Trisha

The Day my Dog Died.

Growls shattered the stillness in our quiet neighborhood that early Saturday ensued. As it turned out, the underdog was yelping for rescue. My wife, hearing our son Allan Paul shouting at our dog, rushed out to intervene. I got concerned.

Woolsy, despite his poor appetite had become aggressive lately. Could our gentle Woolsy be going mad? I tried to dismiss the thought. He’s probably just establishing dominance.

To prevent his hurting others, we chained Woolsy to a backyard post. He resisted, tugging vigorously at the chains. In a sweetheart carry, I brought him to his playboard bed where he ate a little of what we offered him.

Shortly after, he proceeded to bite the chains. I was confident he couldn’t cut the metal like he did the nylon rope which he chewed like it was a nougat. Already uneasy with the thought that we might have to put him away, I left the breakfast tabe with my food half-finished.

In church that same day, I tried to concentrate on the sermon by following the preacher on the verses he read, but my mind kept drifting back to Woolsy. What if he indeed is going mad, gets loose, and do harm? How much would an unti-rabies vaccine cost? Three thousand pesos per shot of a nineshot regimen? What if somebody dies of his bites? My stomach went knots.

Coming home, we found Woolsy in his favorite sunning spot a sand pile. As we entered the driveway, he got up on all fours, tail wagging vigorously in a glad welcome. Our hopes buoyed up. Perhaps the sugar we made him to drink that morning was working.

As we alighted from a vehicles, he eagerly approached us. With both hands, I held his head and asked, “Are you well, Woolsy?” I let him go, and raising his heaf, he let out a pained blend of a howl and a moan as if complaining why we chained him.

My apprehensions rose. I realized we didn’t have a strong-enough cage to safely confine him while under observation. But as Woolsy ate a little of the food and took a few laps of water we...