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

Tag: romance

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

    His Voice

    Paris, 1952

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I asked what she thought of the Seine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Her Voice

    One Year Before the Present

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

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

    Then I remembered December 10th, 1952.

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

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

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

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

    His eyes — steady, deep, full of meaning.

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

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

    But then he stopped me.

    We stood by the river.

    And he said words I will never forget.

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

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

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

    And he kept it.

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

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

    But not today.

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

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

    Still…
    I feel peace.

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

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

  • Park, Pain & Petty Thoughts

    Macchismo Got Engaged and All I Got was This Emotional Damage

    🦴 Narrated by Oishi

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

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

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

    (Cue tragic violin)

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

    That was Susan.

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

    And with that, the Bitter Commentary Hour began.

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

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

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

    “Don’t worry,” I told her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    (I’m not.)

    “For putting up with my drama.”

    (Barely hanging on, Sus.)

    “And for never leaving me.”

    (Okay, that one’s true.)

    I sighed. This is love. This is loyalty.

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