Your Honor. Bentong, what did Aunt Marie tell you?”

    Bentong straightened himself.

    “To eat the matcha cake tomorrow.”

    Pedro nodded like something intelligent had just occurred.

    “And what time did you eat the cake?”

    “11:58 PM.”

    Pedro turned to the court, suddenly energized by nonsense.

    “Let the record show, Your Honor, that Bentong ate the matcha cake two minutes before tomorrow. Are we seriously prosecuting this child over a technicality?”

    From the back, Susan shouted:

    “Objection!”

    The judge squinted. “Who is that?”

    I rose calmly.

    “Your Honor, that is Susan. She is the detective on this case.”

    Susan gave a small wave, like she had been officially introduced at a conference.

    “I present Exhibit A: the empty Tupperware. Exhibit B: icing on the fridge.”

    Then I turned to Bentong.

    “Did you or did you not eat the matcha cake labeled For Tomorrow?”

    Bentong folded his arms.

    “I thought tomorrow came early.”

    The entire courtroom inhaled.

    Pedro, still trying to save the sinking ship, asked:

    “Where were you on Monday at 11:58 PM?”

    Bentong replied, with the confidence of a boy who had never once feared consequences:

    “Playing Call of Duty.”

    Susan jumped up again.

    “That is a lie, Your Honor!”

    The judge banged the gavel.

    “Who is that again? Oishi Badoodle, control your crowd!”

    I ignored the disorder and raised my final evidence.

    “Exhibit C: CCTV footage showing Bentong eating the matcha cake.”

    The courtroom gasped.

    BimBim burst into tears.

    People murmured.

    The judge shouted, “Order in the court!” while slamming the gavel with the energy of someone who regretted becoming a public servant.

    Then came the verdict.

    The jury declared:

    “On the count of eating the matcha cake, we find the defendant guilty.”

    The judge adjusted her glasses.

    “I agree with the jury. Bentong, you are found guilty. You will replace BimBim’s matcha cake. You need to learn to share, little one. And most of all, lying is not good.”

    Bentong looked crushed.

    “Share? Do not lie? Yes, Your Honor.”

    Susan narrating

    After the verdict, I went over to Bentong and hugged him, stroking his messy hair.

    “Bentong, I did not do all of this to humiliate you. But lying is bad, and not sharing is bad too.”

    He stared at the floor, listening.

    “When you grow up, people will share their food with you, their time, their effort, their love — and you’ll want to do the same because that’s the right thing to do.

    And also… it feels good to share with someone you love.”

    He looked up a little.

    “People will also lie to you. And it will sting. So always remember to do the right thing and tell the truth — especially when someone could be hurt, confused, blamed, or put in danger because of your lie. Do you understand me?”

    Bentong nodded.

    Then I sighed and said, “Now come here. We’re going to the cake shop. You are ten years old. I still don’t know why the judge sentenced you to buy a cake.”

    We brought BimBim with us.

    Cake shop

    Bentong and BimBim happily sat with their new cake.

    Then Bentong suddenly stood up, full of regret, unable to look directly at BimBim.

    “I’m sorry for eating your half of the cake… and for lying about it.”

    BimBim stood up and hugged him.

    Oishi and I were teary.

    I looked at them and whispered to myself,

    “I will be a good mother.”

    Maybe.

    If God is willing.

    And if Oishi agrees.

    The end.

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

    Reflection

    Of course, the story above is exaggerated. I mean, who goes to great lengths to prosecute a ten-year-old boy over a matcha cake labeled For Tomorrow?

    Well…

    me, apparently.

    But joke aside, here’s what I mean.

    Sometimes the lies we tell are not dramatic enough for handcuffs, courtrooms, or national headlines — but they still waste people’s time, disturb their peace, and make life harder than it needs to be.

    Your brother asks if you ate the leftover spaghetti. You say no, even though you did. Now he’s opening the fridge six times, staring into containers like a detective in a low-budget crime documentary, and bothering your mom about where she put it.

    Or a colleague asks, “Did you send the email to the client?” You say yes, but you didn’t. Now your teammate spends the whole day looking for an email that does not exist, while also trying not to lose their salvation.

    That’s what small lies do.

    They may not look like a big deal, but they still send other people on unnecessary scavenger hunts.

    And yes, there are times when truth must be guided by wisdom.

    For example, if your neighbor lovingly gives you food and it turns out a little too salty, you do not need to march over and announce, “This has enough sodium to preserve a fish.” Sometimes kindness is more important than blunt commentary. Not every thought needs a microphone.

    But that is different from dishonesty.

    You can be gentle without being fake.
    You can be kind without making other people carry confusion you created.

    That’s really the point.

    Tell the truth, especially when your lie could:

    • put someone in harm’s way
    • waste their time
    • damage trust
    • or make someone else carry the consequences of what you did

    Some of us are like Bentong.
    We take what was not ours, lie about it, then feel bad and say sorry later.

    Some of us are like BimBim.
    Helpless, hurting, and not sure what to do — just hoping someone will listen.

    Some are like Pedro.
    Defending what they know is wrong because “it’s not that serious.”

    And some are like the judge.
    Too harsh, too quick, and ready to sentence people beyond the size of the offense.

    We’ve all told white lies. We call them harmless, small, practical, convenient. And sometimes we convince ourselves the truth is unnecessary because the matter is too minor to deserve honesty.

    But honesty is not only for emergencies.

    Sometimes truth matters simply because other people matter.

    — Ember

  • Some People Need Grace. Others Need a Slipper

    Here is your fresh towel, madam.

    Walk right here, on the carpet, your highness.

    Here, Sus—let me pull up a chair for you. Please, have a seat.

    I cleaned your house, your desk at work, ironed your clothes, your majesty.

    I cooked your favorite meal… and went all the way to Baguio to personally pick the ingredients.

    I even went to Italy just to choose a wine for you.

    I picked something smooth… because I didn’t want your taste buds to be ambushed.

    I took care of Oishi—gave him a bath, fed him his favorite chicken.

    You’re amazing at your job, Sus. Well done.

    How do you create a marketing plan in 5 minutes and increase profit in one hour?

    ⸻

    Those are the things I wanted to hear.

    But instead…

    “Sus, where is the report?”

    “Sus, the customer is waiting.”

    “Sus, you’re so slow.”

    (Ouch. From customer.)

    Then there is Oishi badoodle, barking like he personally funded the grocery run, because apparently His Royal Fluffiness is waiting for chicken and refuses to eat kibble like a commoner.

    During grocery hour, the cashier looked at me like I had interrupted her villain story. I thought, she must be tired.

    A motorcycle nearly ran me over because apparently sidewalks are now optional.

    My name is Susan V.

    And this… is my life.

    Every day:

    Wake up.

    Work.

    Work harder.

    Work harder than that so I can pay rent, bills, Oishi’s squeaky toys, Oishi’s bandanas…

    and Oishi’s chicken.

    Come home.

    Cook.

    Repeat.

    There has to be more to life, right?

    And what is with people?

    Why is everyone always in a hurry… and rude?

    One time, I saw a woman throw a tilapia at her customer.

    Another time, on a small tricycle meant for just two passengers, the woman had no choice but to sit on someone’s lap, because the one blocking the entrance refused to move.

    A delivery man stood outside, sweating in the heat.

    Inside, there were clearly people—you could hear movement—

    but somehow, opening the door kept getting postponed.

    I mean…

    why do we treat each other like that?

    🐾 Oishi narrating

    Susan has been focusing on negative things lately.

    And my ears are bleeding.

    Because she complains. Non-stop.

    I mean… girl.

    Did you run out of other thoughts???

    Yes, what she said is true.

    Earlier, while walking, we were on the sidewalk and a motorcycle almost ran us down.

    Susan got pushed to the side. I almost flew to the roof.

    My life flashed before my eyes.

    And all I could think was:

    Not today.

    Not until I eat that grilled BBQ chicken with ranch sauce.

    ⸻

    I understand Susan.

    She’s tired.

    But I hope she remembers… there are still good things.

    ⸻

    Whenever she comes home from work after a long commute, she tells me stories.

    One time, she was in a jeepney.

    Her umbrella fell.

    She didn’t move.

    Because… tired.

    But another woman got down… picked it up… and gave it back.

    Isn’t that something worth remembering?

    👩 Susan again

    Oishi is right.

    Now that I think about it…

    At the mall, some people greet us genuinely.

    During occasions, neighbors share food.

    Maybe… we’re all going through something.

    Some people choose to be kind.

    Some people are just tired and snap.

    And some people…

    still follow this:

    “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.” — Matthew 7:12

    From now on…

    I will try to live by that.

    Even if some people really deserve a slipper to the face.

    The end. 😤

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • Come Here, I’ll Hold What’s Hurting

    There comes a point in life

    when you learn how to carry everything on your own.

    You cry without anyone wiping your tears.

    You get hurt so many times, you stop counting.

    Loneliness becomes so familiar it almost feels like home.

    But even then, a quiet part of your heart still hopes.

    That somewhere out there is someone gentle enough

    to notice the ache you hide so well.

    Someone who will touch your face with care,

    brush the hair away from your eyes,

    kiss your forehead, and say

    the words your soul has

    been starving to hear:

    Come here.

    I’ll hold what’s hurting.

    I was seated at a bar beneath dim amber lights, staring at the whiskey in my glass, wearing a black dress that made me look elegant, expensive, and tragically unavailable.

    And I was thinking about that.

    About how life teaches you to carry your own heartbreak. About how sometimes you stop asking to be held because no one ever stayed long enough to learn where it hurt.

    The song in the background was slow, smoky, and dangerous to lonely women. The kind that makes you remember things you were trying not to miss.

    Then I felt it.

    Not a touch.

    A presence.

    The kind that changes the air before it changes the room.

    Even with Slow Dancing in a Burning Room playing softly, I could feel him standing behind me, memorizing me in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, and devastatingly calm.

    Come here.

    I’ll hold what’s hurting.

    He stepped closer. So close I could feel the warmth of him, catch the clean masculine scent of his skin, the kind that made authority seem wearable. I rose on my tiptoes, just enough to meet him halfway—

    …and then something started nibbling at the hem of my dress.

    I frowned.

    Because excuse me???

    Romantic moment, cinematic lighting, emotionally available man—

    and something is chewing my outfit???

    Then came barking.

    Loud. Persistent. Emotionally disrespectful barking.

    And over it—

    Knock knock knock.

    “SUSAAAAN! Open up! I brought siopao!”

    And just like that…

    The bar dissolved.

    The whiskey vanished.

    The jawline evaporated.

    The man? Gone.

    I opened my eyes.

    Reality:

    One chaotic dog.

    One overly enthusiastic man outside my door.

    And zero emotional background music.

    Oishi was barking like a furry evacuation alarm.

    And outside?

    Boyo.

    Holding breakfast.

    And absolutely destroying what could have been the best dream of my life.

    Now, let’s establish something important.

    Boyo?

    He is completely in love with me.

    Like… not casual. Not “let’s see where this goes.”

    No.

    Committed. Invested. Consistent.

    And honestly?

    Who wouldn’t be?

    I mean…

    look at me.

    I’m voluptuous.

    (Oishi would like to object.)

    Bark. Bark. Bark.

    I am barking because Susan must be awakened from her latest delusion.

    I kid you not, this woman was laughing in her sleep like someone possessed. Her lips were even puckered, as if she were preparing to kiss a man who contributes nothing to rent, groceries, or utilities.

    Also, Boyo kept knocking, and I could smell chicken.

    Now, let us address the main issue.

    Susan keeps using the word “voluptuous” as if she understands it.

    She does not.

    Next time, I will personally give her a dictionary.

    Or at the very least, force her to Google it.

    Anyway.

    She picked me up and hugged me like a plush toy.

    I cannot breathe.

    Send help.

    Back to me.

    Before opening the door, I picked Oishi up so he would stop barking.

    I still don’t understand why he insists on sabotaging my best dreams. I fed him before I slept. He ate a lot.

    This dog has three life goals:

    Eat.

    Sleep.

    Cause problems.

    And then eat again.

    Before I got up, I paused.

    Just… one more moment.

    I let myself imagine.

    A simple life.

    A quiet suburb.

    A small house. Not fancy—just peaceful.

    A patio. A hammock.

    A baby sleeping soundly in the next room.

    Oishi guarding that child like it’s one of his prized possessions—second only to chicken.

    Then the door opens.

    “Sus, I’m home.”

    He’s wearing one of those heavy jackets—the kind made for snow.

    And I’m inside.

    Cooking.

    Waiting.

    “BARK!”

    Gone.

    No baby.

    No husband.

    No snow.

    Just me.

    A small apartment.

    And a paycheck that disappears faster than my self-control during online shopping.

    (Oishi, mentally:)

    She is broke because she keeps ordering nonsense and duplicates of things we already own.

    Back to me.

    I sat there for a moment.

    Not dramatic sad.

    Just… tired sad.

    ⸻

    So I prayed.

    “Lord… from the beginning, You said it was not good for man to be alone. You created woman, and through generations, You’ve blessed husbands, wives, and children.

    I hope You can bless me with a husband and a baby too.

    I know I have Oishi, and I love him very much… but we both know he is not an actual baby. Please don’t tell him that. He thinks he is my firstborn.

    Lord… I wish I could say, ‘Your will be done.’

    But I can’t.

    Because what if…

    Your will is not what I want?”

    (Oishi:)

    She gets like this sometimes.

    Quiet. Heavy.

    And then she hugs me and cries like I am a licensed therapist.

    I am not.

    But I do absorb emotional damage professionally.

    My payment? Snacks.

    Then Boyo knocked again.

    “Sus, open the door.”

    “What?!”

    “I brought your favorite. Siopao.”

    Of course I opened the door.

    He came in.

    I set the table.

    And somewhere in the background—TV, memory, divine timing, who knows—

    I heard:

    “Lord, Your will be done.”

    I froze.

    Then I looked at Boyo.

    And because I am me…

    I told him the entire dream first.

    Every detail.

    Every emotion.

    Full production.

    Poor Boyo.

    Still listened.

    Because again—

    in love.

    Eventually, I got to the point.

    “…and then I told God I want a family. A baby. A husband. But I couldn’t say ‘Your will be done’… because what if He doesn’t give me what I’m asking for?”

    Boyo didn’t answer immediately.

    He thought.

    Then—

    “Sus… do you trust me?”

    “What kind of question is that?”

    “Do you feel at ease when Oishi is with me?”

    “…yes.”

    “Do you trust your dad?”

    “Yes.”

    “Did he give you everything you wanted?”

    “…no.”

    “But you still trusted him, right?”

    Silence.

    Then he said, gently:

    “I think saying ‘Your will be done’ starts there.

    Not pretending you’re not scared.

    Not pretending you don’t want something.

    But knowing who God is.”

    I listened.

    “He is holy. Loving. Faithful. Just. Gracious. Powerful.

    And He knows everything—past, present, future. Even your thoughts.”

    “What does omniscient mean again?” I asked.

    He pulled out his phone like a man about to defend his thesis.

    “God is all-knowing,” he read. “Complete and perfect knowledge of everything.”

    Then he looked at me.

    “If He sees everything… don’t you think He has a reason?”

    “Maybe the answer is yes. Maybe no. Maybe wait.”

    “But whatever it is—

    it comes from who He is.”

    I swallowed.

    “So what do I do in the meantime?”

    “Keep being honest with Him,” he said.

    “You’re actually good at that.”

    Then—

    “But also… do your part.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “If you want a husband,” he said,

    “you might need to stop daydreaming long enough to notice the person standing in front of you.”

    I stared.

    “But… you are standing in front of me.”

    He nodded.

    “Yes. I am.”

    (Oishi:)

    Ackwaaaard.

    I am the one blushing.

    But honestly?

    Choose Boyo.

    No dramatic entrance. No cinematic lighting.

    But—

    He shows up.

    He cares.

    He brings food.

    That’s elite behavior.

    Susan was blushing now.

    Then Boyo reached out—

    not dramatically—

    just gently.

    “You’ve been hurt and alone for so long,” he said.

    “Do you think maybe it’s finally time someone told you this?”

    His thumb brushed her cheek.

    Come here.

    I’ll hold what’s hurting.

    She froze.

    But in a good way.

    Because this time—

    it wasn’t a dream.

    He wasn’t the man she imagined.

    But he was real.

    And maybe…

    that mattered more.

    (Still… gym wouldn’t hurt.)

    Paw to forehead.

    The end. 😤

    Still Rising. Still Barking 🐾

  • Jesus said NOPE… I quit anyway

    A burnout comedy about quitting, bills, and God’s very calm “no.”

    Oishi narrates, reluctantly.

    So my dear readers, I have shocking news.

    Susan… has been working hard.

    Yes. Hard. Like “new personality unlocked” hard.

    She leaves early. Comes home late. She prepares my food like she’s deploying overseas. She kisses my head like she’s going to war. Ma’am, you are going to work. Not Mordor.

    For three months, this was our routine:

    She drops kibble. She says, “No chicken today, Oishi. It spoils when you leave it on the plate and I’m not home.”

    And I’m like… HELLO??? Chicken does not “spoil” on my plate. Chicken does not even survive two minutes on my plate.

    But anyway. That’s what she kept saying while she ran around muttering about her “KPI.” I don’t know what that is, but based on how she suffers, it sounds like a disease.

    ⸻

    The part where Susan explains what happened (and blames everyone but herself)

    Susan (narrating, rubbing her temples):

    Okay. Fine. Yes. I’ve been working hard.

    Because last quarter… I missed my KPI. And yes… it was my fault.

    I didn’t perform well because I was “preparing for Christmas.”

    And when I say preparing, I mean:

    binge-watching, eating chips, making holiday plans three months early, and acting like December is a full-time job.

    So now, I’m paying for it. My boss, Henson, told me if I don’t pull my performance up, he’ll axe me. And he said it will make him happy because apparently I’m “a melodramatic, overreacting hurricane pain in the—”

    Okay. He didn’t say the last word. But his eyes did.

    Also, I was working hard because of Oishi.

    So I can buy him food and cute bandanas. That smug little shih tzu wants chicken every day like he pays rent.

    So I told myself, “Susan, you will not give up. You will act like a good employee.”

    Which is why… I did what every responsible employee does.

    I tried to bribe my manager.

    I bought Henson the juiciest, most glorious four-patty burger with jalapeño cheese melt. Honestly, I could’ve offered siopao, but he’s the type who says “I don’t do carbs” while chewing on stress.

    I offered the burger and smiled like an innocent angel.

    He stared at it like it was poison.

    He refused it.

    REFUSED.

    Who refuses that burger? It had purpose. It had destiny. It had jalapeño.

    Instead, he marched me straight to HR, Horatio T.

    Horatio did what Horatio does best: stayed calm, wrote a memo, and told me if I don’t fix my performance and my attitude, I’m out.

    So I walked back to my desk confused, offended, and extremely dramatic… and then my heart jumped because…

    He was there.

    Jesus.

    And I was ready.

    I told Him everything. Every unfair thing. Every rude customer. Every pressure. Every injustice. I even included the burger tragedy.

    Then I said, “Lord… I’m tired. I want to quit.”

    Jesus lifted His hand.

    I gasped because deep inside, I was thinking:

    If He says yes, nobody can stop me. Not my boss. Not HR. Not even the economy.

    And then Jesus said:

    “Nope.”

    ⸻

    The part where Susan does what Susan does

    Oishi (narrating):

    After Jesus said “Nope,” you can guess what Susan did.

    She quit anyway.

    She came home acting like she was a victim of corporate oppression, as if I didn’t witness the last quarter where she said, and I quote:

    “Badoodle, it’s holiday month. Christmas is coming. I don’t need to work on those reports.”

    Apparently the company did need those reports.

    And apparently reports do not magically submit themselves because Christmas lights are blinking.

    Anyway.

    She barged into HR with conviction.

    Imagine Susan storming in like she’s in a courtroom drama, waving her resignation letter like Exhibit A.

    Horatio looked at her like a man watching a toddler carry a candle near curtains.

    He calmly said we have practical obligations in life and she should think about it.

    Susan crossed her arms. Inhaled deeply. Like she was about to deliver a monologue.

    Then she exhaled and said, “I QUIT.”

    Paw to forehead. Classic Susan.

    ⸻

    The part where Susan enters her “freedom era” (Delulu Phase)

    Susan (narrating, glowing with delusion):

    After I resigned, I felt relieved.

    No more waking up early. No more rude customers. No more reports. No more cases to monitor.

    Last week I even saw a white hair. WHITE. HAIR.

    That’s when I knew my job was trying to assassinate me.

    So I woke up slow. Took a shower. Scooped Oishi. Went to the park. Ate ice cream. Bought Oishi a cute red bandana with paw prints. Small splurge. Just a little.

    And I told myself, “I can find a job quickly. I’m a talented woman.”

    Also… I swear my white hair turned black again.

    ⸻

    The part where reality enters like a bill collector with no mercy

    Oishi (narrating, ears hurting):

    Four weeks later, reality slapped Susan with a receipt.

    She splurged. Yes. Like she was sponsored by denial.

    Our three-week routine was: park, shopping, binge-watch.

    She bought me a gallon of dog cologne. She bought Tupperware she didn’t need. She bought running shoes she never used.

    She said, “I need new shoes so I can get motivated and finally look like a supermodel.”

    Ma’am. Supermodels do not reward a jog with chips and cake.

    Then one day, the living room looked like an elementary school classroom. Papers everywhere. Chips on the floor. Cocoa spilled. Susan sobbing.

    And she said:

    “Oishi… how am I going to pay for all this? I will sell my blood. It’s worth something, right?”

    I stared at her.

    I blinked slowly.

    And I realized she was not joking.

    Later that night, I saw her praying. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind.

    Susan (praying):

    “Jesus… I didn’t listen. I don’t know how I’ll pay for bills, rent… food… I just wanted a break.”

    ⸻

    The angels arrive (one gentle, one tired)

    A bright glow appeared, and Angelusito floated in, chubby and kind.

    Behind him was Anghelito, who looked like he hasn’t rested since Genesis.

    Angelusito: “Susan, He heard you. He asked you to meet Him at the park. At the swing.”

    Susan: “At night?? Can He come here?”

    Anghelito: “Sure, let’s make the King of Kings travel like a Grab rider. Just go.”

    Angelusito: “Susan, you’re healthy and safe. You can walk.”

    Anghelito: “Also, you begged to see Him five minutes ago.”

    Rude. Accurate.

    So we went.

    ⸻

    The swing scene (heartwarming, not cheesy)

    The park was quiet. Peaceful. Jesus was sitting on the swing, smiling gently.

    I heard a bark. I turned.

    Oishi followed us, tongue out, panting like he ran a marathon, but emotionally he was thriving.

    I stood there like a five-year-old who broke something and suddenly remembered consequences exist.

    Susan:

    “Lord… I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I don’t know how to pay the bills. I’m ashamed to ask my mom. I’m ashamed to borrow from friends. I was just tired. I wanted a break.”

    Jesus looked at her like a Father who already knows the whole story, and still chose to come.

    Jesus: “Why did you quit?”

    Susan: “I was tired, Lord. The work piled up. Customers were rude. I snapped.”

    Jesus (gentle, but direct):

    “The reports piled up because you avoided them. The customers were hard because they needed help. You needed wisdom, not escape.”

    Susan’s lip trembled.

    Jesus continued, calm and practical:

    Jesus: “Tell Me what was good about your job.”

    Susan hesitated, and the angels, of course, did not.

    Anghelito: “Salary. Necessities. Food. Rent. Reality.”

    Oishi barked like: yes.

    Jesus: “And your friends?”

    Susan: “Yes… Brenda and Yohannes. They cheer me up. Pete too. Macchismo… also.”

    She said that last one softer.

    Jesus smiled.

    Jesus: “Would you rather find another job, or return and rebuild what you broke?”

    Susan’s throat tightened because suddenly she remembered:

    it wasn’t all bad. It was hard, yes, but there was laughter too. Friendship. Familiar rhythm. People who cared.

    Susan: “Lord… I already resigned. I was arrogant.”

    Jesus petted Oishi as if He was thinking while scratching a fluffy philosopher.

    Jesus: “Go talk to Horatio again. Own it. Be honest. Make a plan.”

    Susan nodded, crying quietly.

    Susan: “This time… I will listen.”

    Jesus stood, and the night felt lighter.

    ⸻

    The next day: community shows up

    Back home, Brenda and Yohannes came by with dinner. No lectures. Just presence.

    Then Boyo passed by with a bag of rice.

    Susan blinked. “Why do you have rice?”

    Boyo scratched his head. “I’ve been dropping some weekly. Thought you might need it.”

    Susan’s eyes softened. She hugged him properly this time. Not dramatic. Just grateful.

    And for the first time in weeks, her mind felt quiet.

    ⸻

    The angel sermon (shorter, sharper, still funny)

    While Susan washed dishes, the window reflection revealed the angels.

    Susan sighed. “Oh no. A sermon.”

    Angelusito pulled out a notebook like a therapist.

    Anghelito cleared his throat like a tired teacher.

    Anghelito:

    “Susan. Work is overwhelming. People are annoying. True.”

    “But quitting impulsively without a plan? That’s a recipe for future stress.”

    “Rest is allowed. Planning is wisdom.”

    “You were not in danger. You were irritated. There is a difference.”

    “Also, you are literally customer service. Serve the customers.”

    Susan gasped. “Wow.”

    Anghelito nodded. “Yes. Wow.”

    Angelusito smiled gently and added:

    Angelusito:

    “When you work, do it with integrity. Not for people’s approval, but because God sees you.”

    Then Anghelito slapped the final stamp:

    Anghelito:

    “Colossians 3:23–24. Work wholeheartedly.”

    “And Proverbs 21:5. Diligent plans lead to profit. Haste leads to poverty.”

    Susan whispered: “Okay… okay… fine.”

    ⸻

    The return (with one last siopao punchline)

    The next morning, Susan woke up early. Ironed her clothes. Wore decent office attire. Even perfume.

    At the door, Oishi kept pushing her leg like a tiny motivational speaker.

    At the office, Ishmael the prophetic janitor greeted her.

    Ishmael: “Good morning, Susan. We didn’t touch your table.”

    Susan froze. “My table…??”

    Then she remembered: she left a siopao there.

    She whispered, horrified: “No…”

    Ishmael smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, Susan. I threw your siopao.”

    Susan almost cried from relief.

    As she walked in, she saw Brenda on the phone, Yohannes being polite to customers, colleagues moving around like normal life never paused.

    And she realized: this place wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t alone.

    Before she could knock, Horatio opened the door.

    Susan blurted out, half-joking, half-not:

    Susan: “Hi… can I have my job back? I was being melodramatic. I need to pay rent.”

    Horatio stared at her.

    Then he said, completely calm:

    Horatio: “Took you long enough.”

    Susan blinked. “Wait… you’re accepting me?”

    Horatio sighed. “Susan, I spilled coffee on your resignation letter. I didn’t make a copy.”

    Susan gasped. “You… didn’t file it?”

    Horatio raised an eyebrow. “Also, who resigns with a printed letter? Never heard of email?”

    Susan laughed and cried at the same time.

    She hugged him.

    Horatio stepped back immediately. “Okay. Enough. We don’t need to go there.”

    He simply shook her hand.

    Then she heard a voice behind her:

    Macchismo: “Welcome back, Susan.”

    Susan’s soul left her body for one second.

    ⸻

    Ending

    Back at home, Susan saw a small banner hanging near the kitchen.

    It looked like it was made by angels.

    It said:

    GOD GAVE YOU ANOTHER CHANCE. DO NOT MESS IT UP.

    Susan squinted. “Are angels always this judgmental?”

    Oishi sat beside her, glasses on, bandana straight, expression unreadable.

    They’re annoying… but they helped.

    So they can stay.

    The end.

    Still rising. Still barking.

  • 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 🐾