'Hello... pls read the star's clove section page CV3...an article you'll find touching....'
As Bo was out getting me a pack of ciggies, I called him to get me a copy of The Star. And I flipped it to the Clove section as soon as he handed them to me. The first thing I noticed was a picture of a very cute white dog... And the article written by the editor Alistair J. C. Tan goes like this...
Dogs come into our lives for a purpose, my friend N Shashikala tells me. What that is, probably God only knows. For a dog owner it's enough that a pet's mission is to fill home and lives with joy, exasperation and happiness.
Shashi had gone with me to visit my dog, Putje (pronounced Poochie) during her quarantine after she arrived from Kriszta's Jumpy Clown in Hungary.
Her breeder Krisztina Zsolt raises several bloodlines of champion Havanese, and Mia (Putje's other name) was practically on the plane after I admired the fur kids on her website.
Daughter of champions, Mia, however was a reluctant immigrant. Her motto in her short life of six years seemed, at times, to be: "If I don't like it, I'm outta here."
She made that clear the moment she was tugged gently out of her crate at customs clearance.
Putje made me a mad dash all over the room. With no way out, she decided to sulk under the bulky furniture.
Her next Great Escape attempt was in quarantine.
Mia bolted the moment her kennel door was unlatched, and shot like an arrow, around the secured compound.
She was like a year-old bundle with wind in her hells but, unable to escape, she leapt right into Sashi's arms. Must be a girl thing: her first owner was Krisztina's daughter.
Putje took with the same instincts to bond with my young teenage nieces. She was a child's companion, and a Velcro bundle that stuck close to her people. It was soon clear that she was not a dog's dog.
She did not warm to her own kind, shying away from visiting canines or giving them an earful as they passed by her territory.
Her soft spot seemed to be for a King Charles Cavalier spaniel that was seldom seen outside his house. Putje wandered off a couple of times looking for her soulmate, trotting up the road with the same aplomb that she had running about her own house.
Strangely, Putje did not take to my youngest brother, and would slink away whenever he came to visit.
We assumed that she had a fear of dark-skinned people, as he was heavily tanned.
But my brother was to pass away, a couple of years later, after a short battle with disease. Animals are known to have a sixth sense for disaster, and perhaps Putje's primal instincts had foretold his fate.
Sometimes, I wonder if there was a premonition, too, about Putje's own end. When she came home for the first time, the sight of a dog's body - killed in an accident on the Puchong highway - had upset my friend Hannah, who was driving, and myself.
A dog is to be cherised, I thought, if she is not to end up in ignominy.
Luckily, when Putje died, she came home intact as the day she arrived. Her body was by the side of the road, and she was not squashed flat out of recognition by careless drivers.
She had wriggled out through the fencing during an evening thunderstorm that ended a long hot holiday spell.
Putje had always feared both the clap of firecrackers and thunder. Terror must have driven her somewhere we did not think to search.
As darkness fell, and unable to find her way home, she may perhaps have wandered to the main road, in the hope of hitching a car ride.
Putje was always excited about the short drive from the house to my apartment.
She drove home the last time, shortly after 11pm. I had lit joss sticks for her safety.
Then my nephew and I bundled into his sister's car for McDonald's takeaway, and saw her near the kerb.
Her cold, furry little body was slightly wet from rain, but her half-closed eyes looked as though she was exhausted, and just wanted to come home.
Luckily, she did, one more time.
Signed, Alistair T
Shashi had gone with me to visit my dog, Putje (pronounced Poochie) during her quarantine after she arrived from Kriszta's Jumpy Clown in Hungary.
Her breeder Krisztina Zsolt raises several bloodlines of champion Havanese, and Mia (Putje's other name) was practically on the plane after I admired the fur kids on her website.
Daughter of champions, Mia, however was a reluctant immigrant. Her motto in her short life of six years seemed, at times, to be: "If I don't like it, I'm outta here."
She made that clear the moment she was tugged gently out of her crate at customs clearance.
Putje made me a mad dash all over the room. With no way out, she decided to sulk under the bulky furniture.
Her next Great Escape attempt was in quarantine.
Mia bolted the moment her kennel door was unlatched, and shot like an arrow, around the secured compound.
She was like a year-old bundle with wind in her hells but, unable to escape, she leapt right into Sashi's arms. Must be a girl thing: her first owner was Krisztina's daughter.
Putje took with the same instincts to bond with my young teenage nieces. She was a child's companion, and a Velcro bundle that stuck close to her people. It was soon clear that she was not a dog's dog.
She did not warm to her own kind, shying away from visiting canines or giving them an earful as they passed by her territory.
Her soft spot seemed to be for a King Charles Cavalier spaniel that was seldom seen outside his house. Putje wandered off a couple of times looking for her soulmate, trotting up the road with the same aplomb that she had running about her own house.
Strangely, Putje did not take to my youngest brother, and would slink away whenever he came to visit.
We assumed that she had a fear of dark-skinned people, as he was heavily tanned.
But my brother was to pass away, a couple of years later, after a short battle with disease. Animals are known to have a sixth sense for disaster, and perhaps Putje's primal instincts had foretold his fate.
Sometimes, I wonder if there was a premonition, too, about Putje's own end. When she came home for the first time, the sight of a dog's body - killed in an accident on the Puchong highway - had upset my friend Hannah, who was driving, and myself.
A dog is to be cherised, I thought, if she is not to end up in ignominy.
Luckily, when Putje died, she came home intact as the day she arrived. Her body was by the side of the road, and she was not squashed flat out of recognition by careless drivers.
She had wriggled out through the fencing during an evening thunderstorm that ended a long hot holiday spell.
Putje had always feared both the clap of firecrackers and thunder. Terror must have driven her somewhere we did not think to search.
As darkness fell, and unable to find her way home, she may perhaps have wandered to the main road, in the hope of hitching a car ride.
Putje was always excited about the short drive from the house to my apartment.
She drove home the last time, shortly after 11pm. I had lit joss sticks for her safety.
Then my nephew and I bundled into his sister's car for McDonald's takeaway, and saw her near the kerb.
Her cold, furry little body was slightly wet from rain, but her half-closed eyes looked as though she was exhausted, and just wanted to come home.
Luckily, she did, one more time.
Signed, Alistair T
By the time I finished reading this article, my eyes were filled with so much tears that I know I have to share this with people. I am too a dog lover, I have lost a number of dogs in the past years and somehow couldn't get enough of their loving character and how they can put my stress at bay just by wagging their tails as they welcome me home.
And then, I got my phone and sent a text to Noti "Awwww... I sobbed"
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