When you get too involved, Part 2.

Some of the dogs are kept out back, tied up so they don’t get impounded and eaten by the police. May-ug feeds them our leftovers every night after dinner. She walks out in a red-checked apron, a large kettle balanced in her right arm. She kicks and shoos the dogs away as they lunge and strain against their leashes towards her, towards the food. She pours a cold stew of rice and fat and bones and water into their bowls and they push each other aside to get to it. They have been fed tonight, but still they lunge at me anyway as I walk past them towards May-ug. They seem excited for the company.

I stand next to her, against an unfinished concrete wall with long re-bar poles sticking out. May-ug looks away from me, still crying, her head leaning against one of the poles. There are many houses like this, with unfinished walls, with rebar sticking out everywhere. Many projects never finished; the money run dry.

I don’t say anything; I just rub her back as she cries. I tell her to try and take a deep breath like my mom and dad used to tell me. I’m worried that she will go numb or pass out like last time. She doesn’t look at me, but I sense her effort to breathe, to calm herself. She holds out her hand to me.

“Stretch my fingers,” she says—it’s the first thing she’s said since I came out here. I don’t know what she means exactly, but I take her hand in mine and try to lay her tense, curled fingers flat against my palm.

We stand like this for quite awhile; I don’t know how long. She pulls her hand back and keeps looking out into the night. There is some kind of party going on across town—a wedding or a wake, perhaps—and because we are up on the hill we can see and hear the people below us. They are playing country music down there, and someone has a megaphone or a really loud mike system. It’s a strange soundtrack for the night, and I feel as if I’m living Smallville even if I’m not watching it.

After awhile I ask her if she wants me to leave. She doesn’t say anything. “Do you want me to stay?” I ask. She nods her head. Part of me doesn’t want to anymore—I’m exhausted and I hadn’t wanted this tonight. But I stay. We turn around and sit with our backs to the concrete wall. The dogs—some of them free, some of them on leashes mill around us. Raul and Mart play in the yard between Adam’s house and their own, a yard full of rocks, dirt and bits of concrete. They toss rocks at cans and every once in awhile Raul comes by and stands next to us, or sits nearby, not saying anything. It’s his way of showing he cares.

I can’t stretch my legs out because of the small puddles of pee and little piles of dog shit lying around. We are also sitting next to the bathroom—which they have outside. I ask her if we can move, so we get up and move to some concrete steps nearby to be more comfortable. Still, we say little.

The dogs surround us—there are six of them, and four of them are unleashed tonight. The other two strain against their leashes and bark lightly—at us, at the dogs next door, at each other—so many barking dogs in this town. One of the unleashed dogs is pregnant and she waddles up next to us. She stands near me and I do something I don’t do often here—I pet her. I didn’t get a rabies vaccine and the disease is rampant up here, so I’m careful. But I know she won’t bite me. I scratch her head for awhile, and the other dogs come up and sniff May-ug and lick her ankles.

“In the U.S.,” I say, “Some people think that dogs can sense emotion. So when you’re sad, they can tell, and they try to comfort you.”

May-ug looks at me, trying to see if I’m joking. I shrug. “I believe it,” I say. I don’t smile. The pregnant dog walks over to May-ug and puts her chin next to her thigh. May-ug reaches out and scratches her head.

“Maybe because she’s a mother-dog she is even more sensitive,” I say. I want May-ug’s mother here—that’s what this girl needs, her mother. I want to take her home tonight—her parents live in Banaue—I want her to be with people who know her and love her, not some American woman who will leave in four months.

The pregnant dog reminds me of one I saw in Batad. She had just given birth to puppies that would later be sold around the town—to protect their owners, eat leftovers, and who knows what else. My friend and I were all excited that she’d given birth, but were also disturbed. The dog was shivering—hungry and exhausted. The owners of our lodging didn’t care. “We’ll feed her by and by,” Rita, the owner, said. I wanted to give her my food, any food. I didn’t care if she was a dog, she was a mother; she had just given birth.

“Can’t they take care of her just this once?” I said to my friend. “She just gave birth!” But to the owners it wasn’t any special thing. We never even found out if the puppies were born alive.

Part of me told May-ug about the dog sensitivity to redeem them somehow; to make them more than just meat, something to eat, something to protect you. I want to redeem everyone here—May-ug, the dogs, the rice terraces—but all I can do is sit here, looking out into the darkness. All I can do is encourage May-ug when she says she will go upstairs and pack her bags; that she will move back home tomorrow because she can’t live here any more. All I can do is try and forget as I watch Smallville later that night with Adam, Mart, and Raul. Someone else’s drama helps me forget about the one outside my door.