My Grandson

Meet Fidel Castro, my grandson, a French Bulldog. He is my daughter, Maverick's son. She brought him home from the breeders when he was two months old. He has slept on her bed ever since. He's two years old and spoiled rotten. Everyone in the family dotes on him. This is probably why he doesn't know he's a dog. He acts like a human being; he is so opinionated and has this overwhelming sense of entitlement that makes me want to pinch his bat ears. He can't sleep unless it's on the bed and on top of a down pillow. My friend Mabek gave me a silk duvet from China, which feels like wisps of clouds--light and fluffy and guess who enjoys it most? Fidel of course or Fifi as we have all taken to calling him. I know; it's ironic, the name Fifi. He has the face of an executioner and a name of a French hairdresser from gay Pareeeh. He's so ugly that he becomes cute, you know what I mean?

Once we were in the Shell Station in the South Express way and Fidel stuck his head out the window. One gasoline boy said to another, "Pare, tignan mo yung aso, ubod ng pangit!" I felt bad but hey, he was only being truthful. It's very true, this cliche that goes: he's got a face only a mother could love. That's Fidel for you.

We've been planning to get a companion for him. I've been pushing for an English Bulldog but the odds don't look good. Everybody else wants another Fidel--a Frenchie, which is actually a smaller version of the English Bulldog but with prominent ears (the French bred them with terriers). I'll keep hoping...