The Bitches of Bukid-non
You look haggard said Marilyn to me, a very dear friend and neighbor in Vienna, the last time she skyped me. It could only be your house in Bukid-non, she added before I could reply. She was familiar, too familiar, with the never-ending story of my house since Day One, when architect/carpenter wannabes dug a hole in my lot that would be the foundation of my dream house-turned-nightmare. I was having trouble sleeping thereafter.
This time, it was my dogs: two dogs with “askal” breeding (asong kalye —stray dogs—as they are called here), chained to the concrete wall that surrounds my property. They sleep in a makeshift teeny-weeny, sides-open doghouse, with a likewise teeny-weeny roof. Joseph — my nephew, and another farm hand, made the chain short to prevent the dogs from attacking the chickens that would sometimes venture bravely, and too close, as in a dare, to the doghouse in destroying banana trees that provide shade to their territory. The problem was (and still is) that the dog collar was so tight the poor creatures had trouble breathing. And when it rains — and it rains incessantly since the day I got in here — they get wet and cold, no doubt they get crazy and wail all the time. It was pouring rain the first night Walter and I slept in the house — alone! Well, almost alone. I should not forget to mention that Walter owns three dwarf (shih tzu) dogs who sleep in his bed with him. The chained dogs were just behind our respective bedrooms, and one must be deaf and blind not to see or hear how they suffer. And when Walter’s strange bedfellows see the chained canines through the French glass bedroom windows, they get excited and bark like mad. Shortly before midnight, I let the dogs out of their agony, but, knowing how wild they could get, I stayed till late to watch over them.
Free again, the dogs were celebrating. Intoxicated with regained freedom that may have tasted like sweet wine to them, the dogs were running all over the garden, stopping briefly to take a quick sniff of unfamiliar grounds, toppling potted plants and everything in their way! I was worried they would trample the ground orchids my nephew planted the previous summer. They were now in full bloom, but with just one dog leap, I was dead sure they would look lonelier than the proverbial party wall-flower.
And then, of course, there were these free-range chickens in the backyard to worry about. My dogs love chicken, anyway you serve it!
So I let the dogs stay in the house, but the dog with pneumonia was more than I could take! From my bedroom, I could hear the bitch clearing its throat like it was suffocating. Walter believed he caught pneumonia. Talk of overnight vets! Before going to bed, I asked him to choose: free the dogs or let the chickens die! Let the chickens die, his prompt reply! He was the one who wanted to raise chickens because he said he would need at least 20 eggs a day for his baking! I told him it would be best if I sent the dogs away, like donating them to the so-called “dog-lovers” in my village, the next day. They come by the dozens; they need to get a number! He thought I was serious with my threat; he was quiet the whole night! Case closed, or so I thought!
I was dead tired, having had too little sleep the previous nights, but sleep was elusive. I was also worried that, when I was not looking, the mad dogs might steal my treasures from the flea markets of Vienna. My treasures were safe! Walter’s scattered all over the floor: his cigarettes chopped beyond any smoking possibility, try as he might; reading glasses; shiny splinters of shattered glass, and an ashtray dotted the living room floor. Looking closer, I found my latest copy of a magazine on interior designs shredded into pieces, you could use them as confetti for the New Year. I almost tripped stepping on a heap of something wet and sticky. And before the roosters could announce the break of dawn, I was already washing and mopping the floor, mouthing expletives that could make Leona Helmsley — New York City’s erstwhile Queen of Mean – cower in fear!
The haggard look? Yes, the bitches of Bukid-non! Could anyone get me an appointment with Vicky Belo, please?