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.
Narrated by: Oishi (because no one else wanted to narrate something this heavy… and Susan’s a wreck before 5 PM anyway.)
It was Friday. 4:00 PM. That weird twilight zone in the office where everyone pretends to work but mostly just stares at their monitors, calculating escape.
Susan, of course, announced loudly while holding a siopao in one hand and milk tea in the other:
“When that clock hits 5:00, my voluptuous butt is outta here.” (As if she hadn’t devoured half a dozen siomai during lunch.)
Meanwhile, the usual suspects were passing time in their own way:
· Brenda, Yohannes, Jasper, and Horatio T. were exchanging insults in a love language only extroverts understand.
· Dinah and Jezzie Bell were packing up with military precision, so they could vanish the moment the clock beeped.
· The pantry was full — not just with people, but with food, gossip, and unspoken exhaustion.
And then there was Philip Vaughn. Sitting quietly at the far corner table. Black coffee in hand. Eyes distant — but never disconnected.
Horatio wandered over, casual and curious. “You’re a war vet, right? What were you? Infantry? Air Force? Bazooka guy? Tank dude? Can you shoot a target from, like… 20,000 miles away?”
Philip gave a gentle smile and shook his head.
“No, Horatio. No one can hit a target from 20,000 miles. That’s… halfway around the world.”
Then he paused. His gaze shifted — from polite to pained.
“I never flew a plane. But I’ve seen families flee their homes in panic. I never carried a bazooka. But I’ve seen bodies — scattered, torn, innocent. I can’t hit a distant target. But I’ve seen people so crushed by suffering… that light itself felt unreachable.”
We all grew quiet. Even Susan, mid-bite, slowed down. Until…
“Well,” she blurted, “that’s ‘cause the gal ate the apple and the dude went along with it.”
She said it like it explained everything. And in her head, it probably did.
To be fair, I think Susan thought Philip was asking why there’s evil in the world—why suffering exists. And since she just finished a Bible study that touched on Genesis, this was her chance to shine. So she went straight to the source: Eve, Adam, and that infamous fruit.
She even glanced at Brenda like, “See? I listened.”
Just to clarify, dear readers: “The gal and the dude” = Eve and Adam.
I don’t fully understand why it had to be an apple — personally, I’d sin for a dumpling — but what would I know? I’m just a fluffy Shih Tzu with theological insights and trust issues.
Thursday night, 10:00 PM — Philip’s apartment.
He couldn’t sleep. The memories were looping: Suffering. Hunger. People doing evil to survive. Others doing evil for no reason at all. No remorse. No hesitation. Just destruction.
He whispered to the ceiling:
“Why is there evil in the world? Don’t You care about the innocent who suffer?”
And then… He remembered what Ishmael the janitor once told him.
“God gave us free will, Philip,” Ishmael had said.
And then… he remembered a conversation years ago, just outside camp. Ishmael wasn’t a soldier — not anymore — but the man carried a quiet kind of command.
“The ability to choose good… or evil. Love isn’t love if it’s forced. And with freedom comes risk. Real risk.”
“Like cars,” he continued. “They’re made for transport. Good purpose. But if the driver’s drunk… the same machine becomes a weapon.” “God didn’t create evil. But He created choice. And that choice is what allows evil to exist — and grace to overcome it.”
Philip had asked, “But what about the innocent? What about those who suffer because of other people’s choices?”
Ishmael’s eyes were kind but tired.
“That one… I don’t have a full answer for. But the Bible doesn’t hide suffering. It just promises this: ‘Even though I walk through the darkest valley, You are with me.’ Not avoiding pain. But walking with us through it.”
“Keep asking Him,” he added. “Keep giving compassion. Keep pointing people back to the Shepherd. And when you don’t understand… stay with Him anyway.”
Back to the office. Back to the pantry. Back to siopao.
Philip ended his story. No music. No applause. Just silence.
All of us — even your stoic narrator — were in tears. Except Jezzie B. and Dinah, who muttered:
“Well, nobody asked you to serve anyway.”
Horatio turned red with rage. But Philip? He just smiled and patted him on the back.
“It’s okay. No one asked me. It was my calling. And if I could do it all again… I’d still choose to serve.”
Jezzie and Dinah left the room — humiliated, uncomfortable, and I suspect, a little convicted.
[Narration: Oishi | Present Day]
Susan left me with Philip because she went to the cinema to watch Inside Out with her BFFs, Brenda and Yohanes. Apparently, she can relate to “the anxiety character.” Don’t worry—I’ll spare you the full emotional recital she made when she got home and hugged me while weeping about how seen she felt. But that’s a story for another day… or never.
I was chewing on my squeaky lion toy when I saw Philip walk toward me. He was smiling—but his eyes were heavy. The kind of heavy that didn’t come from lack of sleep. It was history. It was weight.
He scooped me up, kissed my face, hugged me like I was the last safe thing in the world. I let him. When Philip hugs you, you don’t ask questions—you just hold the moment. He took me to the backyard. It was night. Quiet. Stars out. But something in his breath told me that the peace outside didn’t match the storm inside.
Then he said it: “Oishi, I have something to tell you that’s been weighing on me. You may not talk, but I know you’ll listen.”
His face dropped. From soft to steel. He started.
“November 12, 2015. I’ll never forget that day, even if I want to. It haunts me.”
“We were in a classified debrief. I was a Corporal. The man giving the briefing? Colonel Ishmael Shulman—yes, that Ishmael. The same one you see mopping the hallway at The Signal Co. You’ve met him.”
(Oishi – Yep. He’s the only one in that office who actually uses his brain. Apart from you, of course.)
“I don’t trust easy. I keep to myself. It’s not coldness—it’s control. I care about my team, I’d give my life for them. But connection? That’s a luxury I rarely allow myself. Until Private Joseph Morgan.
“He was different. Focused. Disciplined. Fearless, but not reckless. Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s what you do despite it. And Joseph did the hard things, always.”
“And when our pride got too loud, Joseph had a way of cutting through it—soft, but sharp.” “It’s not about being right. It’s about being kind… and knowing when to shut up.”
“I’ll never forget the day I disobeyed orders. I was told to wait, but I moved in too early. My pride said, ‘You’re the senior here.’ My gut said, ‘Go.’ It was a trap. I would’ve died… but Joseph followed me. Took down the enemy. Saved me. Looked at me with that smug grin and said, ‘You okay there, Corporal?’ with a wink. That wink saved my life.”
Philip’s voice broke. Then steadied.
“After the debrief, we got into the helo. The view over Elar-Shur was stunning—mountains, light, rooftops stacked like prayers. We were supposed to drop relief goods. Vaccines.”
“Then the first explosion hit.”
“From afar, the city burned. Screams from a distance. Our Sergeant Mekena Abimbola, Combat Medic whispered, ‘Praise the Lord, who is my rock. He trains my hands for war and gives my fingers skill for battle.’ (Psalm 144:1). Another boom. Our tail got hit. The pilot shouted, ‘Brace for impact. We’re going down.’”
“We crashed. The city was chaos. Smoke, gunfire, insurgents in black like death made manifest. We were surrounded. This was no relief mission. This was war.”
“We fired back. The medic was already on her knees trying to resuscitate someone. The pilot – Commander Sera Wilde—turns out she’s also trained to fly an F-16—was crawling toward the jet nearby, trying to flip the tide.”
“We were pinned. Joseph told me to hide, use the scope, wait. But I was reckless again. I saw an opening, took it. Didn’t see the sniper. Joseph did. He screamed my name, ran to cover me. Took the bullet meant for me.”
“The medic ran to him. Did everything. But he was already gone.”
“The pilot made it to the jet. Took out the enemy. But the damage had already been done.”
“I didn’t just lose a comrade. I lost a brother. Because of me.”
“I spiraled. I drank. I disappeared. Until someone told me there’s still redemption for people like us. That the Shepherd still walks through battlefields — even in the darkest ones.”
“So I got up. Found The Signal Co. And every time I hear Susan scream at the photocopier, or see Macchismo take a toilet selfie, or Yohanes being extra, or Brenda correcting everyone with her straight face—I breathe a little better.”
“That’s how I heal. One quiet laugh at a time.”
He patted me again. And I didn’t move. Because in that moment, I wasn’t just his emotional support dog. I was his chaplain. His witness. His silent Amen.
📜 Writer’s Note:
This is a work of creative reflection.
I haven’t seen war up close. But I’ve felt broken. I’ve gone to bed hungry—not always for food. I’ve been shut out, pushed down, overlooked.
I’ve seen people break, and I’ve felt the sting of things that weren’t my fault. I’ve suffered because of others’ choices. And I’ve hurt others because of mine.
I don’t have big answers. Maybe no one does. But I think it matters that we ask. That we say it out loud—whatever “it” is. That we make room for the hard questions, even the ones we whisper in the dark.
And if you’ve ever asked, “God, where are You in all this?” Same.
But I think He’s still here. I think He stays, even when everything else falls apart. And maybe that’s not everything. But maybe it’s enough to keep going.
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.
Golden skies. Green grass. Clean air. Me, a sheep (I think), and a man in white robes with a long stick that curves at the end are walking down a peaceful path. The sheep, as much as I hate to admit it, is cuter than me. But we don’t talk about that. I’d rather focus on the man.
There’s something about Him—He’s calm, steady, unlike Susan. Walking with her is like being in a pinball machine. She talks too much, walks in zigzags, and somehow always needs to pick me up mid-walk to rant about random injustices. Like that one time she scooped me just to yell about the policeman who gave her a parking ticket. (For the record, I told her not to make that illegal U-turn. Did she listen? No. She said, “Oh don’t you worry, Badoodle, it’s lunchtime. No cops around.” Guess what? Cops eat in shifts. Classic Susan.)
Anyway, I love her. I wonder where she is now. I’d love to introduce her to this man.
As we walk, He asks, “Oishi, do you miss your human companion? Is she good to you? Do you take care of each other? Does she comfort you when you’re sad—and does she let you do the same for her?”
It takes me a moment to respond. Not because I don’t know the answers, but because… how does He know my name?
His voice is low and steady. You just believe Him when He speaks.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re made for each other. She’s dramatic. I’m a stoic philosofurr. She loves me like a little hooman. I listen to her rants. And not all of them are nonsense, you know. Sometimes she’s really hurting. Loud outside, but you can see her heart’s aching.”
He smiles. “I know. I’ve never left her side—or yours.” He laughs, softly. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s praying or auditioning for a drama series.”
“I prefer sincere prayers, Oishi.”
Susan Narrating:
It was Saturday—our usual kind of day. We woke up. I gave Oishi a bath, even though he clearly resents water and me when I do it. But come on, he sleeps beside me. You think I’m letting him go two weeks unbathed?
After his traumatic bath, we hit the market. I got his favorite—chicken. Then back in the car, music playing, he’s smiling at me like he knows I’d take a bullet for him. I thought, “He’s my companion. I love him. I don’t know what I’ll do when he leaves.”
Then: “WANG WANG WANG!”
I thought, “Is that an ambulance? The road is clear, just go!” But nope. Cop. And yeah… I may have made a slight illegal U-turn.
I offered him a few bucks to make it go away. He smiled and said, “Step out of the vehicle.” Notebook out. Suddenly, we’re in a police station.
Honestly, maybe he’s just hot and wanted an excuse to talk to me.
Oishi Narrating:
Turns out we weren’t at the station because of the U-turn. The market vendor who hates Susan said she stole something.
Susan was stunned. Then, in classic fashion, became theatrical.
“Steal? From you?! HOW? With what bag? Where would I hide a WATERMELON?! Show me the watermelon!”
The vendor was angrier. She grabbed a coconut. Yes—a literal coconut. And THREW IT.
Susan ducked. Another flew.
Now listen. I know I’m just a shih tzu. But nobody—nobody—messes with my Susan.
I took off my red bandana. Tied it around my head.
Battle mode.
I ran. I barked. I launched myself like a four-legged blackbelt (or red, whatever).
And then—
Everything went black.
Hospital Scene
I woke up standing beside the Man again. Mighty Paw was with Him.
“Hey Mighty Paw,” I said. “Didn’t see you there. Everything alright?”
His eyes were teary. That’s when I looked around.
And I saw Susan.
“Sus! Did you see that? I karate-chopped that woman!”
But she didn’t hear me. She wasn’t looking.
She was crying.
I looked up at the Man. “Why is she crying? We won, right? I bit that watermelon lady!”
He extended His hand. There was a hole.
And then I remembered. This was Jesus. The one I always call when Susan’s having one of her epic breakdowns.
“I remember You,” I whispered. “You always look after us.”
“Then you know,” Mighty Paw said gently, “why we’re here.”
I looked.
On the table—it was me.
All I could think was: Who will hug Susan when she gets home? Who will lick her tears? Bring her slippers? Who will comfort her when she’s exhausted from work—and from life?
“Jesus… please… do something.”
Susan (quietly praying):
“It was my fault. If I’d just walked away… If I’d just kept my mouth shut… he’d be fine. God, I know You’re listening. Please. Let him stay.”
Then I heard it.
A bark.
Soft. Familiar.
I looked—and there he was.
Tears in his eyes. Mine too. I kissed his forehead.
“Thank You, Lord… thank You for giving us another chance.”
Oishi:
I barked. She heard me. Her kiss felt like warmth.
We went home.
She patched my wound (stupid coconut), tucked me in bed. On the phone, I heard her talking to Brenda.
“Hey Brenda… what does it mean to ‘turn the other cheek’? And, uh, do I really have to?”
Brenda, being a pastor’s daughter, gave her a whole sermon. Told her to attend Mass regularly—not just when she feels like it.
📝 Writer’s Note:
I’ve seen a lot of fights like this—on the road, at the market, even in quiet neighborhoods. No dogs were harmed… but a lot of pride was.
It made me think: our anger often explodes over the smallest things. A wrong word. A cut in line. A petty misunderstanding.
I’m not writing this as someone who’s mastered patience—I’ve failed too.
Once, I lost my temper with a customer. They insulted me, and I snapped. I nearly lost my job. My manager told me, “Even if you were right, the way you acted was wrong.” I felt ashamed. I never got the chance to apologize — and I still think about it. That moment taught me something.
I understand why people react when they’re hurt, insulted, or wrongfully accused.
Anger is real.
Hurt is real.
But so is grace.
That’s what this story is about—not courtroom justice or letting evil win. This isn’t about big, criminal things. It’s about everyday wounds. Emotional scrapes we get just from trying to live around other humans.
“Turn the other cheek” doesn’t mean becoming a doormat. It means pausing before your pride takes over. It means choosing not to let someone else’s cruelty write your next chapter.
This is for the personal moments—the ones where ego wants to shout, but wisdom whispers, breathe. You might still feel angry when you walk away today, but you’ll be lighter tomorrow. You’ll be proud of who you were when no one was watching.
Let’s not carry regret over something we could’ve simply walked away from.
Wishing you peace—in your heart, your mind, and your everyday moments,
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.
On a peaceful Saturday night, Sus had the day off, and I heard humming from her room. Naturally, I sprinted over thinking she was in distress — but no, she was just dreaming.
She scooped me up like a plush toy and whispered, “You know what, Badoodle, I had the most beautiful dream.” Her eyes glazed over like cartoon hearts as she continued: “In my dream I was a sexy goddess — red lipstick, long black hair, sleeveless top, no flabby arm flaps in sight. And Macchismo was looking at me like I was one hot mama.” She sipped her coffee and dramatically flipped her hair.
Fast forward to that same afternoon — we went to the mall to buy gym clothes. And then, right there and then, she enrolled herself at the gym like she was joining a beauty pageant in 7 days.
The gym instructor was visibly distressed. Susan wanted to lose 50 kilos in one week. The manager even offered her a refund if she promised never to return. But no, Susan was fired up — after all, this was about Macchismo.
She hit the treadmill like a woman possessed. Then tried yoga. Then karate. All in one go. Imagine a curvy woman doing downward dog while simultaneously throwing karate chops. I, too, was spiritually injured just watching.
After five hours of pure chaos (and me being starved to the brink of extinction), I tried to motivate her the only way she understands. I said, “Go Sus! Think of the siopao!”
Saturday night rolled in. We ended up ordering siopao and halo-halo. She couldn’t cook — her muscles were screaming for justice. She looked at me and groaned, “Oishy, my Badoodle… why are some women blessed with pretty faces and perfect curves?”
If I could talk like humans, I’d have told her: God made us unique. And yes, we should take care of our bodies — but expecting to look like a Victoria’s Secret model after one gym session is more comedy than goal.
Anyway. We were tired. We slept. Cue Monday.
Monday morning, she was still sore and waddling like a penguin to the pantry. And there he was: Macchismo D.,Hawaiian shirt. Blazer. Jawline, struggling with the coffee machine.
Susan seized the moment. “What’s your perception of women?” she asked, expecting fireworks.
Macchismo, without missing a beat, replied, “Strong-willed. Brave. Stubborn. Loving.”
Susan blinked. “Nooo, that can’t be right.”
“Sure it is,” he said. “My mom is all that.”
And just like that, he left her standing there. Speechless. Holding her coffee. Mouth open.
So how do I know all this? Because she dumps all her emotional crises on me. I’m Oishi. This is my burden. And my blessing.
The End. 🐶📚💅 See you on the next story. Bring snacks. I’m starving. 🐾
Psalm 139:13-14
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
It was a Sunday morning — but not just any Sunday. Susan and I woke up unusually early and started bouncing on the bed. She was already in her green bathing suit. (My eye twitched. I considered pretending to be blind. But I let it slide. I was excited too.)
For weeks now, our neighbors had been planning a neighborhood outing. Post-dinner meetings, heated debates about who brings the rice cooker, and of course, the classic standoff over who would drive. Everyone wanted to be on the trip, not responsible for it.
So they voted. And the unlucky winner? Boyo. Yes — that Boyo. The guy who once blasted “Bed of Roses” on repeat until even the cats started howling.
Susan and I were packing. She handed me my goggles, and for a moment — I felt something. (Not quite a heart flutter. Let’s call it… elevated awareness.)
The thought of the beach — the breeze, the barbecue, the possibility of new hoomans who weren’t from The Signal Co. — it thrilled me. I even wagged.
The van ride was chaos and joy. Singing, laughing, someone choking on chips. Susan was screeching “Apt! Apt! Apt!” from that Bruno Mars/Rose collab like she was auditioning for the role of “Off-Key Hype Woman.” No one minded. We were all just… in it. Present.
When we arrived, we stepped out and took it all in. The salty air. The breeze. The mountains folding into the sea. It was perfect.
Neighbors got to work — grill stations, beach mats, someone trying to build a tent they clearly never read the manual for. Susan peeled off her cover-up, scooped me up like the emotional support king I am, and together we sat by the waves.
We played fetch. We ate like we hadn’t seen food in years. We talked. We laughed. And for once, she didn’t complain about work, or traffic, or slow Wi-Fi. She just smiled.
As the sun dipped low, we sat quietly on the sand, wrapped in the afterglow of joy and grilled meat.
And then — she said it.
“God must have a beautiful imagination. Look at this view. It’s perfect. What a Creator.”
I was stunned. Usually, she reserves her poetic moments for when she’s holding a donut in one hand and ranting in the other.
But this? This was awe.
✍️ Writer’s Note:
I stumbled upon this line today: “Worshipping God means acknowledging and celebrating His power and perfection in gratitude.”
And maybe… that’s exactly what this moment was.
No music. No altar. Just Susan and Oishi, sitting by the sea — surrounded by mountains, waves, and the quiet company of God’s imagination.
“What a Creator.” “Look at all this.”
Sometimes worship is loud. Sometimes it’s a soft whisper wrapped in awe.
Ember - Fire and Soul 