‘SI Putong ba ’yang kasama mo, Sir [Is that Putong with you]?”
It was a question coming from a Facebook account. As happens, there was no name and the photo was not of a person. Before even finding out who was asking, I said yes.
I then looked into the photos and other details of the Facebook account and found that the person asking was Enan, the former caretaker of the house that used to be my office when I was managing a developmental non-governmental organization.
Enan was talking about the dog in my profile picture. The dog has huge ears that were standing up. He was not at all anxious. I was. His eyes were shaded by black hair that gave him that charming, quizzical look. He certainly looked very cozy in my arms.
Putong was a security guard dog. He was not big. Even after a few months, he remained a medium-sized dog, but with a voice that was loud.
How he came to the office was an odd story. The office, for some reason, could not have a security guard. I do not remember now what the issue was all about.
One day Enan said he would bring a dog to accompany him when he stayed overnight in the office. He reported, one day, to the office with a small dog. I took to liking the small dog because he immediately nudged my hand with his mouth without licking it.
The next concern was naming the dog. I do not know how the dog came to be called Putong. We just thought the name fit him. For some reason, he looked like a dog who was a Putong. He was the sound of that name, no crackling consonant, no mushy tenderness in the vowels. It was just the right name, not too street-wise but not too domesticated cute either. The name sounded as if Putong was more of a boy than a dog. A thinking dog with lots of sense of humor.
Everybody in the office loved Putong and everybody liked his name, except for one. I did not know that this young female social worker had trauma with a dog. She was scared of dogs and the first time Putong, tiny as he was then, came near her, she kicked the dog. Her foot missed Putong by a few inches but the dog became aware that someone in the house, for the office was a house, did not like him. It became a pattern then that when everyone filed out to go home, Putong would growl at that one person. It was irritating for the young girl and it was irritating for me to see Putong growl. Showing his fangs as he growled made Putong ugly.
Dogs, I believe, do not know how to hate until we teach them to.
But Putong stayed on and became the guard dog.
Aside from Putong—his name and duty—there was another odd thing about the office: it was right across where I lived. This meant that when I came out of the compound where I lived, I look out to the gray gate of my office.
The organization I managed did not have its own office for awhile. It was then my first task to look for one. We were scouring the area and when it was taking such a long time already, I informed the board that there was one very near.
The problem, I had to tell them, was that it was just across my home. I was worried the staff would extend their office hours into my home, or that they would bring papers for me to sign when I was already home. When finally we chose to rent the place, I made it clear that no one at all, emergency or not, should go to my home.
The policy of my home being different from office affected the status of Putong: he could not be brought to my home.
Then one day, I and the organization began not to like each other. I resigned. I asked Enan to keep Putong. I held Putong for the last time and never again went near him. The problem was my home was just across. When I would go home late at night, Putong would bark upon seeing me. Putong also recognized the grating of the gate of the compound. He would bark until I slipped into home.
Each night, long after I had left the office, Putong would bark at the sound of the gate being opened to my home. Each night, I would try very hard not to make a noise as I slowly opened the gate to my home.
Putong one day went home with Enan. It was 2004.
Enan commented how I was lucky to have my photo of Putong still intact. He lost his many photos with Putong during Typhoon Ondoy.
Enan told me Putong died in 2008.
I still live in the same compound and the house that was once my office is still there in front. Now, at night, I try hard not to make a noise as I open the gate to my home. I do not want to hear Putong barking and missing me.
E-mail: titovaliente@yahoo.com
Image credits: Jimbo Albano