The Devil

I have recently committed a crime. This one stands out from all the transgressions I commit all the time, whether consciously or not, because the victim here was most unlikely. It is the crime of cruelty on my most beloved one.

When I left home for work on that fateful day, there was no hint of what was to happen upon my return in the evening. I was in a bright mood as I bid goodbye to my Budot, the dog I took in purposely so that the other one, Bubbles, would have a playmate. As usual, we – Budot and I – went through the little ritual that we have since established at my every departure: I would ask him to lie down on his side and close his eyes, and he would; and I would acknowledge the obedience with an appreciative “Very good!” and then I’d be on my way.   

Everything went well for me at work that day. I finished the next day’s issue of The Freeman Lifestyle on time. After passing by the supermarket for a few packs of the dogs’ favorite instant noodles, I took a ride home.

The house was quiet as I opened the gate downstairs. None of Budot’s welcoming barks. Inexplicably, it felt to me like something was not quite right; and so I proceeded cautiously upstairs.

Bubbles, right outside the door, wagged her tail, as she always would in seeing me. There was no sign of activity inside, where Budot was. Very carefully I opened the door – and the sight that met my eyes blew my mind away!

Everything in the small living room was in chaos. The books that were in a neat pile when I left in the morning were scattered all around. Worst of all, my DVD collection of about 50 great classic films had been thrown out of the individual cases, with some discs bearing marks of dog teeth, obviously damaged.

Assessing the scene, it was hard to imagine that it could be the work of one regular-size dog. It looked more like a grown man had run amok. And several of my precious DVDs were now useless!

My mind blacked out. My blood boiled and I started frantically searching around for “the devil”. When I saw him taking cover amid the rubble in the kitchen, I fumed all the more and reached for the metal handle of the floor mop. 

I hit the dog with all my strength, and continuously, like I was going to kill him. The scared poor creature tried to parry the blows by biting the metal bar as it would hit him. I raged further, thinking that the action was meant to dare me.

After hitting the dog’s mouth so hard – for I don’t know how many times – my most beloved pet began to bleed profusely. And he was moaning like a little child in utter pain. It was only then that I came back to my senses.

I was myself horrified at what I had done, overcome with both self-condemnation and remorse. It occurred to me that my dear dog was not “the devil” – but I was. For how was Budot supposed to know that it was wrong to disarrange the house? I never told him; and even if I did, he would not probably understand the language. 

He sat there, still moaning lightly, as I hit my hand in deep repentance. His sad stare conveyed that he was sorry for causing my anger. I couldn’t look straight in his eyes.

His tail wagged when I called his name in the usual friendly tone. Like the calm sound was magic that made him forget the pain from the cruelty he’d just been subjected to – by the very person he saw as his protector, his friend, his champion. Shame on me!

At the vet’s clinic later, the attendant asked what happened. I said Budot was attacked by a bigger dog. The whole treatment cost a hefty amount – but nothing enough to compensate for the betrayal I had committed on a most loyal friend.

Such incredible faithfulness that my Budot showed me will haunt me to the last of my days. And it will be my constant reminder that “the devil” is real. And that I shall always be watchful not ever again to let “the devil” use me.