In a Country of Dog-Eaters
Don’t you love dogs? If you have been around dogs as long as I have, you will be acquainted with their different personalities.
There’s Timmy, the first dog that I remember as being around during my childhood. She was such a sweet creature, with never a bad day and no temper tantrums. The closest thing that she would come to a display of temper was when she would sulk and not respond to anybody when my grandfather raised his voice in anger against her. It would be funny if it wasn’t such a heartbreaking sight. She would not eat, she would not wag her tail, and she would be so morose until my grandfather came and stroked her hind and spoke to her. Timmy would also be my introduction to doggy goodbyes.
We all thought Timmy was pregnant when she developed bigger boobs. We waited and waited for her to grow big with her litter. Unfortunately, what we were waiting for was just for her cancer to grow bigger and bigger. It got so big and heavy that she yelped in pain whenever we accidentally brushed against it. As a child, I couldn’t understand why she could not come home with them when they took her to the dog doctor. It was just unfortunate that I had an insensitive clod for a father when he described in great detail how he cried when the doctor gave the injection and Timmy looked at him as if saying “you know, I still want to live.”
This article would not be complete without a mention of Bruce Lee. Bruce Lee (or Brusli as I thought of him, since I didn’t know who the original was) was the fattest of the litter born to Doggie. He was the brightest star since he would reign supreme for over ten years of my life. He was the biggest dog in the neighborhood, becoming the Alpha dog without any effort on his part. The neighborhood kids called him Bigfoot. Bruce Lee was the only light during my summer vacations, my only playmate that was faithfully waiting for me year in and year out. I just didn’t like to pet him since he never, ever took a bath nor consented to having one. Bruce Lee knew every path of our coconut grove, and would often race ahead of me, anticipating where I would go. He would look stupid racing after me when I veered off the track and head to the beach instead. He would run hell-bent-for-leather and only stop to look back at me as if saying “why didn’t you tell me we were going to the beach today?” Bruce Lee and the other dogs would be on the beach waiting for me with their tongues lolling, but he would never get near the water. Kiss-kiss, Doggie, and Whitey would be gamboling on the waves but Bruce Lee would be the farthest on the beach, as if playing with water was beneath his dignity.
Now Bruce Lee was a dog upon which legends are born. They said that he often hunted our neighbors’ livestock. He would stalk the prey by day, kill them at night, and store them by burying their carcasses by the river where the cool water would help preserve them. They said that our workers have unearthed goat’s thighs by the waters’ edge. These stories I would hear from my cousin who sometimes spent his summer vacations at my grandfather’s. My Grandmother would proudly say that unknown people would leave poisoned meat chops just inside our waiting shed, hoping that one of our dogs, particularly Bruce Lee, would be fool enough to eat it. Granny said that she herself saw Bruce Lee smell the chop and just shake his head, as if saying, “This is bad meat.” I myself witnessed Bruce Lee protect me from a snake. It was during one of my numerous walks on our coconut grove where three of our dogs accompanied me. I veered off the path towards a balimbing tree when there was a hissing sound and something slithered down the slender tree trunk. Bruce Lee and Kiss-kiss took off barking towards the snake while the other dog stayed by my side. The snake was understandably faster and they came back empty-handed. I was badly shaken by the incident but the dogs just came back wagging their tails as if nothing untoward happened. Bruce Lee took on heroic proportions on my mind since then and it was not lessened by the fact that he took on the role of protector, sitting by my or my Granny’s side whenever there was a visitor, growling menacingly whenever a visitor would make a move that was too close for our dog’s comfort.
The summer vacation came when no Bruce Lee welcomed me with frenzied barks and fiercely wagging tail. I sat on the wooden rocking chair and waited for when he would come rushing and begging for a pet on his dusty brown coat. I waited until the next day to ask the question of which I’m afraid of the answer. No tears will fall if you imagine your favorite playmate somewhere out there, playing. I just asked for the general location of where they buried his body, but never for the particulars. I never came back for a vacation.
I never wanted to own a dog. To own a dog would mean too much responsibility. You have to feed him and bathe him. At least Bruce Lee spared me of the last chore. Hotdog had a different idea.
Hotdog was born in Laguna but grew up in the fields of Mindoro. My cousin had several dogs which came with him when he and his mother (my Aunt) came to live with our Grandma when his father died. Maybe it was the attraction of being the only pet but Hotdog upped and left my cousin and came to live with us. He would not go home two doors away to where my cousin and my Grandma lived. My cousin ranted and raved at Hotdog for being the traitorous and unloyal dog that he was, but Hotdog just stayed put in our living room. Maybe it was because of Two Dots who always sniped at him come feeding time, but Hotdog definitely transferred his affections to my little sister. Some might say that his loyalty was questionable, but you would not say that if you saw how angry he was at my father when he was hitting my sister with his belt. He would have bitten my father were it not for the length of the belt. Let’s just say that you could not hit Maegy and not hit Hotdog as well.
Hotdog was stolen the night before the nearby baranggay’s fiesta. I knew without anybody telling me where he would end. All we heard of the brilliant dog that he is was his loud yelp at being taken forcibly.
My eyes were almost swollen shut the morning after and my Aunt thought my father had beaten me for something I did. I let her think what she wanted for it was just so shameful to cry for a dog that was not even mine. You can not treat a dog like family in a country that eats it for merriment. I wanted to go to the police and complain about somebody you loved and cared for being napped and murdered. I wanted to do something violent to the drunkards who were undoubtedly being merry and happy and eating him at the moment but there was nothing that I could do, except to let it go.
My father bought Boomer from a person who had him on a leash and had his crying son with him. The person needed money and all he could sell was his poodle. The son came along to ensure that she would not be sold to persons who would not think twice about eating him. He started to cry when nobody seemed interested enough in buying an old dog. My father was soft-hearted enough to be affected by big eyes, a placid countenance, and a crying kid.
Boomer produced a very handsome litter even if the sire was a mongrel and she a proud poodle. Wikwik was what was left of the litter after all the admirers took their favored pups and carried them away in their adoring arms. Wikwik didn’t like to be touched and would bark “Wik! Wik!” to anybody who would dare touch him. He was often left alone in Boomer’s arms and I would be the only one patient enough to see through his ugly mug and cradle him in my arms. Boomer would just be there, patiently waiting for her turn to be petted, wagging her tail if you sent her an approving look and just was a passably affectionate presence in your life. Perhaps Boomer learned that loyalty gave you nothing.
Boomer started to reek like a decaying meat and we just left her food in the garage and generally forgot about her. I knew my uncle just tied her in a sack and left her to starve to death but did nothing about it. I just wanted to remember her as she was when she first came to us, healthy and clean-smelling. I didn’t want to be bothered to come with her to the doctor and put her to sleep.
At least Wikwik had grown up and had shown signs that he wanted me to be his human. I only came home during weekends but I was his special human. My mother would know I was home because Wikwik would become all excited and start to purr aloud, much like a cat would do, only louder. Wikwik was not special. His coat was sort of bland dirty pale beige, not shiny like all those Eukanuba commercials, but he had a beard that was straggly in places where food had dried. He was not particularly intelligent like Hotdog was, nor especially brave like Bruce Lee was, but he was mine. He stuck to me like glue whenever I was home, but he knew and stayed when I left for the boarding house.
Like Bruce Lee, I came home one day and found him gone. They said they found his body in the gutter. I had no more tears left after all those dogs that came before him, especially in the light of what I did to Boomer. I just shrugged and did not even ask where the spot was where they threw his body into the river.
