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.
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
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.
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 Witnessedand 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.
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. 🐾
There was a man standing on the bridge of the Seine River. Even from afar, he stood out — calm, certain, a quiet sort of strength. He wore a long black coat, and when I passed him, I caught a glimpse of his eyes — gray, like a storm that had long passed, but left the sky changed forever. He smiled. It was sincere. And somehow, it stilled the night.
It was drizzling. Paris was dim but alive — the glow of lampposts, the hum of soft saxophone from a nearby café, the sound of heels echoing across wet cobblestones.
“I see you here often,” I said. “Always staring at the river.”
He turned, voice steady and low: “Because it’s peaceful,” he said. “It doesn’t rage or retreat. It flows in one direction — forward. Not clinging to the past. Not stopping to dwell in despair. Just moving. Toward hope. Toward healing. Toward a God who never leaves, even in the rain. Even in the waiting.”
I blinked back tears. He looked tired — not the kind you sleep off, but the kind you live through. Still, he carried hope like a lantern. So I stood beside him. No more words were shared. We just listened — to the rain, to the saxophone, to the people laughing as they passed, and to the river — steady, certain, flowing.
Paris, Present Day — His Voice
I am older now. The bridge has aged, and so have I. But I still come here — to the Seine.
I used to stand here alone. A soldier without war. A man without reason. But somehow, in the middle of my unraveling, I found love. I didn’t come for it. I didn’t expect it. But God is like that — quiet, surprising, faithful.
I remember her — young, bright, full of life. But not when we first met. That night, she found me broken. And instead of walking away, she stood beside me. She just stayed. And in that silence, I began to heal.
I told her why I watched the river. How life had hurt me. How I no longer believed in rising. And somehow, she made me believe again.
Now I come here not for solace — but gratitude.
The Seine still flows — forward, steady, full of grace. And though she’s gone now, I know where it leads.
Because the river moves in one direction. And so do I — toward the day I’ll see her again.
It was an ordinary day — or at least it started that way.
Susan and I were still curled up in bed at 10 a.m. And before you ask: no, she wasn’t sick, heartbroken, or on strike. She was just… relaxed.
Why? Because there was a typhoon. A mild one. Flooded roads, car unreachable, and in her words:
“If no storm passes through the Philippines, the Pacific Ocean might just run dry.” (I don’t even know what that means, but I’ve stopped questioning her logic.)
She got up, made hot cocoa, poured milk into my bowl like I was royalty, and said — while looking out the window:
“Look outside, Badoodle… even the kids are having a great time.”
And yes — I saw it too. Kids with paper boats, the rain falling gently, radio murmuring updates about Typhoon Pepe. It was… cozy. For now.
I observed the humans doing their thing:
Some were still going to the market.
Some stocked up on candles, flashlights, and food.
And Susan? She was already prepared. Girl never runs out of snacks. I respect that.
After lunch, we were watching our favorite show, The Detective Agency, when suddenly the screen cut:
BREAKING NEWS: “Typhoon Pepe has intensified. Signal No. 4. Floodwaters reaching rooftops. Evacuation in progress.”
I froze. There were people — entire families — sitting on rooftops, holding onto pets, waiting for rescue boats. The only things bending harder than the coconut trees were my emotions. I watched as fellow barkmates were being carried, soaked, shaking. I turned to Susan… but she was gone.
I heard rustling in the closet. Then she popped out with a trash bag.
“Oishi Badoodle! We need to donate clothes — the ones we’re not using anymore!”
I believed her. Until…she held up her favorite dress — the one she hadn’t worn since pre-pandemic (pre-pandemic 1).
“But what if there’s a special event in the future?” she pleaded. “I look cute in this one!”
Ma’am, that dress wouldn’t fit over your arm. Let it go.
She saw my expression. I think she interpreted my look and she bent down and said “Why are you looking at me like that? What if I take your bandana, huh?”
No. Not the bandana. Don’t take my identity, Susan. NOOO.
Then suddenly — because even heaven couldn’t ignore this mess Jesus appeared behind her and said gently:
“Susan… please. For Me.”
And just like that, she started packing every last piece of clothing she hadn’t worn since 2005.
And me? I heroically snuck her ancient undies into the trash bag. You’re welcome, world.
But in all seriousness: I love Susan. Her heart’s in the right place. Even when her logic is… flooded.
✍️ Writer’s Note
I live in a country where storms and floods are part of the rhythm of life. This story might feel exaggerated — but honestly? It’s not. (Okay… maybe the undie part. Maybe.)
I’ve been lucky. I live in the city, where the water usually rises just enough to cancel errands but not lives. But once, I had to evacuate. My dog and I were soaked, cold, and displaced. That night? I understood. The fear. The discomfort. The fragile prayer of “Lord, please…”
Not everyone will experience that. But maybe, through stories — funny, honest, odd stories — we can feel just a little closer. And maybe we’ll be moved to do something too.
This isn’t meant to mock or minimize the pain others have gone through. Filipinos are resilient — but we’re not numb. And in those moments of crisis, I saw how we stood together: Neighbors giving. Strangers donating. Some volunteering in drenched clothes and tired hearts. We helped because it’s who we are.
And I know you’re probably like that too. Whether you’re Filipino or not, I’ve seen how people from all over the world show up — for their neighbors, for strangers, for anyone in need.
Sometimes it’s food. Sometimes it’s clothes. Sometimes it’s just sitting beside someone who’s soaking wet — with hope.
Because at the end of the day, no matter where we’re from…
We’re all hooman. 🐾
This story — with its messy closets and flying slippers — simply shows that even in chaos, we still find laughter, compassion, and the will to do good.
Because here in the Philippines, we say: “Bagyo ka lang, Pinoy kami!” You’re just a storm. We are Filipino.
Narrator: Oishi (Seriously, I’m tired. I’m a dog. But here we are.)
It was Saturday night. Susan and I were chillin’ — karaoke, snacks, general chaos. Then came the knock. Brenda stood there… holding a Bible.
Susan blinked. “You must be lost. This is our house, not a church.”
Brenda walked in anyway.
She said she had to leave town urgently and needed someone to substitute as Sunday School teacher. She wanted Susan to cover for her.
I almost choked. Poor children. Susan doesn’t even read the Bible. One time, she thought Leviticus was Pete’s replacement.
Susan nearly dropped her siopao and began melodramatically stomping around, reciting a full roll call of coworkers who’d be better choices.
Brenda, unfazed, said, “You’re literally the last person I asked.”
Susan (rude) mentally noted that, but kept listening. Everyone else was out of town. And Brenda knew Susan was just going to drag me to the park and inhale siopao and milk tea.
With full drama, Susan stared at the ceiling. “I’ll do it… for the Lord. I’ll do it… for you. I’ll do it… for Oishi. I’ll do it for the economy.”
Brenda hugged her and handed over the topic: The Story of Creation.
Susan scooped me up, stared deeply into my soul (her face looked unusually close), and whispered:
“Badoodle. Prepare yourself. We are entering uncharted territory. We are built for this. Yeah. We are built for this.”
She took a swig of hot matcha, held a siopao in her other hand, sat down, and Googled:
“Tell me how the world is created, if possible step-by-step because I need to teach little humans.”
Somehow, she found it.
Genesis 1: In the beginning God created the sky and the earth…
She read all the way to Genesis 30.
Then she looked at me — half in awe, half in shock. “Oishi… God made everything out of nothing. He made dirt… beautiful. He made life. He made you. He made me.” (She said that while hugging me like I was a stuffed animal she forgot to give back.)
She kept reading:
“Look, I have given you all the plants that have grain for seeds…”
And she paused.
“He didn’t just create, Oishi… He provided.”
Sunday morning: Susan woke up early. Ironed a white dress. I didn’t even know she owned one. She had her hair down. That was new.
She scooped me up, tied on my red bandana, and said, “Oishi, we are going to church. Behave.”
(I wanted to say you should be the one hearing that — but I let it slide.)
The church was warm and bright. People were smiling. The piano music made everything feel… soft. Sacred.
Then I looked over and saw Susan… yawning. Classic.
After the mass, we headed to the kids’ classroom.
And Susan began to teach.
✍️ Writer’s Note Sometimes we get so caught up in work, media, and scrolling that we forget to look around. To notice the sky. The trees. The siopao we didn’t deserve. God didn’t just make us — He provides for us.
Let’s not forget how wildly good our Creator is.
From the hearts of Susan & Oishi — 🐾 Still rising. Still barking.
Susan’s not home. My tummy’s rumbling. I’m lying belly-up on the cold floor, tongue out, eyes glazed like a sad donut.
To distract myself from my slow starvation, I watched my fellow barkmates outside. And then—slam.
Car door.
Heavy footsteps. Dramatic entrance.
Susan flung the door shut behind her and did the thing—pressed her back against it and slowly slid down like a soap opera star whose whole life just aired on primetime.
I thought, “Not this again, Sus. What did you do?”
But I love her.
So, I walked over and licked her tears. It was salty. I immediately regretted it. But I stayed. Sat beside her. From time to time, I rested my face on her lap—just so she knows: I’m here. I love her. And also, I still haven’t eaten.
Narrator: Susan vs. The HR Department
It was Monday.
The office was busy—or at least everyone was pretending to be.
I naturally ignored the chaos and bee-lined to my besties, Yohanes and Brenda. Gossip time. Yohanes was mid-scandal-reporting like he was hosting a weather disaster special:
Then it happened.
“SUSAAAAAN! Where is Susan? Someone bring me Susan!”
Plot twist: Horacio, my manager (thin guy, brown hair, 90’s suit, glasses that scream I haven’t slept since 1998), was looking for me.
I nearly dropped the donut I was holding.
With the huskiest voice I could muster, I said, “I’m here. To what do I owe the pleasure of your royal summons?”
I was trying to joke away my panic. But then he pulled out an email I wrote to a very difficult customer.
He waved the email like it was Exhibit A. In front of the entire office.
Subject: Re: Your Eternal Confusion
Dear Customer,
Hi. 👋 I’m not sure why the basic concept of “no payment = no service” is harder to understand than my dating life, but here we are.
To clarify, once again, for the people in the emotional back row:
💳 + 💰 = 🎉 Service No 💳 + 🥱 = 🚫 Service
Hope this helps (but deeply suspect it won’t). Please refrain from calling us again unless you’ve paid, grown as a person, or both.
P.S. Get a hobby. Or a succulent. Something low maintenance—unlike this conversation.
Goodbye. Susan V.“I Haven’t Had My Coffee Yet” Customer Service (Reluctantly)
The SIGNAL Co. – “We test your patience, so you don’t have to.”
The silence was deafening. Horacio crumpled the email and stormed off like a rejected telenovela villain.
Oishi (a concerned but emotionally repressed Shih Tzu): Fortunately, Horacio calmed down and gave Susan another chance—on one condition: behave
.
I was relieved. Because how will we eat if she loses her job? Who’s going to pay rent? We’ll be out there with my barkmates, living in snackless sorrow.
Life Lesson (from Susan, surprisingly):
I know what you’re thinking: “Oishi’s the only philosopher in the room.” But hear me out.
Some customers are difficult. And sometimes you do want to scream. But there’s no excuse for the way I responded. Even if the customer was unreasonable, even if Horacio made a show out of it, I should’ve taken a breath before writing.
We both apologized. We laughed it off.
But I wall-slammed at home because… I panicked. What if I lost my job? Where would I get rent? Would I have to give up Oishi? (Just typing that makes me want to eat six donuts and cry.)
I was walling not just from shame… but from fear. Fear of losing the one soul who never judged me—just licked my tears and waited for dinner.
Moral of the Episode:
Some people are annoying. Some people are surprisingly good. Both will test your Wireless Fidelity and your patience.
So be kind—always. Be wise—especially. And whatever you do…
Feed your dog.
PS from Oishi: “After Susan’s full-on telenovela performance 🎭, we curled up in bed 🛏️ and slept like emotionally exhausted champions 🐶💤. Good night and sweet dreams 🌙✨.”
Alpha, Bravo, Zulu, Ketchup, Tomato — do you copy?!
The wind howls. Sand whips around like it’s mad at someone. I blink awake (apparently I passed out) and find myself in a helicopter, strapped to a brooding, muscle-bound hooman who looks like Spartacus. (Listen, I’m a dog, not blind. The man has arms carved by destiny.)
The pilot’s voice crackles: “You are clear to jump.” Jump?! From what? Why?! Where even are we?!
Beside me is a woman with glasses, wearing a laptop like it’s tactical gear. She looks ready to leap. I, on the other paw, am internally crying and possibly externally peeing. But thank the heavens I’m in diapers.
We reach the edge. Broody McMuscles gives me goggles. I whisper, “You got this, Oishi. You’re on a mission.”
But I’m not. I don’t know the mission. I am a Shih Tzu. I do not jump. I nap. I lick Susan’s forehead during meltdowns. I eat chimken.
So I panic. And I pray: “Suuuuusaaaaan! Where are you?!” I call out to the Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light: Your Little PhilosoFurr is in deep doodoo!
The Landing
The chopper hits the ground. My legs are jelly. They take off my goggles.
I expect chaos. Instead, I see her — a beautiful woman in uniform walking toward me like she’s on the cover of a holy calendar. She smiles, pats my head, and I blush like a puppy in love. I gently lick her hand and touch her crucifix.
She smells like stability. Unlike Susan.
But still… where is Susan?
The Briefing
Briefing room. Hooman’s been talking for 27 minutes. No one asked for this. I see an opening. Slide over to the computer. Type one name: Susan. She understands me. She has snacks. She doesn’t say “circle back.”
The Combat: “Firewall & Furballs”
And then — BOOM.
Explosions. Gunfire. Yelling. The woman with the laptop is typing like a demon while dodging bullets. The muscley hooman is flipping bad guys like pancakes. I, meanwhile, am sprinting around like a squeaky toy possessed.
I have no idea what’s going on. But I’m in it now. I bark. I run. I don’t fetch — I philosophize under pressure.
Eventually, we all race back to the helicopter. There’s smoke, shouting, maybe a slow-motion shot of me flying through the air like a furry meatball.
The Aftermath:
We make it.
And finally, I learn their names:
The radiant woman I licked? Sera Wilde. A fitting name for a goddess in camo.
The smoldering weapons expert? Rhys Halden.
The laptop warrior queen? Nova. Unshaken. Unbothered. Unmatched.
Rhys pats my head. “You did good today, buddy.”
Darn right I did. I’m also 80% fear pee and 20% dignity right now. And… I miss Susan.
The Awakening
And then — I hear her.
“Just when I thought I was over you…” It’s Susan. Singing Air Supply with the same goat-on-a-sunset-hill voice she used at karaoke with Yohanes and Brenda.
I have never felt more seen. It’s her. My melodramatic, emotionally unstable hooman. My Susan.
Final Thought from the PhilosoFurr
It was a nightmare. (Except for Sera. Sera was a dream.)
But I’m back. Susan won’t stop singing, but I don’t care. I am safe. I am loved. And I love my one and only… Sus.
Narrator: Susan, the Emotionally Unsupervised Hooman Friday night: the people’s champion. Universally voted the second-best day after Saturday. After a long week of Zoom meetings, adulting, and Pete’s never-ending monologue about accounting taxes (ugh), it was finally here.
Narrator: Oishi (yes, I’m a dog—keep up) Susan came bursting through the door like a caffeinated hurricane, slamming the car shut and storming into the house. I was mid-nap, belly-up, living my best Shih Tzu life, when suddenly—scoop!
She squealed, “OISHI! We’re going Karaokeeeee with Yohanes and Brenda! They booked a bar!” Then she tied my red bandana like I was going to prom. I licked her face out of sheer survival instinct. She tasted salty, but emotionally enthused. I tolerated it.
We arrived. It was a tiny room with a screen, two mics, and the heavy scent of regret. Susan grabbed the remote and went full maniac mode. The second the intro played, she clutched the mic like she was accepting a Grammy. Yohanes and Brenda screamed “GO SUS!” like she was Beyoncé’s backup singer.
Then it started. 🎵 “I cried a tear, you wiped it dry…” 🎵 Yes. Anne Murray’s You Needed Me. The drama. The vibrato. The unblinking eye contact.
I was concerned. But that concern escalated when Yohanes and Brenda started singing APT by Rose and Bruno Mars. Not just singing—dancing. If I were a human, I would’ve put my hand on my forehead and softly muttered, “No.”
But… it wasn’t all bad.
There was food. Savory. Glorious. Human-grade food. While they performed their emotional talent show, I worked the snack table like a professional. I’m not proud. I am full.
We went home. We ate more. Then I passed out.
Oishi, out. 🎤🐾
No deep reflections from your Little Philisophurr today. Why? Because Susan said this one’s just a regular Friday. Not everything has to be profound. Sometimes, we just vibe.
My hooman Sus officially filed for “mental health leave” to prepare for my birthday. (Don’t tell her I ratted her out, but let’s be real — I am the mental health issue. You’re welcome.)
We hit the supermarket first. And by “hit,” I mean I was chilling in the cart like royalty, surrounded by groceries — fruits, cereals, milk, and most importantly, chimken. It felt like I was floating through heaven with the Mighty Paw and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light blessing my snout. Divine.
Back home, Sus started cooking like she was hosting the Barklorette finale. Chimken. Porky. Beef steak tenderloin. Mashed potatoes. I was drooling so hard my tail created its own wind pattern. And the cake? I wanted to dive in face-first. This smart, handsome, totally humble pup was ready for a FEAST.
And then… doom arrived.
The doorbell rang. My heartbeat spiked. I was sweating. Shaking. Existential dread. Sus opened the door and there they were — strangers. Loud ones. Touchy ones. Hoomans. Everywhere.
My brain tried to calm me down: “Oishi, they don’t bite.” My inner savage replied: “Yeah, but I do.”
Guests started eating. I was silently beefing with Steve, who wouldn’t stop taking my chimken. Bro, eat a banana and leave me the meat of heaven! Brenda? Oh, Brenda kept rubbing my ear and giving me belly rubs. I hated it. Then… I didn’t. It tickled. It was weirdly pleasant. (This is a safe space, right?)
And then came the singing.
Everyone gathered around me like I was some kind of plush deity. As a stoic pup, this level of attention is not my thing. So naturally, I coped the only way I knew how:
“In the name of Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot the Eternal, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light… Disappear, party hoomans — except my loving unstable hooman. WOOOSH!”
Yeah, I imagined that. I regret nothing.
But despite the commotion, I had the best barkday. My Super Sus went above and beyond. And that means something — even to a licensed Pawtherapist.
Oishi’s Barkday Wisdom (you knew this was coming):
Loosen up, hooman. If you stay stiff and serious, you’ll miss the fun. I hated the party. Then I belly-laughed during the belly rub. Coincidence? Nope.
Appreciate the real MVPs. I was so busy side-eyeing guests, I almost forgot the mountain of love Sus put into this day. She faked a mental health breakdown. For me.
Be present. Don’t be like Yohanes glued to his phone. Or Pete from accounting organizing receipts and trauma-dumping tax advice on Sus. Be like Brenda. She lived in the moment. Ate well. Rubbed bellies. A queen.
“By the end of the night, it was just me and Sus again.
She was watching a crime doc, breathing like she’s on the case herself.
I wanted to say, ‘Sus… breathe. You’re not on payroll.’
But hey—she threw me a memorable barkday.
So I curled up beside her, accepted the weird show,
and whispered in my mind:
‘It’s the neighbor. It’s always the neighbor.’”
So here’s my official prayer for you:
Dear Mighty Paw, bless this hooman with a softer heart, looser spine, and better pawmate appreciation. No to defeatism. Yes to optimism.
“Just when I thought I was over you…”
“In the name of Mighty Paw, Sir Barkelot the Eternal, and the Pawtriarch Angels of Barking Light… Disappear, party hoomans — except my loving unstable hooman. WOOOSH!”
Oishi’s Barkday Wisdom (you knew this was coming):
Ember - Fire and Soul 