What's love got to do with it?

It ought to be about dogs. About friends, that is, not trophies; companions, not inventory. Purebreeds are great, but askals should be welcome as well. Askals are canines, too.

Having worked briefly for the Philippine Canine Club, Inc., a non-profit corporation involved in the promotion of dog breeding in the Philippines, I came to see up close how the ownership of the "best" dogs around (note the quotation marks) does not necessarily translate into love for dogs. Where dog breeders are concerned, it's simply not a given. For many dog breeders, the professional ones at least, it's not about friendship or companionship. It's about the sport, the prestige, the prize. For that's what they and their ilk consider dogs to be: the subject of sport, even though the most common type of dog show in the Philippines, the so-called conformation show, is more beauty contest than it is sport.

I really shouldn't have been surprised or even disappointed. After all, I had seen it years ago when my babies, despite all I did to prevent it, still produced puppies. I could easily spot dog breeders when they came. How? They never smiled at the sight of puppies at play. The others did, those who came looking for a pet, often one to replace a pet they had lost. The dog breeders were different. They examined the pups like they would possible inventory, looking for patches of thin hair, the like. It often made you wonder if they could pass through the same kind of scrutiny themselves. Anyway, dogs are a lot smarter than these professional dog breeders think. One pup, Beloved, just lay down listlessly when a family of dog breeders came; when a mother came later looking for a dog for her child, Beloved was up and playing, showing her best.

Dogs know. And dog breeders, out to control, just don't give dogs that much credit.

For them, it's about the sport, the prestige, the prize. And perhaps the money that comes with all that.

Being around these dog breeders, though, you often wonder exactly what's in it for them. Many really don't love dogs. They don't talk about dogs that creatures that they love but as objects for competition. Outside of competition and breeding champion lines, the dogs are nothing. They spend much, yes, but for the monetary or prestige objective, not for the actual care of such wonderful creatures. But do they really get much money out of breeding? Maybe, maybe not. With all the money they put in for the best food, who knows if they actually make money? Who can afford their dogs? What's in it for them anyway? You got me.

I have a theory, though. For the most part, I've found professional dog breeders to be mediocre people who, outside of their money, much of which has come out of accident of birth, they don't have much by way of accomplishment to speak of. They have a bloated sense of self-importance, such that they expect to be attended to lavishly every time they come around. So they breed dogs. It's easy. The dogs are beautiful to begin with. You just have to make sure you don't spoil that beauty--which dog breeders often do, however, by turning dogs into robots.

For them, what's love got to do with it?

In memoriam, Prudence April 2, 1999-January 13, 2006, on the anniversary of her death.

You were our jewel.
Now so terribly missed.

A cat's tale

(Published in Prime Weekly under the column “Still Life,” June 15, 1989)

It came about suddenly, the realization. One night I noticed how the cats were all around, as if in a world within a world. I saw the compact shapes by street corners and garbage piles, perhaps figures at a distance revealed only by the faint light of street lamps. It was a world that came alive at night, a world where I was a stranger, an intruder. The cats seemed to be everywhere, just lurking in the darkness, and their presence almost seemed to carry purpose. What that was, however, or if there was really anything of the sort, I couldn’t say. But they were there, stray cats, survivors in a world of no compassion. The night ushered in their world, and that world became clearer and clearer with time. I would see them watching, and at times I would see their eyes. Those eyes were almost frightening. But then they were only cats, strays, and the cats had always been around, neglected, fending for themselves, surviving somehow.

At night I saw them, and I entered their world. Sometimes I would sense some purpose to their presence, some logic and reason in their movement. At times I felt there was something going on, something that the cats reserved only for themselves. Perhaps, I thought, the night held certain secrets. What it was the cats did, if anything at all.

One night while I was on my way home I noticed something different about the cats. I noticed, what, a purpose in their movement, direction. I saw one cat emerging from the darkness. I didn’t give the matter very much notice till I saw others doing the same thing. The occurrence struck me as strange; I thought perhaps that it was just coincidence, some matter that merited nothing more than a moment’s thought, but as I walked on I noticed a certain oneness in the way they moved, in how other cats joined what could have been a solemn march, in how they all seemed to be taking to the streets, as if by some silent understanding. That night, overcome by curiosity, I followed them.

Cautiously I did, taking care not to cause any disruption. The cats moved slowly, even then with purpose and direction, and as I followed them I knew there was a reason for what they were doing. Somehow I knew. Quietly the cats seemed to be headed somewhere. I moved with them and watched them. Several times some of them stopped and seemed to look at me, but then they always continued on their way. To where, however, I still didn’t know.

For the moment my world was reduced to the cats. Only the world of the cats existed, and I was an outsider, an observer. I was there, it seemed, only by their silent consent. I followed them, wondering where they were headed, till finally they stopped. And I realized that there were other cats around, some with their bodies barely visible in the darkness. They had gathered by a dark portion of one street, and I seemed to be the only person around, as though I had been chosen to witness whatever was to occur, if anything. It was quiet by that portion of the street, and the cats were no longer moving. They were simply waiting, so it appeared. They stayed by the sides of the road as vehicles passed by now and again. Then I saw one more feline coming.

By the light of a distant street lamp I caught sight of the approaching figure, just one cat moving slowly, wearily, even then with a feline grace. The other cats kept still and waited. The cat continued on its slow approach. The other cats looked on, rather solemnly. I remained where I was, keeping still and just observing what was happening. What it all meant, I still didn’t know. Just the cats waiting for this one cat on a quiet road. The strays, the homeless, the unloved.

Then I saw the light. It got brighter and brighter, all so quickly. A car was coming. The cat continued in the same direction toward the others, still slowly. The car was moving faster now, yes, the bright headlights beamed. The cat was in its path, and the vehicle wasn’t slowing down. The other cats did nothing. They just looked on silently. The vehicle sped closer to the moving cat, the newcomer. I wished to call out, perhaps for the driver to put on the brakes, but I never got to do so.

There just came the sound, that horrible sound. Like something bursting.

The vehicle was quickly gone. The other cats were still silent.

Another vehicle was coming. A third. That sound again, that sound.

The other cats just looked on. Witnesses, I thought.

For some time there was an uneasy silence. One cat gone, a stray, run over three times in a world of no compassion. After a long silence the cats began to wail, as if in grief. Almost in an anguished chorus, the stray cats wailed, as if the mourn the loss of one of them, just a stray, a survivor till that night. And as the cats wailed, I listened, even then chilled by the sound.

Till the cats turned silent and began to leave, some of them walking away slowly, others just running and disappearing into the camouflage of darkness. I remained where I was and just looked on as the cats disappeared. One cat stayed close by, hardly more than a kitten. It seemed to look at me, to watch me for a few seconds, then it walked away, alone, a young survivor in a hard and heartless world.

###

All the reasons why I hated and will always hate 2007

In a matter of hours, the year 2007 will come to a close. It's been a hard year, a bad year, a cruel year. So here are the reasons why I hated and will always hate 2007.

1. I lost my dearest Almond. With her gone, a light within me was extinguished, at least in this existence. Things will never be the same. Or really good again. Then again, all that started in 2005, with the loss of Boobie.

2. I was unproductive. I produced nothing of real value this year.

3. I was hospitalized for eight days. It put a drain on just about everyone's resources.

4. I had no new clients.

5. I barely earned. It's a miracle (or a curse?) that I even survived this year.

6. I quit drinking. Without the oblivion of hard drink, the pain has become so much worse.

So here's to this awful year ending. The problems kept coming; even now as the year's about to end, they still do.

2007, I flush you down the septic tank. You were unusually cruel.

In memoriam, Garpy Dec. 29, 1982-August 10, 1991, on the anniversary of his birth

"Farewell, dear darling of my soul. A parting blessing on my love. We shall meet again, where the weary are at rest."
- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities