An Island of Dogs – by Ronald Araña Atilano
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
Everyone had left after the typhoons,
says our boatman. Only two dogs live here—
they wander aimlessly through mudflats,
along the empty beach. See them come to the water
to meet us, tails wagging as soon as boat touches sand,
eyes leaping as we disembark.
The shore rolls away, sharp shells cutting our toes,
our new friends bounding along, chasing
waves and saltspray. The spotted one clambers
playfully atop a decapitated
coconut trunk, while the other sniffs here and there,
digging. From under the sand, a scattering
of swollen timber, rusted roofs and door jambs,
half-buried cupboard housing a family of crabs.
Out by the trees, a house stands askew,
windows slanted so sharply the kapiz1 shutters
could slide open anytime, somebody hollering
a morning greeting, inviting us in for salabat2.
We take so many pictures—an orphaned clothesline,
a frayed fishing net, the carcass of an electric fan,
an armless kettle, a wide-eyed doll’s head—
the dogs photobombing. On the sparse grass,
we leave them scraps of leftover barbecue,
patting their foreheads. Do they think we are their lost masters?
Now the skies turn orange, the boatman calling:
time to leave, the water now rising fast.
When the motor roars, the dogs sit on the sand,
so still like seaside sculptures, eyes locked
on our boat as we set out. Don’t worry,
the boatman adds, tourist boats pass this way
to feed them. Slowly they turn into a pair of dots
on a thin white line, a miniature dream
that rises and falls with each jolt of tide and wave,
vanishing under ashen clouds.
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Endnotes
1 kapiz, oyster shells used as window panels in Spanish-Filipino colonial houses
2 salabat, a hot ginger tea made by crushed ginger in water.
Image: Vishnu KR - Unsplash
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