I’m a magnet for strays. There I slump, torpid from the heat, up against a coconut trunk by the beach when I catch a smudge of yellow out of the corner of my eye. I turn to get a better look. It stares right back, sizing me up, unsure of the attraction.
Not me. I stretch out an arm, beckoning. “Ooh, baby. Comecomecome.” Baby steps forward, sniffing my hand. I fondle its crown, move on to the chest, and finally rest my palm on its tummy. It rolls over and paws air. “Baby likes that, hmm? Mmm? Mmm?” Another roll and it’s rearing up to lick my face. I take a quick sniff, noting the salty tang on its coat. Now we’re embracing — its forepaws planted on my shoulders, me ruffling its backside with equal vigor. I’m instantly showered with loose fur.
If only it were this easy to make human friends. Except I can’t just wave over any person that drifts into my orbit. That’s what my friend A. does and it mortifies me, even more so when that person responds. I can’t get over the very casualness of it all. And yes, he calls everyone “baby” who doesn’t fit into the category of “mader” or “fader.”
My brand of magnetism is pretty much limited to the four-legged kind, especially dogs and cats of uncertain provenance or ownership. They flock to me like iron filings. There’s Edward, a regular at the barbecue court. His favorite is grilled liver. More, if you please. And hold the rice. He eventually brought a pal along, then decided he did not savor sharing the attention (and the food) after all. He came on the heels of Burikat, so-christened because of her “openness” to the males of her species. I spent a week scouting the pounds and shelters when she stopped showing up. She left behind Tsunami, Marquez, and a host of other progeny, all quarrelsome and born with a sense of entitlement (my fault, of course). I never did care much for the brats; they did not have their mother’s friskiness.
Then there’s Minggay. I found her in a ditch, barely alive from human-inflicted injuries. There was nothing to be done about her right eye, but she survived to bear many children of her own. I left her with the couple who ran the barbecue stand, our home not being the most hospitable environment for felines (my father had taken to poisoning the cats that nested in our ceiling). Minggay was as catty as cats came. To the extent that cats can be said to be sweet, I’ve known sweeter. I could not blame her. She would leap on to my lap and hiss at anyone who came near: Edward, even her own kids. She owned me. My friends used to joke that Minggay was the only cat with a charge account.
We have enough dogs at home to keep us busy. It takes a certain type of person to live with dogs — especially, one resigned to mopping up pools of pee and picking up after “accidents,” bodily (one of our dogs is old and incontinent) or otherwise. Footwear, furniture, houseplants, books, antique vases, eyeglasses, cellphones: our dogs have had a shot at them all (right now we have one fixated with the compost heap). They’re an endless source of complaint from Ma. She is constantly threatening to throw one into the river out back, but if there’s a line to be crossed, no one has ever managed to cross it to deserve that fate. Not even Tuffy. I met him hustling the wharves.* He was a sneak, a thief, and thoroughly adorable. A war freak, too. He did not get along with Scooby, our black Labrador. Scooby was everyone’s favorite. Ma makes it clear she wants to be buried with him at her feet. But she fell for Tuffy too. Bastard had a way.
We love whom we love. My list is long. Mommy Amber, our yellow Lab. Dimples the pug, whom the help nicknamed Mari Mar. The other Minggay at the seedy resort I used to frequent. Kamlon with the wandering eye. Inday. Palang. I don’t talk about them much, but my friends know they’re the reason I can’t stay away from home for too long. Them — and all the cats and dogs that litter this earth with no one to love them. “Are you going to bring this one home?” my sister asks about my new friend. “I won’t tell Ma.”
Animals are animals, says Cesar Millan. Don’t treat them like humans. I agree. Then I go pamper my own like they’re helpless babies. Needy, whiny, bossy, they steal my heart and break it by dying on me. Tuffy succumbed to a centipede sting, Mari Mar and Scooby to infection. Burikat probably made it to someone’s table — as dinner. At least I’m more rational about their passing. You can not be too sentimental about these creatures. Truth be told, I have never shed a tear over an animal. One is always busy painting my face with spit at any given moment.
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