Our Times

Writings of Susan Ople aka Toots, columnist of Panorama Magazine and Tempo, proud mother of Estelle and 7 dogs, namely, Picasso, Monet, Suzy, Miggy, Marty, Chandler and Joey. Daughter of the late war veteran, journalist, writer, labor minister, constitutional commissioner, senator, senate president, and foreign affairs secretary Blas F. Ople aka Ka Blas.

Friday, April 28, 2006

My dog Monet

Monet is the name of my dog. I named him after the famous painter because he is a work of art. He has huge leprechaun ears and eyes that bulge when mad, and a body that fits in my purse. Sometimes, he acts like a cat, rubbing his thin, sleek, black body against my skin. He also likes to curl up like a cat on top of my pillow.

He is a chihuahua wrapped in black satin with tiny white specks in the most delightful areas. Think of a domino with four legs and a wagging tail.Monet impresses with his distinguished, rolling growl. Quite unique in the canine world, I say. If there was a call center for dogs, my Monet would be on top of everyone's hiring list. Why, the pizza delivery man thought the dog behind the screened door was a doberman, because of Monet's Pavarotti-like growl!

My dog is a healthy eater. He dislikes white bread and is choosy about breakfast. Spam is okay, and he likes his eggs sunny side up like me. But don't even think of feeding him junk food. He'll just stare at it until the chips wither and die.

If he had time to blog (Monet leads a hectic life), his entries would be about the future. Like Nostradamus, my dog has the gift of prophecy. He knows when my car has entered the subdivision. He senses my arrival even before I pressed the doorbell. He rallies everyone else (Monet is husband of Picasso and dad of 5 puppies and all except one are bigger than him) to form a half-circle right behind our back door.

God gave Monet to me for a reason: to remind me who's boss. Because in truth, I don't own Monet; Monet owns me.


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