Sansa And the Slippers (And Mocha The Bitch)

      Last year, somebody gave us a few-month old puppy, it’s a Pomeagle. Accepting it wasn’t easy as, one, my sister, who lived with us, didn’t want a dog and two, we had a sickly elderly relative living with us who had difficulty walking, so having a puppy running wildly around the house while this relative hobbled with a walker would be a little problematic, and three, our experiences with dogs weren’t really pretty 

      But, still, we accepted it and promptly and lovingly named it Sansa (yes, Jon Snow’s little sister), just narrowly beating the name Arya (yes, Jon Snow’s other little sister). Sansa seemed nice and, because she’s still a puppy, was quite rambunctious. She would bite and chew every slipper she saw and would run after everyone who was wearing a slipper—which turned out to be her undoing.

      On her third day with us, she accidentally bit the foot of my nephew (a cousin’s son) while they were playing and she was toying with the slipper he was wearing. The wound bled and the parents panicked. I told them to relax and just clean the boy’s shallow wound because the puppy had been given vaccinations, but they would have none of it. Yong tatay ni FPJ, sa kagat ng tuta namatay! they argued. They went to a doctor—which meant (unnecessary) expenses, and it started a conflict. Should the puppy stay and risk biting another kid or be given back to its previous owner?

      Fortunately, there were enough votes that favored the puppy to stay and, then, not long after, Sansa claimed another victim—me. She was toying with the slipper I was wearing (she preferred to play with a slipper or shoe that was in someone’s foot) and inadvertently chomped on my foot. The wound was quite deep and bled profusely. I immediately cleaned it. I tried to keep it a secret (I am a veteran of dog bites)  but failed—they noticed it; and we had to cast our votes again, and the consensus was different this time—we’re not ready for a dog at that time and Sansa had to go. We, sadly, handed it back to its previous owner, who gave it to someone else. When I asked about the puppy again after a few weeks, I was told that it was doing well and had destroyed probably around a hundred pairs of slippers at that time and that the new owner had changed its name.

      “What is Sansa’s new name?” I asked.

      “Mocha,” was the answer.

      “A,” I said, trying to hide my disgust with Sansa’s new name. Sansa Stark is a brave, gallant, honorable woman, and Mocha… I don’t know… these days, with the current dispensation, that name won’t remind you anymore of a flavor… but of a dumb government female propagandist— but, ah, yes, the name probably suits a bitch. Anyway, it’s the year of the dog, they say, and I’m thinking of getting a new dog, a companion when I grow old alone—wait, what’s the lifespan of a dog?— but circumstances in our home still would not allow it.