Then came back inside because boredom is exhausting.
When I returned, I heard Susan snoring.
Naturally, I went to check if she was still alive.
She sometimes sleeps like she’s holding a siopao hostage in her mouth. You can never be too careful.
She was fine. Loud, but fine.
As I sat there watching her chest rise and fall, I remembered the first day we met.
It was raining. I had wandered too far and ended up hiding under a tree, soaked and shaking. Then I saw her running toward me — in slow motion, like in the movies. I panicked. Susan is very large when you are small and wet and afraid.
But instead of grabbing me, she opened an umbrella. She dried me. She scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
And she said words I still remember clearly:
“I got you, buddy.”
I didn’t know what buddy meant.
But it sounded safe.
After that, life became loud.
Susan overreacted to everything.
Our kitchen was often covered in flour.
Fish jumped out of pans.
We went on park walks, food trips, Christmas dinners, New Year countdowns, birthdays, and places I couldn’t pronounce but enjoyed anyway.
She laughed. She cried. I stayed.
Today, while she slept, I whispered a prayer.
“God, thank You for giving me this hooman.”
And I made a promise to myself.
I will still protect Sus when we’re old.
We will drink coffee together.
Watch sunsets.
Maybe Boyo will join us.
I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know where I belong.
Somewhere nearby, I felt a calm presence.
I think Jesus was watching us — smiling — like He understood something I didn’t need to.
A burnout comedy about quitting, bills, and God’s very calm “no.”
Oishi narrates, reluctantly.
So my dear readers, I have shocking news.
Susan… has been working hard.
Yes. Hard. Like “new personality unlocked” hard.
She leaves early. Comes home late. She prepares my food like she’s deploying overseas. She kisses my head like she’s going to war. Ma’am, you are going to work. Not Mordor.
For three months, this was our routine:
She drops kibble. She says, “No chicken today, Oishi. It spoils when you leave it on the plate and I’m not home.”
And I’m like… HELLO??? Chicken does not “spoil” on my plate. Chicken does not even survive two minutes on my plate.
But anyway. That’s what she kept saying while she ran around muttering about her “KPI.” I don’t know what that is, but based on how she suffers, it sounds like a disease.
⸻
The part where Susan explains what happened (and blames everyone but herself)
Susan (narrating, rubbing her temples):
Okay. Fine. Yes. I’ve been working hard.
Because last quarter… I missed my KPI. And yes… it was my fault.
I didn’t perform well because I was “preparing for Christmas.”
And when I say preparing, I mean:
binge-watching, eating chips, making holiday plans three months early, and acting like December is a full-time job.
So now, I’m paying for it. My boss, Henson, told me if I don’t pull my performance up, he’ll axe me. And he said it will make him happy because apparently I’m “a melodramatic, overreacting hurricane pain in the—”
Okay. He didn’t say the last word. But his eyes did.
Also, I was working hard because of Oishi.
So I can buy him food and cute bandanas. That smug little shih tzu wants chicken every day like he pays rent.
So I told myself, “Susan, you will not give up. You will act like a good employee.”
Which is why… I did what every responsible employee does.
I tried to bribe my manager.
I bought Henson the juiciest, most glorious four-patty burger with jalapeño cheese melt. Honestly, I could’ve offered siopao, but he’s the type who says “I don’t do carbs” while chewing on stress.
I offered the burger and smiled like an innocent angel.
He stared at it like it was poison.
He refused it.
REFUSED.
Who refuses that burger? It had purpose. It had destiny. It had jalapeño.
Instead, he marched me straight to HR, Horatio T.
Horatio did what Horatio does best: stayed calm, wrote a memo, and told me if I don’t fix my performance and my attitude, I’m out.
So I walked back to my desk confused, offended, and extremely dramatic… and then my heart jumped because…
He was there.
Jesus.
And I was ready.
I told Him everything. Every unfair thing. Every rude customer. Every pressure. Every injustice. I even included the burger tragedy.
Then I said, “Lord… I’m tired. I want to quit.”
Jesus lifted His hand.
I gasped because deep inside, I was thinking:
If He says yes, nobody can stop me. Not my boss. Not HR. Not even the economy.
And then Jesus said:
“Nope.”
⸻
The part where Susan does what Susan does
Oishi (narrating):
After Jesus said “Nope,” you can guess what Susan did.
She quit anyway.
She came home acting like she was a victim of corporate oppression, as if I didn’t witness the last quarter where she said, and I quote:
“Badoodle, it’s holiday month. Christmas is coming. I don’t need to work on those reports.”
Apparently the company did need those reports.
And apparently reports do not magically submit themselves because Christmas lights are blinking.
Anyway.
She barged into HR with conviction.
Imagine Susan storming in like she’s in a courtroom drama, waving her resignation letter like Exhibit A.
Horatio looked at her like a man watching a toddler carry a candle near curtains.
He calmly said we have practical obligations in life and she should think about it.
Susan crossed her arms. Inhaled deeply. Like she was about to deliver a monologue.
Then she exhaled and said, “I QUIT.”
Paw to forehead. Classic Susan.
⸻
The part where Susan enters her “freedom era” (Delulu Phase)
Susan (narrating, glowing with delusion):
After I resigned, I felt relieved.
No more waking up early. No more rude customers. No more reports. No more cases to monitor.
Last week I even saw a white hair. WHITE. HAIR.
That’s when I knew my job was trying to assassinate me.
So I woke up slow. Took a shower. Scooped Oishi. Went to the park. Ate ice cream. Bought Oishi a cute red bandana with paw prints. Small splurge. Just a little.
And I told myself, “I can find a job quickly. I’m a talented woman.”
Also… I swear my white hair turned black again.
⸻
The part where reality enters like a bill collector with no mercy
Oishi (narrating, ears hurting):
Four weeks later, reality slapped Susan with a receipt.
She splurged. Yes. Like she was sponsored by denial.
Our three-week routine was: park, shopping, binge-watch.
She bought me a gallon of dog cologne. She bought Tupperware she didn’t need. She bought running shoes she never used.
She said, “I need new shoes so I can get motivated and finally look like a supermodel.”
Ma’am. Supermodels do not reward a jog with chips and cake.
Then one day, the living room looked like an elementary school classroom. Papers everywhere. Chips on the floor. Cocoa spilled. Susan sobbing.
And she said:
“Oishi… how am I going to pay for all this? I will sell my blood. It’s worth something, right?”
I stared at her.
I blinked slowly.
And I realized she was not joking.
Later that night, I saw her praying. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind.
Susan (praying):
“Jesus… I didn’t listen. I don’t know how I’ll pay for bills, rent… food… I just wanted a break.”
⸻
The angels arrive (one gentle, one tired)
A bright glow appeared, and Angelusito floated in, chubby and kind.
Behind him was Anghelito, who looked like he hasn’t rested since Genesis.
Angelusito: “Susan, He heard you. He asked you to meet Him at the park. At the swing.”
Susan: “At night?? Can He come here?”
Anghelito: “Sure, let’s make the King of Kings travel like a Grab rider. Just go.”
Angelusito: “Susan, you’re healthy and safe. You can walk.”
Anghelito: “Also, you begged to see Him five minutes ago.”
Rude. Accurate.
So we went.
⸻
The swing scene (heartwarming, not cheesy)
The park was quiet. Peaceful. Jesus was sitting on the swing, smiling gently.
I heard a bark. I turned.
Oishi followed us, tongue out, panting like he ran a marathon, but emotionally he was thriving.
I stood there like a five-year-old who broke something and suddenly remembered consequences exist.
Susan:
“Lord… I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I don’t know how to pay the bills. I’m ashamed to ask my mom. I’m ashamed to borrow from friends. I was just tired. I wanted a break.”
Jesus looked at her like a Father who already knows the whole story, and still chose to come.
Jesus: “Why did you quit?”
Susan: “I was tired, Lord. The work piled up. Customers were rude. I snapped.”
Jesus (gentle, but direct):
“The reports piled up because you avoided them. The customers were hard because they needed help. You needed wisdom, not escape.”
Susan’s lip trembled.
Jesus continued, calm and practical:
Jesus: “Tell Me what was good about your job.”
Susan hesitated, and the angels, of course, did not.
It was a rainy Saturday morning and I went to the market alone. I left Oishi at home because he doesn’t like muddy paws (he thinks he’s royal — like Prince of Pawtanamo or something).
Salary was still 15 days away, so Wagyu beef was clearly out of reach. I settled for galunggong (that’s a fish — yes, that’s its real name), plus a few essentials, including Oishi’s food. Not that he’d eat it. According to him, it “smells fishy.” (Which it is. Because it’s fish.)
While walking with my umbrella, I paused to count my change — only to realize the vendor shorted me a peso. And listen, with the way my finances are set up, one peso matters. So I turned back, gathered all my courage, and told the vendor, “Miss, I think your change is short by a peso. I’ll give it to the beggar.”
(Not true. Honestly, that beggar probably has more cash than me today.)
The vendor handed me the peso with a judgmental face. She didn’t believe my excuse. Whatever. I walked off, wind howling, and boom — my umbrella flipped, slid from my hand, and flew off like it was trying to immigrate.
As I chased after it, I spotted a stray dog. Big guy. Soaked and shivering. My heart melted.
He reminded me of Oishi — the day I found him years ago. I still had Oishi’s leash in my bag, so I clipped it on. We walked home together. (He looked too big for public transport anyway.)
At home, I dried him off, gave him food and water, and snuck him into the dog house I had made for Oishi — which Oishi never uses because, apparently, he thinks he owns the house. I didn’t want him to see the new dog just yet. Oishi would absolutely overreact.
So for now, the new doggo had food, water, shelter, and peace. For about 24 hours.
Narrated by Oishi
I have noticed some changes.
My food bowl? Always half full.
My requests for snacks? Denied.
Susan’s excuse? “Drink some water.”
Excuse me?
Either she’s broke again (probably bought another useless siopao maker), or she’s putting me on a diet. Either way, unacceptable.
Also — she’s been acting sus. Always sneaking off to the backyard. Last time, she carried a Tupperware that smelled like my food. I barked. I confronted her.
She denied it. In. My. Face.
This morning, I saw her doing the “spy look.” You know — scanning the room like someone about to commit a crime. She tiptoed to the backyard. She left the door ajar.
So I waited.
I tippawed.
I entered.
And what I saw…
A massive brown dog.
Cuddling MY Susan.
Licking her face.
SHE WAS LAUGHING.
And guess what was in the Tupperware?
My. Food.
I snapped. I barked from the depths of my soul. I charged like a knight from Barkthurian legend. That giant mutt had to go.
And he did. He ran. Victory bark achieved.
Susan again (irritated, obviously)
First of all, the big brown doggo was minding his business. He slept in the dog house. I checked on him daily. Gave him Oishi’s food. (Don’t tell that little shih tzu — he’s overweight anyway. I’ll make it up to him on payday.)
One morning, I thought Oishi was asleep. I tiptoed to the backyard with food and water.
Oishi caught me.
I denied it.
Again.
(Yes, I’m a terrible liar.)
I hurried outside, sat with brown doggo, cuddled him, and even started thinking of names.
And then… I heard war drums.
Oishi came running — full sprint.
He barked like the ghost of his ancestors sent him.
Brown doggo panicked and bolted.
And Oishi? He gave me this smug look like,
“See Sus? I protected you.”
I snapped.
“GET INSIDE! I’ve HAD IT with you!”
Then I blurted it out.
“I found him the same way I found YOU. Soaked. Abandoned. I let you in. I fed you. Don’t forget that!”
And just like that… Oishi started crying.
Oishi (sobbing softly)
She’s right.
I was jealous.
I’m sorry.
I licked her face and whispered, “I’m sorry, Sus.”
She scooped me up, her eyes teary.
“You’ll always be my one and only badoodle. But I had to help him too. We’re just tight on money now.”
I hugged her tighter. And then I jumped down and grabbed my leash.
My way of saying:
“Let’s go find him.”
We searched the park.
The market.
Even the precinct.
No doggo.
Finally, we heard a noise from the other side of the backyard — where the trash cans are. The place where I once cried, thinking Susan abandoned me.
And there he was.
Big. Brown. Puppy-eyed.
Waiting.
Boyo came by to visit and saw the dog. His eyes lit up.
“I always wanted a dog,” he said, petting the mutt. The dog clearly liked him too.
Before anyone could get sentimental, Susan interrupted:
“I know his name. Let’s call him Chocolat — duh, look at his color.”
We laughed.
I felt lighter.
I think I’ll recruit Chocolat to Barkimony Summit.
Oishi Narrating It was a beautiful Sunday — sunny, clear, and breezy — so Sus decided we should go to the park. As usual, she walked while I ran. The air was fresh, the grass smelled alive, and as I sniffed around, I noticed a faint glow in the distance. It wasn’t too bright, but it felt… peaceful. Then I saw Him again — the Man with a hole in His hand.
The first time I saw Him was when Sus and I encountered those ghosties (don’t ask). The second time was in my dream, right before a coconut nearly hit my head. But this time, He was just there — calm, kind, glowing.
I was about to call Sus when, of course, she saw Him first. “Loooord! You’re here!” she shouted dramatically, sprinting toward Him. Before I could even roll my eyes, she had already plopped herself on the swing beside Him.
“Lord,” she said breathlessly, “I saw a beautiful pair of gold stilettos — like the kind angels wear at weddings!”
Jesus smiled gently. “How are you, my child? You seem happy today. I’m glad you’re this joyful.” Then He chuckled. “Ah, stilettos and gold — must be nice… but no, Sus.”
Susan Narrating Sunday morning, I woke up so excited. The weather looked perfect, and Oishi was nibbling at the hem of my pajamas — his usual way of saying ‘feed me, peasant.’
But instead of feeding him, I opened my laptop. I’d been eyeing this pair of gold stilettos for a week now. The kind that makes you feel like you’re walking on a runway. I could already imagine it: one, two, walk, flip hair, slay.
Still, there was this small voice whispering, Don’t buy it. So I prayed — but not exactly to ask for guidance. I prayed to convince God to support my decision. (Don’t judge me. You’ve done it too.)
After my “prayer,” I opened the window, felt the morning breeze, and decided to go to the park. I fed Oishi — he ate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and even burped in front of me. Disrespectful, but adorable.
At the park, everything was calm. The wind, the trees, the sound of children playing. Then Oishi barked and ran toward the playground. I followed… and that’s when I felt it — peace. That quiet, steady kind of peace that feels like a hug.
And there He was. Sitting on the swing. You just know it’s Him. Gentle yet powerful. Approachable but with authority. I ran toward Him, half crying, half giggling. “Loooord! You’re here!”
I sat beside Him, still catching my breath. “Lord, I’ve been eyeing this pair of gold stilettos. They’re so pretty — like shoes angels wear at weddings!”
He smiled, asked how I’d been, how Oishi was, and then said softly, “They’re beautiful, but no, Sus.” And just like that, my heart cracked like a dry biscuit.
Oishi Narrating Again On the way home, Sus kept sobbing. She hugged me like a pillow. “Oishiii… Jesus said no. But I really, really like the shoes.”
When we got home, she opened her laptop again and clicked “Buy Now.” I said, “Sus, Big Guy said no.” She ignored me.
A few hours later, the doorbell rang. She screamed like she’d won the lottery. The package had arrived — she even paid for express shipping.
When she opened the box, her eyes sparkled like a child’s first trip to Disneyland. She lifted the shoes, sniffed them, and started rubbing them like a magic lamp. “They’re so beautiful! I still don’t understand why Jesus said no.”
Later that day, she went to a party with Brenda and Yohanes — wearing those golden heels. The problem? She couldn’t even walk properly. “I can handle it, Oishiii!” she said, wobbling toward the door like a baby deer on stilts.
A few hours later… “Oishiii! I can’t handle it!”
Brenda and Yohanes carried her in like wounded soldiers. Her feet were swollen and red. “I thought I could handle it,” she winced. “Now I understand why Jesus said nope. Oishiii, don’t pour too much alcohol!”
She couldn’t go to work for three days. Kept saying she regretted not listening.
When she finally recovered, we went back to the park that evening. There He was again — sitting on the swing, peaceful as always.
Sus walked over, face full of remorse. “Lord,” she sighed, “I still bought the gold shoes… right after we talked. I thought I could handle it. I didn’t understand why You said no.”
But instead of scolding her (as I totally would have), Jesus smiled and said, “Let’s start over. This time, listen. Keep praying. Discern, okay, Sus?”
Sus nodded like a toddler, then hugged Him tight. He hugged her back. And me? I nibbled at the edge of His robe — just to join the moment. We all laughed.
Still Rising, Still Barking. 🐾🔥
✍️ Writer’s Note
Most of us are like Susan — we keep insisting even when God says no. We rely on our own understanding, thinking we know what’s best. But sometimes, that no is God’s protection — a gentle way of saying, “Not yet, because you are not ready,” or “That’s not for you.”
If she had the “training,” meaning maturity, readiness, or even discernment, maybe the answer could’ve been yes later on. But in that moment, Jesus knew she’d get hurt — literally blistered feet and all.
Let’s learn to trust Him more, even when His answer isn’t what we wanted. Because His no always leads to something better.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV)
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.
Ever wondered what Susan and Oishi might’ve looked like in the 1950s? We took a playful trip back in time to imagine their everyday lives in a simpler, sassier era — when feather dusters were weapons of housewife pride, phones had rotary dials, and televisions had antennas you had to bite (well, if you were Oishi).
Here’s a peek at their retro routine: Susan in full housewife mode doing laundry and cleaning in heels, dolled up at the diner while Oishi steals her burger, and of course, barking at furnitures.
Set in a time of pastel kitchens, vinyl booths, and Saturday cartoons, this vintage-style series celebrates the timeless chaos of fur and friendship — no matter the decade.
Susan, armed with sass and a feather duster. Susan: dolled up. Oishi: full belly. The date? Never showed up. Laundry day blues, 1950s edition When your dog thinks the TV antena is edible Susan’s trying to gossip with the neighbors… meanwhile Oishi is eating the telephone chord like it’s spaghetti. 📞🐶🍝
And that’s your glimpse into the world of Susan & Oishi — 1950s edition.
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
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.
Ember - Fire and Soul 