In Memory of Putot

Last night, July 10, around 7 pm, Putot died. A few minutes before I arrived home.

I was just getting out of the car when my brother Lilet who assisted me park told me that Putot had just died.

Putot had been sick for two weeks now. It started with a red lump on his right eye, then recently with some wounds on the sole of his right foot. We gave him human medicine for pain, which I hope didn't mitigate his illness. We gave him milk in make-shift feeding bottle. My sister fed him with her hands. But he wouldn't eat. We cleaned his wounds with water and alcohol and put hospital bandages on them. But he would remove the bandages after a few hours. Perhaps, he just wanted to please us what with the care we put into the cleaning and dressing of his wounds. Yesterday, he was still responding to touch. I would normally pat him and scratch him on the back every morning before leaving for work. I didn't expect that yesterday would be the last time I would touch his white fur. Had I known, I would have carried him in my arms as I used to do and sung him a song like a baby.

I entered the house and the tv set was hushed down. The voices were low. My sister-in-law's voice was controlled while telling me how Putot died. Only my 3-day old nephew's cries raised an octave higher than all the hushed sounds combined.

I went to the kitchen and found my sister seriously crying without a sound, only the rush of tears told the world that her heart was crushed. Putot was her favorite.

My other brother Buboy was sitting by the door smoking looking after Putot who was already enshrouded with a blanket. My youngest brother Jun was digging a grave in the backyard while my mother was holding the flashlight.

Downy, I was told, cried and turned his back against Putot who was lying dead just outside his cage. Kunot had, I'm sure, given him the doleful, watery-eyed look. Pika must have, inside, died her own death.

Putot died. And it was not just a dog's passing. It was death in the family.

Putot and Downy

Pika

Kunot

In Memory of a Family Member

There are four human-dogs in the family: Pika (from picachu, sometimes called Peka, as my father is fond of calling him, is the mother-dog); Putot (the singing dog, "putot" as in putol ang buntot); Downy (the tiger-looking blind dog); and Kunot (the youngest, but the tallest and biggest monster-dog taken "by little" force from our neighbor). Kunot was born in 2005.

Let's go back to my calling them "human-dogs." All of them have certain human characteristics. All of them are treated like one of us. Pika can walk with the aid of my mother and sister to the barangay hall for an anti-rabies shot. She, yes, a not-bitchy female dog, wakes you up in the morning, and whenever you are asleep. She is a hug-me dog. She likes to be pampered, scratched on the furry, cottony back. She eats like a lady, taking only small bits of her food at a time. All three other dogs are scared of her despite her charming, lady-like demeanor. You need only call her name when one of the dogs is misbehaving and the latter will hide the tail between his legs.

Putot could sing. You need only give the tune and he will carry on with it. He was also the dog symphony conductor. When he starts singing, all three other dogs would follow. Like Pika, Putot was white, very clean white, without the long fur. He would sleep only when my sister Cynthia is beside him. When she is out and is on vacation somewhere, Putot could not sleep, walking and whimpering.

Downy, the blind dog, isn't blind when he was born. The child of Pika and the brother of Putot, Downy lives in a P1,600-cage with regularly-washed "tailored" mats. The cage was bought when he and Kunot had a serious dog-fight resulting to my sister's badly bitten hand. Downy and Kunot never saw each other eye-to-eye. The mortal enemies. We don't know when and how the bickering started, but we can only guess it is due to jealousy. Downy started going blind early last year. And in December 2007, he went completely blind. We all think it was due to the several wounds he got in the eye from his constant fights with Kunot.

Kunot, the monster-dog, is MY dog. He loves food, food, food. He barks and the room reverberates. He sings with the dog symphony and he has the tiniest voice. Kunot is the adopted dog in the human-dogs family. He knows how to knock on the door and breaks the door if you don't open it. He is the mocha dog with the dark brown collar without it he looks like one of those asong kalye. But then again, all our dogs are asong kalye.

Because they exhibit human attributes we treat them like human beings. I am not sure what came first - they acting like humans or we treating them like human beings that resulted to them acting like one of us.

We don't allow them to eat spoiled meals. With or without rice crisis, they are part of the rice ration. We cook rice for them even if no human family member feels like eating rice. They eat what we eat. We wash their dishes after each meal. We serve them clean drinking water. Kunot sleep in my room. Putot slept with my sister. Pika with my mother. Downy in his 1.6K condo. We bathe them with special dog soap which is more expensive than what we use. We clean after them like babies when they pee and poo.

We talk to them. We call them baby. We hug them. We kiss them. We love them.

Downy, Putot, Pika after bath

God isn't a Gift to Mankind; He is the Gift-giver

I have a nephew named JM. His parents are not married. I don't know the back story of his parents - my brother, his father, and Lesley, his mother. But what I do know is that since JM was introduced to us, our family has realized love in his form. JM is love. JM is the son, not only a nephew or a grandson, in the family. We gave him everything we thought he needed. Giving him presents was a gift returned to us. It was what it meant "in giving that we receive."

The eyes that glittered. The laughter and the shrieks of joy. Those were the gifts he gave us. Oh, what we would not do for him! These things I have been reminded when I was in doubt of what God is to me. Of what I am to God.

I am God's child. I am God's JM. And no matter what the religious say about God, this is the only truth I hold on to. I am God's child. I know what it was like to love a child, a son. And loving is just wonderful. Giving is great. And I can never love JM the way God loves JM and me. I cannot start to imagine how much that love is!

God knows what I want even before I ask. I know what JM wants and needs even though he cannot speak yet. Still, I would love to hear JM tell me what he wishes to have.

So the question is, do we still need to ask God for something we are sure He already knows we need? The answer is YES. I remember a story about a barber and a man with long untidy hair. The barber knows that the man badly needs a haircut, but the barber will not touch an inch of the man's hair unless the man comes to him and asks for a haircut.

God, like the great Father that He is, wants us to come to Him like a child to his dad. We should not be afraid to ask and ask and ask. Forget about people telling us we should not treat God like a genie or a department store. God is way beyond what people think of Him to be. God is our Father, no more no less. And if you have been a parent, you know what a real parent is.




God bless!

Duran Duran and the Worst Thursday of My Life

April 10, 2008 - Thursday.

Almost a month ago, I made a mental note in my mental calendar about April 10, 2008. I was on my way to Gateway in Araneta Center when I saw a poster of Duran Duran's Red Carpet Massacre Concert in Araneta on this date at 8 PM. I swore I would never miss it for a wedding, my own even.

Days following this, I told my sister I was going to the concert and if she did good I might take her with me.

The reality of work, of life, of normalcy stepped in. April 10, 2008, 7 PM, an hour before the concert, I was home. I forgot all about the concert. Oh, fcuk it! "And I wanted to DIE, so I asked ME to DIE, But fear is in MY soul. Some people call it a one night stand, but I can call it SUICIDE!"

How could I forget Duran Duran? How could I forget Simon Le Bon and Nick Rhodes. Forget the Taylors, but not Nick! Shit!

This is a wake up call. I can forgive myself for landing on bad lovers and boyfriends. I can understand myself giving priority to professional career over my own family. And God forgive me for not hearing mass every Sunday! But not, not forget Duran Duran!

Jeepney Drivers and Old Ladies and the Man Above

Yesterday was the Prez's birthday. That meant going to Makati the second time this week. It also meant taking the jeepney and the bus again. Yes, I still am too chicken to drive in the big city.

But it was one of the best days of the recent years.

The jeepney driver conducted his trade like a pro, like a very dignified pro. He called the motherly commuters "mommy" and asked "paki bilang po kung tama ang sukli." He addresed everyone with "po" and always said "thank you" each time a fare was handed to him. There truly is dignity in every work we do, in every job there is. And people can truly make simple things grand. That driver could have made a great COO or VP for Customer Service! You think of that and you remember the assholes in your offices, assholes in coat and tie, assholes in Floursheim and Lumberjack, assholes in corporate pigeonholes, in impeccable corporate English fcuk-you's.

And you feel good meeting common workers like that driver and you thank God for showing you some human decency and you realize all is not lost.

I got off the jeepney feeling alive, walked a little to the national road. While I was about to cross the street, I noticed an old lady rooted to the ground and was uneasy looking at all types of vehicles, big and small moving to and from the old San Pedro National Road. She was just about two feet from where I stood so I asked her if she wanted to cross the street. She looked up at me (she had this little stoop) and nodded and said timidly "opo." She must be about 80 years old and she addressed me with this ennobling Filipino word "opo"! She must have been standing there long and nobody cared to help her cross the street! Argh!

So I moved to her left and took her hand and we crossed the street together. Since the old lady couldn't walk fast, I signaled the vehicles to slow down as we crossed the road. When finally we got to the other side of the street, I released her hand and she looked up at me again. This time she smiled and said, "Salamat po." I was too stunned to say anything, not even "Ingat po kayo."

A jeepney driver and a grandmother made my day yesterday. They made me forget the wrongs done to me recently. They gave me the answer to my questions: What do you feel knowing that God also loves those who hurt you? What do you feel knowing that God forgives even those you cannot?

Meeting those two blessed individuals made me realize that I have a good life, not because I am good, but because God is. That I am blessed not because I believe, but because God is merciful. That God allows me to see real beauty in human beings not because I asked him to, but because He wants to show me He does exist, even if sometimes I doubt it.

Desire Is The First

By Bliss Cua Lim

Desire is the first to be colonized
and the last to be freed.

Before and behind me,
my strong, scarred mothers,
weak only where their men were concerned.

How long before I learned what was owing to you,
what was owing to me,
brought up to believe that loneliness
was lack of that which echoes in operas I sing poorly,
love, which brought all heroines to death.

No, we must not seize pleasure at each other's expense:
how could we then condemn
that mindless ease made possible by
the unlamented labor of those without song?

Too many dare to be beautiful but not to be brave.
But sisters surround me on ancient afternoons,
calling out canticles with throats thick with tears:
god has not responded, but we must sound our power.

Song For Unrequited Love

By Bliss Cua Lim

You turn towards me and your face fills the frame.
All spaces and moments collapse in these eyes, this smile,
the sudden rush of tenderness that seizes me.

I long to nourish you like the night.
I want to watch over your strength as you slumber,
and tend to the sinews of your softness.

If only it were possible,
I would woo you without compunction,
and when I won you, would
cherish you as shadows do that shelter
the wounded, exquisite lineaments of the moon:
with the grateful ardor of lovers who know
contingent evenings cede to the obstrusive dawn.