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

Tag: short-story

  • 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.

  • Susan & Oishi Meet Anghelito, Angelusito, and Demonyito (Again)

    Susan narrating

    Before I continue, I need you to first read Part 1 of this madness. Please. I am too shaken to summarize it for you. I still haven’t processed the part where we saw a purple demon in a bathrobe holding a toilet plunger. Was he planning to use our bathroom all along? Also, who brings props?!

    Anyway—Oishi and I screamed like banshees and chased him across the house, but halfway through I got thirsty. Fear is dehydrating, okay? Oishi too—he chugged that weird apricot juice he kept begging me to buy at the grocery. (Don’t ask.) I opened the fridge for water and just when I started calming down…

    CRASH.

    In the backyard.

    Bright lights.

    My first thought? This is it. Jesus has arrived.

    So Badoodle and I ran outside to meet Him—and tell on that little purple troublemaker.

    Oishi narrating

    Unlike Sus, I’m not lazy. Here’s your recap of Part 1:

    Two angels were fighting in heaven. Boss sent them here to babysit us. The end.

    Now back to this disaster.

    Demonyito—this purple chaos goblin—seems determined to flood our lives with inconveniences. I will not allow that. It’s already hard enough managing Susan when things are normal. Can you imagine her with extra stress? I’d need dog therapy.

    So I barked like my life depended on it. Then passed out. Then drank all the apricot juice. Susan chugged water like a basketball player in overtime.

    And then we heard it—the boom, the glow outside… and I knew. It had to be Him. The Lamb. The Lord. I was ready to report everything.

    Susan narrating

    We rushed to the backyard—and there they were.

    Two…boys? Floating. With wings.

    I shouted, “HEY! Get down here and stop this cosplay sorcery! Is that purple bathrobe demon yours?! You’re paying for our plumbing bill!”

    Oishi started nibbling my pants. I think he realized it too—they were actually floating. No wires. No ropes. And the one on the left looked like a tired uncle. The other? Holding… a barbecue stick?

    Then they introduced themselves.

    “Greetings. I’m Anghelito, Heaven’s Pilot.” (Tired Uncle confirmed.)

    “Hi! I’m Angelusito. I got hungry so I bought barbecue on the way. I told Anghelito to grab milk tea but he said Boss said no detours. Anyway, wanna bite?”

    I almost fainted. But before I hit the floor, Angelusito put something under my nose and said, “You okay, Sus?”

    Wait. How did they know my name?!

    And Oishi—traitor that he is—was already letting Anghelito pet him like they were childhood friends.

    Fast forward a few hours…

    They told us the truth.

    God really sent them. To look after us.

    I asked if maybe someone higher-ranked was available…? But honestly, deep down, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while—relief. Like maybe, I’m not as alone as I thought.

    After all these years, it felt weird—but good—to know someone’s watching out for us. Not just Badoodle and me versus the world anymore. Someone else is in our corner.

    (And okay, of course there’s God. But you know what I mean.)

    Oishi narrating

    At some point, I found myself playing Pictionary with Anghelito. I was drawing Demonyito’s crimes with ketchup on a paper plate.

    Susan interrupted, “So… angels huh? That means you’re our new BFFs. Let’s go to the mall! Eat siopao! Karaoke night! And it’s December, you know what that means?”

    “Christ’s birth,” the angels said in perfect unison.

    “And party!” Susan beamed.

    The lights flickered. Then went out.

    Susan narrating

    Oishi barked like there was no tomorrow. Anghelito gave him a look and whispered, “Quiet, soldier.” Oishi obeyed.

    We hid behind the curtains. The angels glowed, so I shoved them inside the cabinet.

    Then we heard it—

    “Susaaaaan… Oishiiii… yuhhooooo…”

    It was Demonyito.

    “Come out, I won’t bite. I brought siopao. I can help you clap back at that annoying coworker. I can get you a car loan for that hot pink car you’ve been eyeing. And Oishiiii… I can give you chicken every day. I’ll even let you pee on all the garden gnomes.”

    I was tempted.

    But Anghelito appeared out of nowhere and declared,

    “Susan doesn’t need a clapback. The Lord said ‘Turn the other cheek.’”

    Angelusito added,

    “She doesn’t need the hot pink car. She works from home 4 days a week. And given your financial situation, you’ll be in debt until the next Jubilee year.”

    They turned to Oishi.

    “Chicken every day is not healthy. And it’s unhygienic to pee on gnomes.”

    We stood our ground. I told Demonyito, “We don’t need your offers. Leave our home. And don’t come back.”

    Oishi barked like a furry warrior.

    Later that night…

    I cooked dinner.

    Boyo dropped by to fix the faucet. He asked if we were okay. I told him Oishi had a hyperactive episode and wrecked the house.

    He didn’t believe me.

    I packed his dinner to-go anyway. I’m not ready to explain angels and demons. Not yet.

    At the table, the angels said, “We’re proud of you, Sus. And Badoodle—you didn’t give in.”

    I smiled and joked, “So when you guys go back to heaven, can you tell Jesus to give me a raise so I won’t need that car loan?”

    “She’s not joking,” Oishi mumbled.

    Anghelito’s Epilogue

    Susan and Oishi will still face life’s chaos—annoying things, tempting shortcuts, moments of loneliness.

    But as long as they stay anchored in the Lord, they’ll be fine.

    Still Rising. Still Barking 🐾

  • Susan & Oishi Meet Anghelito, Angelusito, and Demonyito (Part 1) 😇 😈

    🕊️ Narrated by: Kap Angel

    “¡Como están todos! I’m Kap Angel, your heavenly narrator for today—so buckle up and maybe say a little prayer.”

    Now, you’re probably wondering:

    “Why is this charming uncle-angel narrating instead of the loud hooman and her judgmental Shih Tzu?”

    Valid question.

    Let’s rewind to the incident at Heaven’s kitchen.

    Scene 1: The Great Lechon War

    It all began with two angels — Anghelito and Angelusito — fighting over the last piece of lechon.

    (Yes, lechon. Don’t ask. It’s heaven. We have range.)

    The tug-of-war got so intense that the meat flew into the air, hit the ceiling, and knocked the coffee machine off balance. Again.

    These two?

    Always doing harmless but highly annoying things.

    Yesterday, Angelusito took the last muffin and ate it in slow motion in front of Anghelito.

    So naturally, Anghelito drank Angelusito’s glass of water…

    …which caused a dramatic choking fit and a surprise trip to the heavenly clinic.

    Sometimes I ask the Boss why these two are still up here.

    But then again, our Boss is love. And also… justice.

    So I did what every Kap would do:

    I tattled. 😇

    Scene 2: Judgment Daylight

    We stood before the Almighty.

    Too majestic to describe. So I just… humbly explained the mess.

    And then, God spoke.

    “One of the greatest commandments is to love your neighbor as yourself…”

    “But you two? You keep fighting over muffins and meat.”

    Angelusito gasped dramatically — Heaven’s WIFI glitched for a second.

    “As a lesson,” God continued, “you will be sent down to look after Susan and Oishi.”

    I nodded solemnly.

    They begged for a different assignment.

    Then Father God added “I love them as I love all my creation. My Son have met them. Honestly… they’re just like you two”

    Scene 3: Jesus’ Farewell Speech

    At the gate, just before takeoff, Jesus appeared.

    “Anghelito, Angelusito… you’re going to a broken world.”

    “You’ll experience injustice, discouragement, maybe even get mocked — like they did to Me.”

    “You’ll face doubt. And it’ll sting.”

    Angelusito raised his hand:

    “Lord, can You convince Father God to let us stay?”

    Jesus smiled.

    “The decision’s made. But I will be with you — always. Even in the darkest valley.”

    “Encourage them. Be good to them. And if their attitude makes you want to scream…”

    “Remember… I died for them.”

    Oof. That one always lands.

    Kap Angel’s Notes on the Duo

    • Anghelito: Pilot. Stoic. Loves Jesus but doesn’t laugh when God tells jokes.

    Later that day, he told me the Lord’s joke was hilarious and that he “almost cried.”

    • Angelusito: Overthinker. Sweet, but too caught up in details.

    One time, an angel sprained her wing, and instead of helping, he debated which type of bandage was best for 15 minutes.

    Anyway. Off they went. Assigned to Susan and Oishi. Heaven help us.

    Cut to Earth — Oishi Narrates (Grumpily)

    It was a regular Saturday. I was minding my own business when I saw Susan holding a frying pan… headed to the bathroom.

    I thought, “Oh no, not this again.”

    She looked at me, did that weird “I see you, you see me” military hand signal, and whispered,

    “Oishi, I hear noises in the toilet. Must be a rat.”

    We crept closer. She turned the knob slowly…

    And then—boom.

    There was a tiny demon with a plunger.

    Just standing there.

    “Greetings, hooman and dog,” he said.

    (Excuse me? Dog? I’m a BABY.) 🤬

    “I’m Demonyito,” he announced. “I’m here to make your lives mildly inconvenient until your patience collapses!”

    “You’ll feel annoyed… fed up… then you’ll snap!”

    “You’ll be rude to others, bark at your friends, and BOOM — you’ve forgotten kindness. That’s how I win.”

    Then he threw the plunger at the faucet, flooded the bathroom, and bolted out laughing like a possessed karaoke machine.

    Susan screamed. I barked.

    To be continued…🐾😇😈

  • Dinah’s Question Ep. 5 of The Questions They Carried

    What makes a person bitter?

    Narrated by Oishi (your local Philosufurr) 🐾

    It was Thursday night, 8:53 PM, and Susan wasn’t home yet. Your local Philosufurr was panicking. I called Sashimi, our bark-comm specialist, and Bulgogi the chaos intern, to track her location. Was she in danger? At the hospital? Had the Siopao finally done her in?

    Turns out she was at the park. Sitting. Wailing. Asking strangers things like,

    “Do I matter?”

    “Am I valuable?”

    “Is what she said about me true?”

    One passerby answered, “Ma’am, I don’t even know you.”

    Helpful.

    When she saw me, her face lit up like I was the second coming of carbs. She scooped me up and whispered, “I’m sorry, my badoodle. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

    And look—I’ve seen Susan at her most dramatic. But this time? This was different. She was shaken. So she told me everything.

    Flashback, a few weeks ago…

    Enter Dinah.

    Short black hair. Fierce eyeliner. Heels sharp enough to slice confidence.

    Jezzie B’s bestie. Signal Co.’s Gossip Kween™.

    Unlike our resident gossip analyst Yohanes—whose intel rarely ruins reputations—Dinah was surgical. She didn’t just talk. She targeted.

    She once appeared behind Susan so quietly I thought she was summoned by dark sorcery. She’s also the reason Horatio T. issued an official memo quoting Leviticus 19:16:

    “Do not go about spreading slander among your people… I am the Lord.”

    Dinah had been nitpicking Susan’s life like it was her day job:

    Her siopao intake.

    Her walk.

    Her top bun.

    Even said Susan walked like a penguin — in front of people.

    Susan tried to laugh it off. But it chipped away at her. Especially the day Dinah crossed a line.

    She caught Susan sneaking a glance at Macchismo (yes, the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing prince of jawlines, now married), and said—loudly:

    “No matter what you do, Macchismo will never see you as a romantic partner. Have you seen his wife?”

    To which Susan replied, “Duh. I was at the wedding,” trying to hide her tears.

    Macchismo heard it. He said,

    “Okay, Dinah. That’s enough.”

    But Dinah pushed further:

    “If you were single, Macchismo, would you ask Susan out on a date?”

    He didn’t answer.

    And in that silence, Susan’s heart shattered.

    But then…

    Philip stepped in:

    “Dinah, I don’t remember Macchismo ever asking you out either.”

    Yohanes and Brenda joined in:

    “Beauty’s nothing if your attitude is toxic.”

    “Susan may stumble, but she never hurts anyone—unlike you.”

    Macchismo, guilty and speechless, reported everything to HR.

    Ten minutes later, Horatio T. called an emergency meeting.

    The Conference Room.

    Horatio stood in the center.

    Susan, Philip, Dinah sat.

    Macchismo and Pete crossed their arms like protective uncles.

    Yohanes and Brenda were flanking Susan like bodyguards.

    Then, Dinah spoke.

    “What makes a person bitter?”

    The room went quiet.

    “My parents are doctors. Always on call. We lived in a big house that echoed with silence. I was the only child. I had everything—clothes, travel, comfort—but no connection.

    I did everything to make them proud. Languages. Medals. Grades. Nothing worked. And slowly, that absence turned into bitterness.

    I started hating people who seemed happy. Who looked… content. Like Susan. She messes up. She eats too much siopao. But people like her. She has friends. She has that smug little shih tzu.”

    (I accept this compliment.)

    “And Pete—you and your wife. That street food moment? It looked like a scene from an underrated K-drama. It made me angry.”

    “Over the years, my heart got harder. I told myself—if I can’t be happy, no one should be.”

    She paused. Then added:

    “I don’t know how to undo it.”

    And from the back of the room, Ishmael—the janitor with a soul full of sermons—spoke:

    “Forgiveness.”

    He stepped forward.

    “Bitterness poisons the heart. But forgiveness—*even if undeserved—*heals it.”

    He quoted Ephesians 4:31–32:

    “Let all bitterness and wrath and anger be put away from you…

    Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.”

    Then Dinah said something that jolted half the room:

    “It was November 12, 2015. My dad called me. He was overseas…”

    Philip and Ishmael exchanged a glance.

    Yohanes froze.

    The date meant something. More than one person in that room had scars from that day.

    “He said a patient had died. The man’s younger sister—about my age—was sobbing. My dad remembered me. He told me, ‘No one gets used to death.’ Then he admitted he regretted not being present for our family.

    I brushed it off. I never called him back.”

    Susan interrupted softly,

    “Boyo was a nurse overseas…”

    Dinah nodded.

    “Maybe I’ll give healing a try.”

    She stood up, walked to Susan and said:

    “I used to envy your joy. I mocked it. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

    She turned to Pete and apologized. And this time—it was real.

    Susan and Pete forgave her.

    Back to the park.

    So why was Susan still dramatically crying hours later?

    Because one line wouldn’t leave her head:

    “Macchismo will never see you as a romantic partner.”

    Even if it was true.

    Even if he was married.

    What if every guy only saw her as the funny friend? Or a siopao buddy?

    Then came Boyo.

    Holding an umbrella.

    Susan refused it.

    So he scooped me up and said:

    “Fine. I’ll take Oishi then.”

    Susan ran after us:

    “Wait! I was kidding! I’m not that dramatic!”

    We went home.

    Boyo made soup and meatballs (yes, I tasted both).

    Susan told him the whole saga—cinematic-style, with hand gestures and reenactments.

    As she ranted, Boyo leaned by the door and whispered:

    “Your time will come, Sus. Just… pay attention to what’s already in front of you.”

    She didn’t hear him.

    She was listening to a podcast titled: How to Attract a Man With a Jawline.

    I put my paw on my forehead.

    Classic Sus.

    Writer’s Note 📜

    Bitterness doesn’t always look evil.

    Sometimes it wears heels, carries pain, and covers a wound that’s been ignored too long.

    We all feel it.

    When we’re overlooked.

    When we’re hurt again and again.

    When what we do is never enough.

    And the Bible’s call to forgive? It feels almost unfair when we’re still bleeding.

    But bitterness is a slow poison.

    Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s letting Jesus carry what’s crushing us.

    It won’t happen overnight.

    🧡But when we finally give Him what’s been weighing us down,

    our hearts breathe again

    and joy finds its way home.

    —Ember

  • 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 ❤️🐾

  • Pete’s Question Ep. 3 of The Question They Carried

    What makes someone believe they have the right to stand above others?

    Susan Narrating

    It was an ordinary Wednesday — that “meh” middle of the week. Not the chaos of Monday, not the slow fade-out of Friday. Just… Wednesday.

    Well, ordinary for everyone else.

    For me, the morning started with Oishi giving me those puppy eyes as I was leaving for work. Tail wagging, looking up at me like he’d just been abandoned by the entire cast of a soap opera. Obviously, I caved and took him with me.

    At my desk, Oishi curled up under the table with his squeaky toy. Then Yohanes barged in, dramatic as ever, announcing there was chaos in the customer service lounge — customers fighting over who should be served first. One claimed she was a doctor, the other a lawyer. Dinah, our resident gossip, just said, “Let them fight it out, see who wins.” I chimed in, “The lawyer, duh.”

    Pete — our by-the-book accountant (and unsolicited tax adviser) — picked up Oishi and calmly told Yohanes to defuse the situation by figuring out whose need was more urgent. Yohanes agreed and left.

    For those who don’t know Pete, he’s our accountant — a good one. He even lectures me on filing taxes. I pretend not to care, but I remember every tip when it’s time to file. If it weren’t for him, your girl’s butt would’ve been in trouble last year.

    Pete sat across from me, Oishi still in his lap, and suddenly asked:
    “What makes someone believe they have the right to stand above others?”

    I froze mid-siopao bite. “What made you ask that?”

    Pete’s Story

    November 12, 2015. Pete said he’d never forget that day.

    We didn’t know he was a volunteer worker. That day, he was in El Shur — a small, beautiful country with its share of darker realities.

    He was assigned to distribute relief goods. As soon as the chopper touched down, people ran toward them. He told them to line up, assuring there was enough for everyone. But desperation overpowered order. People shouted, cried, begged to be served first.

    Pete understood. Hunger does that.

    But then, someone approached him privately, offering money — a bribe — to get their goods first.

    “Why not buy food instead?” Pete asked.

    The answer hit him hard. They couldn’t. Their area was on lockdown, boundaries guarded so insurgents wouldn’t cross over. They were stuck in the crossfire. Still, relief goods had been delivered regularly — they had enough for months.

    But this person said,
    “We’re prominent. We should be served first.”

    Then, almost as an afterthought, they added, “Besides… you don’t want trouble with the K.N.A.V.E.S.”
    Pete didn’t know who or what that was. But the way they said it — calm, low, like a warning — stuck with him.

    “That’s what made me ask,” Pete said quietly. “No matter how much you have, no matter who you are, that’s not the right perspective. We should help each other up. Respect authority, yes — laws exist to protect us. But some people use their position to lift themselves higher, not to lift others. Not all of them. Some leaders genuinely serve. Others… they make the people serve them.”

    Ishmael’s Answer

    That’s when Ishmael, our prophetic janitor, glided in with his mop.

    “People think they’re above others for many reasons,” he began. “Pride, fear, insecurity — even upbringing. Some were taught from childhood that status equals worth. Others hide their own sense of smallness by making others feel smaller. And there are those who genuinely believe their achievements or titles make them more valuable than the next person. But Christ showed us another way.”

    He set the mop aside.
    “Christ washed the feet of His disciples. An act of humility and service. Imagine — a Master washing His followers’ feet.”

    John 13:16-17 — Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor a messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.

    I leaned in. “Pete, you said the place was chaotic. They were in survival mode. Of course they’d put themselves first.”

    Ishmael looked at me.
    “Susan, imagine the building is on fire. What’s the first thing you’d grab?”

    “Oishi Badoodle!” I said instantly.

    He smiled.
    “Okay. But imagine Oishi’s in the other room. As you rush to him, you hear a baby crying — Melinda’s son. You can’t save them both.”

    The tears came before I could stop them. I hugged Oishi tight.

    “I know your answer, Susan,” Ishmael said gently. “You’d give up what you love most to save a life.”

    I sniffled. “Why did you have to make it a baby? Couldn’t it be a unicorn? Or Chad?” But deep down, I understood. God made us to help and protect one another — not to think we’re above anyone.

    Closing

    Right then, Yohanes stormed back in, panting and sweaty.
    “After two hours, the customers and I reached an agreement.”

    Pete patted his back. “Good job. You diffused it.”

    That evening, Pete treated us to a park-side meal. Oishi was over the moon.

    Oishi Narrating

    When we got home, Susan went straight to the bedroom and knelt to pray.

    “God, thank You for this beautiful life — for waking up each day safe and sound. Thank You for the kindness we’ve received. I pray for those who live day by day just trying to survive. Help us understand that we’re not above one another, but created to bless each other, inspire, and lift one another up. And God… please don’t ever make me choose between saving Oishi and saving a life. You know I’d do it, but with a heavy heart.”

    Her voice broke. I understood why.

    I know you’d pick the baby, Sus. And that’s okay. I get it. Life is precious. I’m happy, I’m content, and I hope you are too.

    Good night. 🐾

    And then… the snore. Classic Sus.

    Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾

  • 🐾 BARKIMONY: The Emotional Summit of Unlikely Animals

    Narrated by: Susan

    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.

    — Oishi, OG Founder of This Madness

  • The Day It Rained Anyway

    Narrated by Oishi

    It was Friday evening. Susan and I were in the Signal Co. pantry, watching the clock like it owed us money. She was in a rush — we had to get to the mall because she was finally buying new sneakers. Pricey ones. She kept telling herself (mostly out loud), “You only live once, and I’ve been absorbing customer tantrums like a sponge—I deserve this.”

    Fair enough.

    We got home, and she immediately unpacked the shoes like they were the Crown Jewels. She sniffed them — deeply. I don’t blame her. New shoe smell is dangerously satisfying. She said, “I’m wearing them tomorrow. And it better not rain.” Then she hugged them like a teddy bear and went to sleep.

    Saturday Morning.

    She woke up praying out loud:

    “Lord, please. Let it be sunny. These sneakers are white. Pristine. Expensive. Your daughter humbly begs—please don’t let it rain!”

    I couldn’t help but think: Sure, Sus. Let the plants wither and the rivers run dry so you can debut your kicks in peace.

    But just as we were getting dressed… BOOM. Thunder. Lightning. Then the rain came down like a telenovela twist.

    Susan flailed toward the window and cried out, “Whyyy, Lord?! WHYYY?”

    But then she paused. She saw the rainwater spilling into the pots, stray cats and dogs drinking, ducks waddling like it was a parade, and she said nothing for a moment.

    Narrated by Susan

    I sighed.

    “Thank you, Lord. You didn’t answer my prayer—and honestly, I wouldn’t have either. It was petty.”

    I imagined Oishi side-eyeing me: “God split the Red Sea, raised the dead, healed the blind, made the lame walk… and here you are asking Him to protect your sneakers from a drizzle.”

    And he’s right. Looking outside, I saw everything else thriving in the rain. I realized… the shoes can wait. The rain is helping others right now. And we can still go out when it stops. Or not. They’re just shoes. I can wash them. Or save up again.

    (I’m definitely going with Option A though: wait until the rain stops.)

    The rain didn’t stop.

    But it softened to a gentle drizzle, and Oishi and I stayed in, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot cocoa. 🌧️☕

    It wasn’t the day we planned.

    But it was… peaceful.

    The kind of peace that doesn’t need perfect weather.

    Just gratitude. ☔👟💛

    Still Rising 🔥 Still Barking 🐾

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

    Narrated by Oishi:

    Every night, you can hear Susan stomping around like an elephant in front of the television, yelling,
     “I knew it, Oishi Badoodle — it’s the neighbor!”

    Turns out she’s binge-watching Law & Order: SVU again. And now she thinks she’s Olivia Benson — with a notepad, glasses, and enough confidence to act like she’s actually on the precinct payroll.

    One sunny afternoon, Sus and I were walking in the park. I was excited — there was a carnival in the village, and I needed to see other faces besides Susan’s. Then we ran into Timmy, holding Mutang — you know, Maeutang, that weird-looking purple fish. He won second place during Bring Your Pet to Work Day. Second to me, of course.
     I am Sir Oishi Barkcelot. Champion. Shih Tzu. Icon.

    Narrated by Susan:

    One not-so-fine afternoon, Oishi Badoodle and I were walking through the neighborhood when we saw Timmy with his purple fish — Maeutang, I think? We waved hello, then headed to the carnival.

    Oishi and I had a blast. We rode the carousel, took selfies, laughed — life was good.

    But on our way home, Timmy ran after us, crying.
     Mutang was missing.

    Oishi and I gasped in sync.
     Sure, Mutang and I don’t talk, but he’s Oishi’s fish-friend, and that makes him family.

    I hugged Timmy and said, “No one — and I mean no one — takes our babies from us.”
     (Just to be clear, I was referring to Oishi and Mutang.)

    I asked if maybe Mutang just wandered off. Timmy looked confused and said, “He’s a fish.”
     I nodded. “And he’s purple. Anything is possible.”

    Detective Susan V. was officially on the case.

    We checked Timmy’s house. The aquarium was empty. I rushed home to change — blonde wig, glasses — the works. Oishi and I hid behind a plant for surveillance, though he seemed more annoyed by a random dog sniffing his butt than by the crime scene.

    We interrogated the fish market.
     No luck. Just smells.

    Timmy was spiraling, so we regrouped at home. I flipped open the murder board:

    • Fish vendor? (Smells… fishy.)
    • Postman? (Oishi barks at him daily. Suspicious.)
    • That one lady who sells snacks? (Hmmm…)

    Timmy sat on the couch, crying.
    “He’s all I’ve got, Susan. When I play music, he swims toward me like he’s dancing. He gets me. I don’t have many friends, but I had Maeutang.”

    I teared up. “I get it, Tim. I don’t know what I’d do if someone took my Oishi.”

    Then I got serious. Maybe all those Bible studies with Yohanes and Brenda were sinking in.
     I said, “You know what I do when life spirals? I pray. Tell Him everything. He listens.”

    Timmy wiped his eyes.
    “Lord, please help us find Maeutang. Show us where.”

    Right then, a Carnival van passed by the window.

    I scooped up Oishi — but not before I saw him quietly make a call. I swear he was on the phone.

    Oishi:

    Yes, I made a call. I rallied the squad.

    Sashmi the orange chihuahua.
    Bulgogi the blue horse.
    K-9 Unit from the guard post.


    And of course, me — emotionally exhausted but still majestic.

    At the carnival, we spotted a man in a ski mask holding Maeutang. Two other goons were snacking on popcorn and cotton candy like this was a movie premiere.

    Susan didn’t hesitate —
     She launched a throat punch while yelling “HIYAAAAA!”

    The ski mask man dropped Maeutang. Another goon lunged forward — but before he could reach the tank…

    Boyo came out of nowhere, punched the guy mid-air, and muttered,
     “Not on my watch.”

    Then K-9 sank his teeth into a third guy’s butt 

    Timmy grabbed the aquarium, tears streaming. Maeutang, also teary-eyed (don’t ask how), looked right at Timmy. Their love was real.

    Oishi (closing narration):

    We went home. Susan wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing she was.
    To be fair, she did find Maeutang . She did it for me. I love her for that.

    Then I heard it again from the couch —
     “I knew it! It’s always the neighbor!”

    Paw to face.
    Not again, Sus.

    Still rising 🔥 Still barking 🐾
    — A Susan & Oishi Mystery

  • 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.

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

    What do you regret?

    Narrator: Oishi (This time, I volunteered.)

    Five years ago, Susan found me crying under a tree in the rain. Soaked, shivering, abandoned. She ran to me and picked me anyway.
    (If you want the full origin story, go read  “I Got You, Buddy.”)

    A few months later, Boyo moved in next door.
    The first time I saw him, we were playing fetch in the hallway. I noticed him right away. He always smiled. His eyes were gentle. He looked… cuddly. Like Susan, but with better manners.

    But there was something about him that drew me in.
    (Aside from the smell of treats, of course.)

    The Incident.

    One Saturday at 7 a.m., Boyo was blasting “Bed of Roses.”
    Susan was still asleep. Keyword: was.

    She shot up like a banshee, stomped out of bed like an angry elephant, her hair a war zone, her face like a constipated chimpanzee. Still in pajamas. Still half-dreaming of revenge.

    She scooped me up (I protested, silently—I knew what was coming).
    She banged on Boyo’s door.

    He opened it.
    And for a split second, I swear I saw fear in his soul.

    Susan unleashed.
    “Do you know what time it is?! Do you think you’re alone in the world? That we’re all paranormal beings who can’t hear Bon Jovi at full volume?! I just fell asleep—LAST NIGHT!”

    She didn’t even breathe. Her mouth went full machine gun.
    Boyo? Speechless.
    Susan? Exited dramatically before he could say a word.

    Then she ranted for five. straight. hours.
    My ears weren’t hurting from the music. They were hurting from Susan.

    Mall Day, Siopao Drama, and Puppy PTSD

    Later, we went to the mall.
    We roamed. Ate siopao. She put me in one of those baby ride thingies. I felt like a prince. I loved it.

    Until she ditched me at the pet lounge.
    She wanted to watch a movie.
    She didn’t say the title, but judging from the timing, I’m guessing:
    “Food Factory: How Siopao Is Made.”

    Earlier that day, while we were eating, I noticed Boyo watching her mid-bite.
    Mid siopao bite.
    And I swear—I saw his heart leap out of his chest.

    I thought to myself, “Gross.”

    That siopao bite must’ve triggered something, because Boyo suddenly remembered.

    Turns out, they had met before — well, sort of.

    During a neighborhood outing months ago, Boyo had seen Susan and me from a distance, sitting quietly by the beach. We were both staring out at the mountain and sea like it was a private moment with God.

    Susan, in that rare peaceful form of hers, whispered, “Look at this view… what a Creator.”

    Her face looked… angelic.

    Very unlike the siopao-crushing, sarcastic hurricane that just yelled at him in her pajamas.

    Back then, Boyo was quietly eating barbecue alone, watching us — Susan with her awe, me with my glassy deadpan — and thinking, Maybe this world still has soft places.


    Who falls in love with Susan while she’s inhaling carbs?

    Chaos at the Pet Lounge

    Back at the lounge, I was surrounded by untrained puppies.
    Running. Sniffing. Chaos.
    One of them sniffed my butt for the third time and that was it.

    I barked like it was the end of the world.

    Luckily, Boyo was still at the mall. He heard me.
    He came in, checked me out, and left a note at the counter.

    “Hey Siopao Girl,
    Got your dog. He looked restless.
    We’re at my apartment. — B.”

    Bark, Regret, and Bed of Roses (again)

    At his place, we chilled.
    He cooked chicken. We ate. We watched TV.
    Then we heard stomping in the hallway and shouting:

    “BOYOOOO! Where is my badoodle?!
    Give him back to meee!!”

    (She climbed eight floors. The elevator was down. Respect.)

    Boyo opened the door.
    “I’m so—”

    But Susan stopped him mid-apology by pressing a finger to his lips.
    Then launched into a rant that barely related to the situation.

    Boyo calmly gave her a chair.
    Made coffee.
    Listened. Patiently.

    Then she randomly mentioned “regret.”
    And Boyo’s eyes shifted.

    He smiled and asked her, in his usual calm tone:

    “What do you regret?”

    Susan, being Susan, said:

    “I regret buying that choco mocha lipstick. It looks like dried blood.”

    Boyo tried again.

    “Something deeper.”

    She thought. Then said:

    “I regret not buying the last piece of siopao. I should’ve bought it. Now I have to cook.”

    I put my paw on my head.
    Classic Susan.

    She got up, mid-convo, and left to cook.
    She was that comfortable around Boyo… she left me with him.

    The Regrets Boyo Witnessed and the faith he chose instead.

    Once she was gone, Boyo scooped me up.
    Sat me on his lap.
    And spoke softly.

    “I used to be a nurse overseas,” he said.
    “I watched people die with so many regrets.”

    He went quiet for a moment.

    “I wasn’t part of the frontlines. I was the guy waiting in triage. Prepping shots. Changing dressings. I remember November 12, 2015 — the day the relief convoy never came back. We were waiting. The kids were waiting. But all we got was silence… and smoke rising from the ridge.”

    Then continued:

    “They regretted not telling people they loved them.
    Not giving enough time.
    Not living fully.
    Not putting God first.
    Not choosing joy over fear.
    Not choosing people over things.”

    I listened. And for once… I had no sarcastic comment.

    Boyo added:

    “In this lifetime, regret is inevitable — it’s not about avoiding it, but about choosing not to repeat it.”

    “Since then, I promised myself I’d live differently.
    Smile more.
    Be kind.
    Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s Susan.”

    And then, he laughed.

    “I’ll still play Bed of Roses.
    But I’ll be more mindful.
    I’ll live with faith. Not fear.”

    Dinner with the Ones Who Stayed

    Susan came back.
    She brought chicken.
    Boyo brought soup and dessert.

    She ranted about the movie.
    He smiled.
    I napped.

    And for a few hours, there was no fear. No regrets.
    Just us.
    Just joy.
    Just home.

    Writer’s Note (by Ember — Slightly Overcooked, Still Simmering)

    Hi, it’s me — Ember.
    The person behind Susan’s spirals and Oishi’s deadpan commentary.

    This episode? It’s personal.
    Not because I’m a nurse, a doctor, or someone with a front-row seat to life-and-death situations…
    but because I’ve had my share of regret.

    I’ve lost people I loved — and I didn’t always get to show that love the way I wanted to.
    And honestly? I still live like I have all the time in the world.
    Like the clock’s not ticking.
    Like there’s a memo somewhere that says I’ll live to 110.

    But there isn’t.
    And that thought hit me while writing this episode.

    So lately, like Boyo, I’ve been trying to really live.
    To make decisions based on faith, not fear.
    To be kind, even when I’m surrounded by difficult people and exhausting situations — which, to be clear, is very hard and occasionally makes me want to scream into a pillow.

    But I’m trying.

    If you’re reading this, maybe you’re trying too.
    Trying to be softer, braver, more present.
    Trying to say what matters before it’s too late.

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

    Still rising, still barking.

    — Ember & Oishi 🔥🐾