SAVING REX

THE first time I saw him, I wasn’t quite sure WHAT he was, honestly. He looked like a patchy bag of bones and pink open wounds. But he wagged his tail and wanted to play, so I knew soon enough—he was a dog, a guy dog, and a Labrador just like me! But how did he get this way, I wondered? All he said to me was hello, and that he wanted to play, and that he was so happy to be eating and petted and spoken to again. In fact, when I saw him again after a few days, he looked much better and ready to play some more, as you can see in the top picture. The second pic is Rex at the vet’s, when they first brought him to my beloved vets on November 5. Bottom pic, Rex at home after 12 days, lots of vitamins and antibiotics, a few mange baths, and words of encouragement from Mama.

Mama started taking me everyday to sit and watch when she fed Rex and gave him his slew of daily medications, maybe so I wouldn’t wonder where the new doggie smell came from. Honestly, I don’t mind sharing Mama; I’m glad she’s doing something for other dogs. Rex and I haven’t really had the chance to talk much—my vet Tita Marga said I shouldn’t play with him too much yet, as I might tire him out, and he isn’t fully recovered yet—but from what I gathered, he spent many, many days alone, with no food and no baths, until he thought he was really just going to die. But he’s not angry or bitter—he isn’t even mad at people, and he looks at Mama and my yaya Sammy and all the other folks who are now taking care of him with these really adoring brown eyes.

Right now, Rex lives with us. Even Larry and Ruffa have made peace with him. Mama says she doesn’t know if he’ll really stay with us yet, but one thing’s for sure: he’s got a better life now. He’s never going to go hungry again, not if Mama can help it. Let me let Mama tell you in her own words this time, in this note she e-mailed to her friends:

Rex the Dog

WHAT really got me was, he wagged his tail. I had gone to the PAWS shelter last November 1, All Saints’ Day, to light a candle on Muffin’s memorial plaque and check out the little asPins, maybe to find a baby sister to bring home to Banana by Christmas. Then Anna Cabrera of PAWS took me to see the Labrador that they had rescued after being referred by the Animal Kingdom Foundation, and I found myself growing weak in the knees once again in the face man’s profound cruelty to the creatures who least deserve it.

It was supposed to be a day for the dead, and I actually thought the dog would soon be among them. Call me nuts, but I found myself in indignant tears, and immediately praying to the high heavens that whoever did this to him would one day die a slow, painful death and barbecue in hell. The dog was a smelly, patchy bag of bones with a whole torso of prominent ribs and open wounds all over his head. The skin around his feet were swollen and wrinkled like a sharpe’s, but definitely not as appealing. His hair was almost gone, and he was so absolutely caked in mange, I cringed. He threw up some yellow liquid even as Anna and I watched him. And then, he turned his brown eyes to us—and wagged his tail. Not a weak, tentative wiggle, but a wag as vigorous as his weak body could muster, which wasn’t bad at all. Foolish little angel, I thought. Don’t you know by now that people are evil, and we can be such bad news, and that we really don’t deserve you? Apparently, he hadn’t heard.

I couldn’t get the dog out of my mind over that weekend, and made a deal with Anna that, if things were too busy at the shelter that coming Monday, then she should have him taken to Vets in Practice, and I would pay for his treatment. I mentioned the dog to my friends Ame and Joy that weekend, and they volunteered to share in the expenses, so I was further emboldened. Anna and I had a frank discussion—if he was seriously ill, and it would cost too much to save him, and the money could actually save five other dogs, then I would leave it to her to decide if he had to go.

Come Monday, November 5, Anna called me as she and Liza brought the dog to VIP. On the phone. Dr. Nielsen Donato revealed that what we thought was a chocolate lab—yes, he was that filthy—was actually black, and that he hadn’t been carried, but he had actually BOUNDED up the stairs to the clinic. “He’s got the spirit,” Dr. Nick Carpio said. “I’ve seen a lot worse. This guy wants to live.” And soon, we had christened the dog Rex, for resurrection. I resolved then and there that I was going to try my darnedest to give this dog a second life.

I went to see Rex that same Monday after yoga class, and he had gotten his first bath in what may have been weeks. He was skinny, but still wagging his tail and immediately burrowing his head in my hands. He went for the food bowl with serious focus. We were in business.

Over the next few days, we learned that the swollen appendages were nothing malignant, just a major tick infestation. Rex had bad mange, but no heartworm, and his organs were functioning well. It was simply malnutrition and neglect, and so far, he was fine.

I had tried to keep some distance, asking Anna to find him a foster home and assuming he would go home to the PAWS shelter after discharge. But somehow, I couldn’t do it. It’s an ego thing, I will admit, whatever messianic complex I have coming into self-righteous overdrive. I want to take this dog, nurse him back to health, and make him beautiful and happy again as one big, reverberating “F-CK YOU” to every damned soul who has ever hurt a dog. Maybe I can’t single-handedly stop the dog meat traffic, or save every dog who’s been kicked or beaten or thrown into a dog fight, or keep flaky idiots from buying cute pups and locking them away when they prove too much to handle. But like I told Anna, I have to stay a little myopic here, or my heart will keep breaking. I have to look at just this dog first, and do my bit, one dog at a time.

So, I am writing this November 18, 13 days after we took Rex to VIP and a week since I brought him home. God does keep watch; I prayed hard to Him and St. Francis, patron of the animals, to make Rex’s homecoming easy. Now I have my brother’s support, and some house help to walk him and feed him when I’m not home. We’ve built a little cage for him, and he curls up in it contentedly when we put him back in after a short poo break. Even the other dogs, Larry the alpha black Lab and Ruffa the grandmother Dalmatian, seem to have accepted him.

And my darling Banana? As I’ve always known, my baby has a good and kind heart. There has been no jealousy, no tantrums, no aggression. I thank God she’s so secure in her love, she doesn’t mind sharing Mama’s attention, even for a while.

Now, Rex shoves his wet, drooling, still mangy face in my hands whenever he sees me, and rubs his body against my leg. I gave him his first mange bath outside the clinic the other day, after detailed directions from Dr. Marga Carpio, and the sponge came away black—but I’m seeing more of his skin everyday. Most of his wounds have dried up, although I see some fresh ones when thick encrustations of skin fall away. Even his tail is skinny! But he’s gotten more meat on his bones, he doesn’t stink anymore, and I’m seeing patches of his thick black hair growing back. We’re going back to VIP on Saturday for a check-up with Marga.

I am humbled by the joy Rex shows, even after everything he has gone through. To paraphrase Neruda, oh, how many times I have wanted to have a tail—how I envy his open spirit and his freedom from anger. Someday, I hope I can learn to forgive whoever did this to Rex, just as he apparently has. How much better would this world be if every person had a heart as big as a dog’s? How perfect would it be if we could shake off bitterness like water, like a Lab does after a swim, with such vigor and determination? What a gift indeed.

My friends are already kidding me that Rex is mine. I like to think he always will be, in a way. And if nobody takes him and is willing to take care of him with the special care that this miracle dog deserves, then I AM keeping him. But I live with an 83-year-old mom, and Banana had to learn to walk gently around her so she doesn’t knock her over; you know how Labradors are like small, panting freight trains when they careen towards you. If Rex stays with me, he will be walked, fed, loved, and taken care of. He will live in a kennel during the day, and when he’s well enough, have the run of my garage with Larry and Ruffa for the late afternoons and evenings. But I can’t bring him indoors like Banana.

Here’s the deal: If you, my friend, or anybody you KNOW WELL wants him, and if you want to take him indoors and give him a really good, cushy life, then he’s yours. I mean a life indoors with you and your family, occasional car trips, walks to any nearby patch of green—he’s a Lab, he’ll be the gentlest, most playful thing on earth, and he deserves some fun and a bigger world than the one he’s had to live in.

The bad news is, they estimate him to be about 3 years old, and the fact is, this kind of malnutrition usually has some permanent damage, so there is a possibility that he may develop problems in the future, despite everything we’re doing now—multivitamins, mange medicine, antibiotics, etc. The good news is, he’s an extraordinary dog with a second life, and I am only going to turn him over when he’s healthy and fully recovered again. But please assure me that you’re committed, because you’ve going to have to answer to me!

So there. Just letting you know my latest canine adventure, and if there is somebody out there who really wants him and can give him a better life than I can—I pray that St. Francis leads you to each other, and I will know that my part in Rex’s journey will have been fulfilled. I believe in fate; I’m still waiting to learn if I’m just a stopover, or the final destination in this dog’s life. Either way, it’s been a privilege. It hasn’t been easy, but hey—gifts come in different packages.

More Rex updates here soon.

MISSING MUFFIN

A DOG HAS DIED

By Pablo Neruda

My dog has died.

I buried him in the garden
beside a rusty old engine.

There, not too deep,
not too shallow,
he will greet me sometime.
He already left with his coat,
his bad manners, his cold nose.
And I, a materialist who does not believe
in the starry heaven promised
to a human being,
for this dog and for every dog
I believe in heaven, yes, I believe in a heaven
that I will never enter, but he waits for me
wagging his big fan of a tail
so I, soon to arrive, will feel welcomed

No, I will not speak about my sadness on earth
at not having him as a companion anymore,
he never stooped to becoming my servant.
He offered me the friendship of a sea urchin
who always kept his sovereignty,
the friendship of an independent star
with no more intimacy than necessary,
with no exaggerations:
he never used to rub against my knee
like other dogs, obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to watch me
giving me the attention necessary
to let a vain person know
that he being a dog,
with those eyes, more pure than mine,
was wasting time, but he watched
with a look that reserved for me
every bit of sweetness, his shaggy life,
his silent life,
sitting nearby, never bothering me,
never asking anything of me.

O, how many times I wanted to have a tail
walking next to him on the seashore,
in the Isla Negra winter,
in the vast solitude: above us
glacial birds pierced the air
and my dog frolicking, bristly hair, full
of the sea's voltage in motion:
my dog wandering and sniffing around,
brandishing his golden tail
in the face of the ocean and its spume.

O merry, merry, merry,
like only dogs know how to be happy
and nothing more, with an absolute
shameless nature.
There are no goodbyes for my dog who has died.
And there never were and are no lies between us.

He has gone and I buried him, and that was all.

Translated by William O'Daly



ISANG ASO ANG NAMATAY

Patay na ang aso ko.

Inilibing ko siya sa hardin
sa tabi ng isang luma't kalawanging makina.

Hindi malalim, hindi mababaw,
Doon niya ako babatiin pagdating ng araw.
Lumisan na siyang taglay ang kanyang balahibo,
ang kanyang masamang turo, ang kanyang malamig na
ilong.
At ako, isang materyalistang hindi naniniwala
sa mabituing langit na ipinangangako sa mga tao,
para sa asong ito at sa lahat ng aso
ay naniniwala sa langit, oo, naniniwala ako sa langit
na hindi ko mararating, ngunit ako'y hinihintay niyang
kumakawag ang abanikong buntot
upang maramdaman ko ang pagsalubong sa aking
pagdating.

Hindi, hindi ako mangungusap ng tungkol sa aking
kalungkutan sa lupa
dahil hindi ko na siya makakasama,
hindi siya yumuyukod upang maging tagapagsilbi ko.
Inalok iya ako ng pakikipagkaibigan ng isang eriso
na napananatili ang kasarinlan,
ng pakikipagkaibigan ng isang malayang bituin
na ang pagiging malapit ay tiyak,
hindi lumalabis.
Hindi siya namihasang sumampa sa aking suot
upang bihisan ako ng balahibo at galis,
hindi siya namihasang ikiskis ang sarili sa aking
tuhod
tulad ng ibang asong naglalandi.
Hindi, nasanay ang aking asong pagmasdan ako
at ibigay ang atensiyong aking kailangan,
yaong kinakailangang atensiyon lamang
upang ipaintindi sa isang banidosong tulad ko
na siya bilang aso, na ang mga mata'y higit na wagas
sa mga mata ko,
ay nagsasayang lamang ng panahon, ngunit pinagmamasdan
niya ako
ng mga matang naglalaan para sa akin ng bawat piraso
ng tamis,
ng kanyang mabalahibong buhay,
ng kanyang tahimik na buhay,
nasa isang tabi, hindi nang-aabala,
walang hinihinging anuman sa akin.

Ay! ilang ulit ko nang ninais magkabuntot
maglakad na kasabay niya sa dalampasigan
sa taglamig ng Isla Negra,
sa malawak na pag-iisa: habang sa kaitaasan
ay tumatarak sa hangin ang mga ibon ng taglamig
at ang aking aso ay lulukso-lukso,
balbunin, taglay ang boltahe ng pumipitlag na dagat:
ang aso kong pagala-gala at aamoy-amoy sa paligid,
taglay ang kanyang ginintuang buntot
at harap ng karagatan at bula nito.

O maligaya, maligaya, maligaya
na tila ba mga aso lamang ang nakaaalam kung paano
lumigaya
at wala nang iba pa, ganap at di nakikimi sa pagkaaso.
Walang paalam sa aking nasirang aso.
At walang kasinungalingang namagitan sa amin.

Wala na siya at aking inilibing, at iyan lamang.

Translated by Fidel Rillo

POET Fidel Rillo e-mailed this beautiful Neruda poem, and his wonderful translation, to Mama after she wrote about Ate Muffin’s death in the Inquirer. Ate Muffin died Nov. 30, 2004; she was almost 6.

Mama still cries when she thinks of Ate Muffin, a beautiful Belgian Malinois that Tito Greg gave her in 1998, after she had been without a dog for a long time—since she was in high school, in fact. By Mama’s account, Ate Muffin was a reserved, elegant dog who was fiercely protective of Mama and Lola. She didn’t start out that way, and was in fact rather insecure, but after some training at Tita Cora’s, Mama likes to think her real personality came out—that of brave protector. Mama says she even peed with one leg slightly up—how’s that for dominant female? This is Mama’s favorite picture of her, after she had her first litter or pups.

Like Mama loves to say, Ate Muffin came at the perfect time in her life. Mama was recovering from depression, and needed to do a lot of independent soul-searching. What better companion in your solitude than a dog, who says nothing but who knows just how you feel and will always be by your side? Although there weren’t many places she could bring Ate Muffin, Mama and her did have a life and shared quite a bond. Mama would walk her every day, and occasionally bring her to the cemetery or some other open space, but never far from home. Anybody who got within a 10-meter radius was in mortal danger.

Ate Muffin bore two litters of pups. Bagel, the only one mama kept from the first batch, was recently given to Tita Cora when the dorks who take care of Tito Greg’s dogs couldn’t do a decent job anymore when Tito Greg was incarcerated.

Mama doesn’t like to dwell much on why Ate Muffin died that day, after waiting for Mama to fly in from a junket to Palawan. Her body temperature had shot up, and she never quite recovered, so Mama brought her home to die. It may have been the bite of some lethal parasite, or complications from a previous operation that just popped up, or maybe even Mama’s fault—Mama would feed her a slice of chocolate cake once a year for her birthday, long before she knew chocolate was bad for dogs!

Mama is still haunted by the sight of Ate Muffin lying beside Lola’s bed, giving her a last, loving glance. Mama actually fell asleep for a while, and woke up to find her Muffin gone—a French exit without the drama. It was one of the saddest days of Mama’s life, and Tito Greg had her buried in the garden, and made a plaque in her honor.

Mama learned many things from Ate Muffin, including the fact that losing a dog should not shut any human off from the possibility of loving another one. It defeats the purpose of such a lovely lesson, because we dogs are here to teach people about honesty, joy, and love. That lesson would be in vain if the love ended with one dog, and all your remaining human years would be henceforth lacking in the blessings we bring.

Dogs teach people to laugh and smile more, and to pay attention to the details. We teach you that the greatest joys are simple ones, and there is no point in fretting about tomorrow and brooding about yesterday when today holds so much fun and promise. We remind you that there is always delight in the everyday, and that allowing a cute four-legged creature to lick your nose is all right, and healthy, and definitely good for your soul, as are little wrestling matches and baby talk and scratching upturned bellies (the last one is particularly beneficial, arf). I literally stop Mama in her tracks sometimes—just when she’s rushing, I stand in her way and make her remember what’s important. There’s no ignoring a 75-lb reminder!

Mama went to visit Ate Muffin’s memorial plaque at the PAWS shelter last November 1; she brought a candle and flowers, and met a lot of the aspin in the shelter. Here’s the memorial plaque, which PAWS is selling for only P2,000 each to raise funds for the shelter. It’s a wonderful way to honor a departed pet (call 475-1688 for details).

Which brings me to a happier thought—that every end brings a new beginning. The day Mama lost Ate Muffin was also the day that my fate was decided, because Mama’s friend Tita Kathy singled me out from among her brother Tito Nes’ puppies, and declared that I was to be Mama’s next dog, a gift from her dearest friends in the world. That was such a lifetime ago; I was with my brothers and sisters, and my name was China then, because I was a big girl and they named me after a lady wrestler. But like I always tell you—and you’d be wise to believe me by now—we dogs have a communication system that transcends time, space, breeds, and even dimensions, which is why Ate Muffin was able to talk to me in my dream (dogs do dream, you know). All I remember was a beautiful Malinois with gentle brown eyes telling me that she was leaving Mama in my hands, that Mama was better now and ready to face the world again, and that I was the dog to accompany her on that journey. Here’s a picture of Mama and me during my first week with her, as a pup already 8 months old.

How perfectly it worked out. I have no pretensions to being a guard dog; I love people, although I get a bit protective and growl when someone I don’t trust enters Mama’s space. But I am the more sociable dog, and I’ve gone with Mama to the beach, to malls, to other people’s houses, almost everywhere. Now it was my turn to be Mama’s guardian angel, as Ate Muffin’s job was done, and our world is a bigger one that the one Mama and Ate Muffin used to share.

It took a while, as Mama had to mourn Ate Muffin for a few months, even over the Christmas holidays, until Tita Kathy warned her that I was getting too big! It was January 2005 when I first came home to Mama; she even put me in a nice black seatbelt with fleece and drove me home. Neither of us knew what the future would bring. She did not know how we would get along; I had no idea how my new human would treat me, although Ate Muffin’s assurances did away with any anxiety. I suspected that my new human would die before she tied me up outside the house or left me in the rain. She also changed my name to Banana, her favorite fruit, a suggestion of Ate Kai’s. At least it’s got more character than Sunshine, her original choice! Shudder!

It will be three years this November 30 since Ate Muffin died, and 2 ½ since I first found my Mama. Our lives have been full of love because of each other, and I still pray to Ate Muffin to guide me when I feel I don’t understand what Mama is feeling, or when I am sad or afraid when she leaves me for a while. But those times have become few and far between, as I also have my Lola and my yaya Sammy and my Tita Cora and my ninangs to take care of me. The family used to be petrified of Ate Muffin; now I’m under the table during family dinners, getting handouts from everybody! Wheee!

Most of the time, I just give thanks to God and to the spirit of Ate Muffin, who has never really left, and still watches over Mama and me—yes, we dogs have our spirits, and we are part of the great big universe where all living things are one. I thank Ate Muffin for playing her part in bringing Mama and me together, and I ask her to keep me healthy and strong so I can live many more good years by Mama’s side. That’s why I remember Ate Muffin, too, and although we never really met—I miss her almost as much as Mama does.

PS I’m also asking Ate Muffin to guide Mama in the choice of my aspin baby sister, when the time comes to bring her home.