Five years ago, I was standing in the middle of my new apartment. Boxes everywhere.
I had just moved because I found a little pup under a tree, soaking wet and crying like a telenovela extra. My old apartment didn’t allow pets.
I rescued him and named him Oishi. My badoodle. He’s cute, but also weird—he refuses to take off the red bandana I put on him, and don’t even get me started on his glasses. But they look good on him, so they stay.
I was happy. Hopeful. This felt like the start of good things finally unfolding.
As I unpacked, I noticed something outside. The postbox was… glowing. My heart did little cartwheels. I scooped Oishi up and whispered, “Maybe there’s a Keanu Reeves out there, like The Lake House, sending me a letter.”
I nearly tripped rushing out.
When I reached the postbox, I prayed:
“Please, God, a letter from my future husband.”
It kept glowing. We just stood there—me and my badoodle—staring at it.
Oishi Narrating – Present
Badoodle? Where are you? Come hug me.
I’m drained. My ears are bleeding from Susan’s dramatics these past weeks.
She keeps asking: “Oishi, is this life? Is this it? We wake up, work, sleep, repeat?”
We still walk in the park, sneak into cinemas, eat siopao at 2 AM, binge The Detective Agency.
But she only sees the routine.
I, Oishi, am actually content.
Then she starts telling me her dreams, like I can make them happen:
“I want to travel, Oishi. Imagine us on a desert safari in Dubai, swimming in the Maldives, watching a Phnom Penh sunset. Snow! Or a coffee shop in Paris where a handsome stranger asks, ‘Is this seat taken?’”
I bark to snap her out of her delusion… but then I notice her teary eyes, wide with longing — like a ten-year-old begging for ice cream before dinner.
I walk over and rest my face on her lap. She hugs me tight.
“I’m so glad I found you,” she whispers. “Remember that day, badoodle?”
Tears slide down her cheeks. “I’m tired, Oishi. It feels like I’m just working to live another day. I have friends, but I have longings too.”
Susan is a lot, but she keeps showing up. I admire that.
Then she stands up, grabs pen and paper.
“I’m writing a letter to my past self—to remind her not to give up.”
She still believes that glowing postbox has magic. So do I.
Susan’s Letter to Her Past Self
To my ever‑dramatic, ever‑beautiful self:
Life will happen. You’ll hurt and you’ll hurt others, even unintentionally.
You’ll stumble and fall. You’ll feel stuck even when you give your best.
You’ll be afraid. Depressed. Anxious.
Longing will hit deep.
One day you’ll say you’ve had enough.
But know this: We. Don’t. Give. Up.
When you’re down, remember your blessings: Oishi, your walks in the park, family, friends.
You can’t travel yet, but you can explore new recipes, try new things, live life while waiting for dreams to come true.
Most of all, remember:
God is with us.
With us when our minds spiral like spaghetti.
With us when pillows are soaked with tears.
With us when we laugh at midnight siopao.
Life isn’t all bad. Learn to count your blessings and work your dreams with God.
Love, Me ❤️.
Susan folds the letter. We walk outside. The postbox glows again.
She breathes—inhale, exhale, like she’s been practicing.
As she extends her arm to drop the letter, an eagle swoops down and snatches it.
We stand there, jaws dropped.
Then she scoops me up: “Badoodle, let’s go to Boyo.”
Poor Boyo. He’ll hear the whole story.
Later, as we’re about to sleep, I see her kneeling with tears in her eyes.
And I know God is listening.
She stays there quietly kneeling, her back slightly hunched as if the weight of everything is finally being offered up.
And I stay close, like I always do. No barking. No judgment. Just stillness.
The night doesn’t answer her out loud.
But the stars don’t leave.
The breeze doesn’t rush.
And somehow, in all the silence,
I feel it too
a presence bigger than pain,
a peace deeper than the questions.
She stands up slowly and wipes her eyes.
Then smiles at me, the real kind.
Like maybe she doesn’t have it all figured out
but she remembered she’s not alone.
We head back inside.
And as she locks the door, she whispers:
“Maybe tomorrow will still be messy… but I think we’re going to be okay.”
Writer’s Note 🐶📓
We’ve all longed like Susan.
We’ve all been hurt, anxious, depressed, stuck, lost.
We ask ourselves: “Is this it? Is this life?”
We chase what we don’t have, live in a future that hasn’t come, or a past that won’t return.
This is your reminder—like Susan’s letter—that no matter what happens:
We don’t give up.
We keep pressing forward.
We keep believing that Someone loves us enough to give His life for us ❤️.
It was no ordinary Saturday morning. That sounds dramatic, but I mean it.
Usually, Oishi wakes me up by nibbling the edge of my pajama pants, then stares into my soul until I give him breakfast and take him for a walk. It’s our sacred ritual. But today? Nothing. Nada. Radio silence.
I sat up groggily and thought, Huh, that’s weird. Then I heard voices from the kitchen. Plural.
So naturally, I dragged my half-conscious self into the kitchen—and immediately questioned my entire grip on reality.
There was a blue horse holding a carton of oat milk, awkwardly smiling like he was trying to impress a Tinder date. His teeth were dazzling.
Next to him, a green elephant was holding my cereal like it was his birthright.
An orange chihuahua sat in the corner wearing noise-canceling headphones, probably listening to a TED Talk.
There was a cat with its face fully smushed against the window—just vibing.
And a K9 dog in a tactical vest was stationed at the door like he was guarding a presidential parade. I mean… who’s trying to shoot us?
Then there was Meutang—a purple aquatic creature we once rescued from the Great Fishnap. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a tiny inflatable pool ring. Why? Who knows.
And finally… my Oishi.
Sitting at the head of the table. On a cushion. Eating roast chicken. Drinking something that suspiciously looked like wine.
He saw my face—the face of a woman emotionally spiraling before her caffeine—and calmly slid a stack of laminated ID cards toward me. Like this was normal.
I blinked at him. He blinked back. He knew I had questions.
Narrated by: Oishi (Your Local Philosofurr)
Every Friday night and Saturday morning, Susan and I do our sacred park walk. It’s our bonding moment. We talk (well, she talks), eat snacks, and reflect on life like unpaid therapists.
But during these walks… I met others.
There was the blue horse. The green elephant. Budd the K9. We sniffed once, and now we’re brothers.
Don’t even get me started on Budd’s music taste—Dancing Queen. He claims it calms his nerves. I get it. The beat slaps.
Anyway—today’s different. I didn’t wake Susan up. Why?
Because at exactly 3:27 AM, I got a call from Sashmi, our communications pug. She said Budd witnessed a group of humans trying to dynamite Meutang’s hometown: The Fishball Sea.
Unacceptable.
So I barked the alert. The Barkimony Delegates assembled.
There was stomping, growling, some dramatic slow-motion leaps. Budd might’ve bitten someone.
Eventually, the bad guys ran off.
We were tired. Starving. Emotionally wrecked.
So I brought everyone back to our place. Mi casa es su casa, I told them. Which is Spanish for: “Susan’s going to freak out, but it’s fine.”
And yeah… she froze in the doorway.
So I did what any noble leader would do: I handed her our official ID cards.
Now meet the team.
🐾 Budd — Security Chief
A K9 with nerves of steel and paws of thunder. His hobbies include tail surveillance and ABBA.
🩵 Bulgogi — Head of Logistics
Tiny horse. Big plans. Possibly dramatic. Once cried because of gravel.
💚 Bibimbap — Admin Officer
Baby green elephant. Runs everything. Also panics when the printer jams.
🧡 Sashmi — Comms Manager
Orange chihuahua. Talks faster than she thinks. Barks in Morse code.
🐟 Meautang — Marine Relations/Sea Affairs
Purple fish in a Hawaiian shirt. Vacation-ready, always suspicious.
Favorite phrase: “It’s a trap.”
Never proven right, but never wrong either.
🐱 Fippo — Freelance Delegate (a.k.a. The Cat Who Won’t Leave)
Wasn’t invited. Still came. Claims he’s here for “diplomacy.” Eats all the fish crackers.
—
Next summit topic: Climate Change.
Susan’s probably going to ask if that’s a new salad dressing. But I love her anyway.
Signed,
Still Barking. Still Rising. Still Living with Susan.
Narrated by: Oishi (because no one else wanted to narrate something this heavy… and Susan’s a wreck before 5 PM anyway.)
It was Friday. 4:00 PM. That weird twilight zone in the office where everyone pretends to work but mostly just stares at their monitors, calculating escape.
Susan, of course, announced loudly while holding a siopao in one hand and milk tea in the other:
“When that clock hits 5:00, my voluptuous butt is outta here.” (As if she hadn’t devoured half a dozen siomai during lunch.)
Meanwhile, the usual suspects were passing time in their own way:
· Brenda, Yohannes, Jasper, and Horatio T. were exchanging insults in a love language only extroverts understand.
· Dinah and Jezzie Bell were packing up with military precision, so they could vanish the moment the clock beeped.
· The pantry was full — not just with people, but with food, gossip, and unspoken exhaustion.
And then there was Philip Vaughn. Sitting quietly at the far corner table. Black coffee in hand. Eyes distant — but never disconnected.
Horatio wandered over, casual and curious. “You’re a war vet, right? What were you? Infantry? Air Force? Bazooka guy? Tank dude? Can you shoot a target from, like… 20,000 miles away?”
Philip gave a gentle smile and shook his head.
“No, Horatio. No one can hit a target from 20,000 miles. That’s… halfway around the world.”
Then he paused. His gaze shifted — from polite to pained.
“I never flew a plane. But I’ve seen families flee their homes in panic. I never carried a bazooka. But I’ve seen bodies — scattered, torn, innocent. I can’t hit a distant target. But I’ve seen people so crushed by suffering… that light itself felt unreachable.”
We all grew quiet. Even Susan, mid-bite, slowed down. Until…
“Well,” she blurted, “that’s ‘cause the gal ate the apple and the dude went along with it.”
She said it like it explained everything. And in her head, it probably did.
To be fair, I think Susan thought Philip was asking why there’s evil in the world—why suffering exists. And since she just finished a Bible study that touched on Genesis, this was her chance to shine. So she went straight to the source: Eve, Adam, and that infamous fruit.
She even glanced at Brenda like, “See? I listened.”
Just to clarify, dear readers: “The gal and the dude” = Eve and Adam.
I don’t fully understand why it had to be an apple — personally, I’d sin for a dumpling — but what would I know? I’m just a fluffy Shih Tzu with theological insights and trust issues.
Thursday night, 10:00 PM — Philip’s apartment.
He couldn’t sleep. The memories were looping: Suffering. Hunger. People doing evil to survive. Others doing evil for no reason at all. No remorse. No hesitation. Just destruction.
He whispered to the ceiling:
“Why is there evil in the world? Don’t You care about the innocent who suffer?”
And then… He remembered what Ishmael the janitor once told him.
“God gave us free will, Philip,” Ishmael had said.
And then… he remembered a conversation years ago, just outside camp. Ishmael wasn’t a soldier — not anymore — but the man carried a quiet kind of command.
“The ability to choose good… or evil. Love isn’t love if it’s forced. And with freedom comes risk. Real risk.”
“Like cars,” he continued. “They’re made for transport. Good purpose. But if the driver’s drunk… the same machine becomes a weapon.” “God didn’t create evil. But He created choice. And that choice is what allows evil to exist — and grace to overcome it.”
Philip had asked, “But what about the innocent? What about those who suffer because of other people’s choices?”
Ishmael’s eyes were kind but tired.
“That one… I don’t have a full answer for. But the Bible doesn’t hide suffering. It just promises this: ‘Even though I walk through the darkest valley, You are with me.’ Not avoiding pain. But walking with us through it.”
“Keep asking Him,” he added. “Keep giving compassion. Keep pointing people back to the Shepherd. And when you don’t understand… stay with Him anyway.”
Back to the office. Back to the pantry. Back to siopao.
Philip ended his story. No music. No applause. Just silence.
All of us — even your stoic narrator — were in tears. Except Jezzie B. and Dinah, who muttered:
“Well, nobody asked you to serve anyway.”
Horatio turned red with rage. But Philip? He just smiled and patted him on the back.
“It’s okay. No one asked me. It was my calling. And if I could do it all again… I’d still choose to serve.”
Jezzie and Dinah left the room — humiliated, uncomfortable, and I suspect, a little convicted.
[Narration: Oishi | Present Day]
Susan left me with Philip because she went to the cinema to watch Inside Out with her BFFs, Brenda and Yohanes. Apparently, she can relate to “the anxiety character.” Don’t worry—I’ll spare you the full emotional recital she made when she got home and hugged me while weeping about how seen she felt. But that’s a story for another day… or never.
I was chewing on my squeaky lion toy when I saw Philip walk toward me. He was smiling—but his eyes were heavy. The kind of heavy that didn’t come from lack of sleep. It was history. It was weight.
He scooped me up, kissed my face, hugged me like I was the last safe thing in the world. I let him. When Philip hugs you, you don’t ask questions—you just hold the moment. He took me to the backyard. It was night. Quiet. Stars out. But something in his breath told me that the peace outside didn’t match the storm inside.
Then he said it: “Oishi, I have something to tell you that’s been weighing on me. You may not talk, but I know you’ll listen.”
His face dropped. From soft to steel. He started.
“November 12, 2015. I’ll never forget that day, even if I want to. It haunts me.”
“We were in a classified debrief. I was a Corporal. The man giving the briefing? Colonel Ishmael Shulman—yes, that Ishmael. The same one you see mopping the hallway at The Signal Co. You’ve met him.”
(Oishi – Yep. He’s the only one in that office who actually uses his brain. Apart from you, of course.)
“I don’t trust easy. I keep to myself. It’s not coldness—it’s control. I care about my team, I’d give my life for them. But connection? That’s a luxury I rarely allow myself. Until Private Joseph Morgan.
“He was different. Focused. Disciplined. Fearless, but not reckless. Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s what you do despite it. And Joseph did the hard things, always.”
“And when our pride got too loud, Joseph had a way of cutting through it—soft, but sharp.” “It’s not about being right. It’s about being kind… and knowing when to shut up.”
“I’ll never forget the day I disobeyed orders. I was told to wait, but I moved in too early. My pride said, ‘You’re the senior here.’ My gut said, ‘Go.’ It was a trap. I would’ve died… but Joseph followed me. Took down the enemy. Saved me. Looked at me with that smug grin and said, ‘You okay there, Corporal?’ with a wink. That wink saved my life.”
Philip’s voice broke. Then steadied.
“After the debrief, we got into the helo. The view over Elar-Shur was stunning—mountains, light, rooftops stacked like prayers. We were supposed to drop relief goods. Vaccines.”
“Then the first explosion hit.”
“From afar, the city burned. Screams from a distance. Our Sergeant Mekena Abimbola, Combat Medic whispered, ‘Praise the Lord, who is my rock. He trains my hands for war and gives my fingers skill for battle.’ (Psalm 144:1). Another boom. Our tail got hit. The pilot shouted, ‘Brace for impact. We’re going down.’”
“We crashed. The city was chaos. Smoke, gunfire, insurgents in black like death made manifest. We were surrounded. This was no relief mission. This was war.”
“We fired back. The medic was already on her knees trying to resuscitate someone. The pilot – Commander Sera Wilde—turns out she’s also trained to fly an F-16—was crawling toward the jet nearby, trying to flip the tide.”
“We were pinned. Joseph told me to hide, use the scope, wait. But I was reckless again. I saw an opening, took it. Didn’t see the sniper. Joseph did. He screamed my name, ran to cover me. Took the bullet meant for me.”
“The medic ran to him. Did everything. But he was already gone.”
“The pilot made it to the jet. Took out the enemy. But the damage had already been done.”
“I didn’t just lose a comrade. I lost a brother. Because of me.”
“I spiraled. I drank. I disappeared. Until someone told me there’s still redemption for people like us. That the Shepherd still walks through battlefields — even in the darkest ones.”
“So I got up. Found The Signal Co. And every time I hear Susan scream at the photocopier, or see Macchismo take a toilet selfie, or Yohanes being extra, or Brenda correcting everyone with her straight face—I breathe a little better.”
“That’s how I heal. One quiet laugh at a time.”
He patted me again. And I didn’t move. Because in that moment, I wasn’t just his emotional support dog. I was his chaplain. His witness. His silent Amen.
📜 Writer’s Note:
This is a work of creative reflection.
I haven’t seen war up close. But I’ve felt broken. I’ve gone to bed hungry—not always for food. I’ve been shut out, pushed down, overlooked.
I’ve seen people break, and I’ve felt the sting of things that weren’t my fault. I’ve suffered because of others’ choices. And I’ve hurt others because of mine.
I don’t have big answers. Maybe no one does. But I think it matters that we ask. That we say it out loud—whatever “it” is. That we make room for the hard questions, even the ones we whisper in the dark.
And if you’ve ever asked, “God, where are You in all this?” Same.
But I think He’s still here. I think He stays, even when everything else falls apart. And maybe that’s not everything. But maybe it’s enough to keep going.
Ember - Fire and Soul 