My dog
I had a dog once. I think I was eight or nine. A neighbor’s dog had six puppies and decided to give us one. So, in a sense, it was the family dog. But in another sense, since I was the one who bathed it, fed it, and cleaned up after it. That made it MY dog.
There was nothing really special about my dog. It was brown and had about three-fourths of a full-length tail. The reason I named her Putol.
I loved that dog. Played with her every chance I got. Walked her, even talked to her. When I come home from school, my dog was always the first one to greet me, her three-fourths of a full-length tail eagerly wagging behind her.
I told her to never put her dirty paws on my white school uniform and she never did. I really thought she understood me.
One day, in school, some friends decided to play basketball the coming Saturday. I thought great! I’d love to play too. And then another volunteered that he would be bringing his dog to school. Okay, I’ll bring mine too.
“So what kind is it?” the school friend innocently asked.
“Kind? What do you mean kind? It is brown -- and it has about three-fourths of a full length tail”.
Before the school friend could make a cruel remark, another schoolmate, kindly rescued me from the predicament and engaged him in all this talk about German Shepherds, Rottweillers and Dobermans.
I was lost. People are mostly unkind, without knowing it.
At the supper table that night, I asked my father, “What kind of a dog is Putol?”
"Kind, what do you mean kind?" My father was always like that, very thorough. And so I explained to him what had happened in school.
After a long pause, my father finally said matter-of-factly “Your dog has no kind. It is a mongrel.”
I was nearly in tears. I didn’t even really know what the word “mongrel” meant. But I knew what it was not. My dog was not a Doberman, not a German Shepherd, not a Rottweiller.
My dog has no kind.
I rushed out to the yard to look for my dog. And as I stared at her intently, her eager tail wagging behind her, I’ve come to this realization. Nothing’s changed. I still loved my dog.
But I never walked her again.
Now people call it "aspin" instead of "askal." It raises the question of naming a dog of no uncertain breed after a nation who are still at a loss at national identity.
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We can delve into the history of dog breeding and knowing that all dogs started out as mongrels, with all the characteristics and genetic traits just mixed in. And that is Nature's way.
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Racism at such an early age. We see it in mothers admonishing their kids to eat their vegetables lest they be given to the "Bumbay" or calling people of Chinese descent, "beho."
Funny that you should read racism into the story. Yes, the story can be read that way. But truth be told, I wrote that for a (brief now ex) girlfriend of mine. I am the mongrel. I didn't belong to her social class. I can not even go to her house, in an exclusive subdivision, without her having to pick me up (as I didn't even have a car). It was something like that. She loved me, and I loved her. But the social pressure, eventually, was too much to bear.
ReplyDeleteI think I know that movie. :)
ReplyDeleteRobin Padilla?
Haha! Not quite. Hindi siya si Sharon. Hindi naman ako si Binoe. Lol!
ReplyDeleteBut oh, I did have a dog named Putol. And the events stated in the story did happen. But I wrote it much later in life -- for the special friend.
ReplyDeleteIt really doesn't matter what breed your dog is.
ReplyDeleteRemember "Polgas, ang asong Hindi"? He's an askal and he's proud about it.
Where else in the world can you find Askals?