Of Feathered, Fiery and Furred Friends

NOW THAT TONYO is no longer a threat, and Ulysses seems safely, thankfully away (I bite my tongue real hard), I can now exclaim a sigh of relief and pay homage to the calm that even storms leave in their wake, which I recognize the value of, instead of its being a harbinger of dread. Without the tempest’s rage, its residual water on the roof’s gutter makes a pleasantly crawling, gurgling sound, as it sloshes into the downspout and ultimately ends up down the drain, the patternless music slowly disappearing in my sleep.

There was no firefly last Monday night, but I wasn’t anxious, since there was a little drizzle again and I’ve known these little glow-worms to not appear when it’s damp (although some of their species prefer dry and humid areas) as they might be enjoying their standing water habitat. Our kasambahay Cita had effectively eradicated stagnant water inside and all around the house it has been heavenly in my lanai sleep-study quarters. I researched a little on these tiny twinklers and was happy with what I found out. The lifespan of these soft-bodied beetles lasts for a year, longer than butterflies, who exist from one week to one month only, a fact I already know. Like God’s favored sparrows (whose existence spans five years, and melodies bless the countryside), fireflies, in addition to reminding us of the importance of our internal character (the glow within, not without), produce light from their bodies’ chemical reaction, and appropriately represent hope, guidance, inspiration, and awakening. They do to me. As they noiselessly twinkle in the dark, invisible except for their light, they implore me to listen to my heart and let these intermittent flashes lead the way toward truth and light. And appreciate that I am able to configure what used to be insignificant.

Missing the little sparkler, therefore, did not thrive against the certainty that it will emerge the next night. And the night after that. And afterwards.

One sleepy afternoon, I was on the couch gearing for a nap when my memory recalled UtoL and our seemingly long-ago forgotten banter about crosses. It was so good-natured she even shared the joke about hers in the company of similarly inclined pals, received as kindly and returned with equal jollity if not feigned chagrin (a specialty, if I may add, of Sis Irene’s). Because of the consolation I have been receiving lately (who’d have imagined I’d bother with fireflies, for crying out loud), I glanced towards Mary and thanked her for the grace and prayed on UtoL’s behalf that, like mine, her cross becomes a crown. I rose from the couch and wrote the prayer down so that, even if the thought reaches and stays with them, my mind can return to it in retrospect.

Before Bronson makes me guilty of passing him by, people must treat animals with kindness as creatures of God (like firefiles, butterflies and sparrows) and avoid both excessive love for them (which will never make Bronson a brat) and indiscriminate use of them especially in scientific experiments that go beyond reasonable limits and entail needless suffering for the animals (I’ve touched on this with Cosmodog Laika).

I didn’t use to dote on our Dachschund mongrel (six years later still a loving, lovable gift to Alex from a friend) until my exile when I missed my family and him (Cita laughed one time I absently called him “Anak” which was par for the course, I think, because, while Alex and Aesop take him out every night for nature call, I assume the task of bathing him, nursing his mange with honey (Alex cautioned against battery water because it’s not vet-prescribed) and making sure he’s in bed below my couch at night. On top of this, I greet him “Good morning,” Good night” and “Our time to pray” at Angelus (and he sprawls beside me) in obedience (would that he had a deity I could pray to as well). Veron might have accidentally influenced my softening to him when she said, at one point, that dogs may not have feelings but emotion they do (she said it with such authority I could not disagree).

Also, Bronson (without his ever knowing it) has a calming effect on me. His brooding, sad, sleepy eyes, when stared at me, melt my heart enough to share whatever I’m eating with him. Mind, in the palm of my hand which, when visitors see, reduce his growls into purrs, and their petting him ultimately.

I also look at his always placid behavior when, my rare irritation I cannot placate, he seems to say, nay, whimper, “Write instead of wrath.” The negativity disappears immediately. His best, most loving body language is when he rubs himself against me or my couch. Unspeakable joy is what he causes when he does that. Next to that gesture, I love it when Kuya calls him “traydor” because, no matter how Alex summons him when he’s (always ) with me (except at meals or walk-him time), the mammal won’t move. And he seems to uderstand when, following my command, I pat him with a “Good dog.” which he responds to by crouching onto his “cabin” below me.

I once wrote an article in Tagalog, “Paano Magbilang ng Biyaya,” essaying the accident I just figured in as a blessing, among many other graces, because it humbled me and made me praise and thank God I came out of it alive and intent on not repeating the mishap. Along with giving Him praise and thanksgiving, I haven’t stopped counting. Amen.