A dog's life.

My dad, having a penchant for ugly, literal names, called him Pudyot. Which in Hiligaynon, means to pick up, or sometimes, too, a small quantity. Somewhat like how pinch is in English. We've had a dog named Gansal, for example, for being too noisy; and a Gringo--that one, I remember, had an unusual reddish coat, and was with us right after the real Gringo was in hiding after the '89 coup.

We--my siblings and I--would bemoan these names. They were uncool, uncouth; never mind that these dogs were askals one and all. If we were lucky enough to get first dibs to name a new dog, we would christen them with English names, a little revenge against our father. We had Happy for a long time, due to a silly smile we thought we saw on her face the moment we held her, and a Sabrina, a beautiful dog with a shiny black coat. These names were all failures, by the way: Happy was one mean bitch, literally; and Sabrina--named after the teenage witch--didn't have any magic powers, and was the sweetest of dogs, not the hag Happy was.

But Pudyot was different. Someone had thrown a litter of puppies on an empty lot near our house, and just left them to die. All the neighbors took one puppy and brought it home. It was my mom--the same woman who hated pets, or at least keeping and feeding animals who won't feed you in turn--who surprised us all by telling my dad to get us one of the pups (provided it was male) as well. It was like the whole neighborhood, shocked by such cruelty, decided to band together and pick up these dogs. But after a few days, all but our Pudyot had died.

Pudyot was one weird dog. The first few days we had him, he was so starved he would eat banana peels, and garbage. The only time we ever let him out, he came back reeking to the high heavens of decaying matter. My mom blew her top, and everyone waited with bated breath what she would do. We watched her and waited with the puppy in the front yard for her verdict. We were ready to throw ourselves in front of the dog (our noses covered, of course), and save him a second time as she marched out the front door, muttering about filthy animals. She stomped past where we were huddled, and locked the gate: Pudyot was not to be allowed out of the house where he could go through the dump again. We were so grateful, we volunteered to give him a bath ourselves.

Pudyot grew up to be a small ugly dog, with no talent whatsoever. He looked like a Corgi with a short coat, and his ears grew outward instead of up, like Yoda's. Whenever we'd come home, he'd run to the gate quivering like a horse before a race, and wait for our cautioned "No!" before he'd jump all over us. He couldn't distinguish dogs from goats--he fought with the first and humped the second. We could never teach him to play fetch: whatever you threw at him he would chase, and bring back, but he would clamp it in his mouth and make snarling noises if you attempted to get it back for another round.

But we loved him anyway. He saved my mom's chickens from snakes and rats. He offered himself as a footstool whenever we'd be sitting outside, or he'd put his paws on the seat next to you, and just lay his head on your lap. He offered us tiny gifts of fallen leaves in his mouth whenever we'd come home. But just like the game of fetch, he won't actually give it. It was as if he loved picking up things, but couldn't let go. For the first time, we all felt our dad had hit pay dirt. Pudjie, as my sisters and I call him, our little puppy boy, lived his name.

Today, around 8:00 PM, Pudyot got out through the gate while we were taking out the garbage. He crossed the highway near our house and got hit by a car. He would've been five years old in April. My dad picked him up, and brought him home, for the last time.