Old Carabao

Humans are said to be the greatest beings in the animal kingdom. Our level of intellect and capacity for compassion are not found in the ordinary creatures. Yet man also has the capacity to choose to be selfish and unfeeling, which potential can turn him into the worst animal of all.

When I was a small boy, our family had a carabao. The animal was my father’s biggest help in the cornfield. It worked the hardest, but didn’t require special attention.

The carabao didn’t have a name; it was probably not necessary, because it was only an animal. But our housedog had a name, Leica, purportedly after some early Russian space scientist. The creature of much bigger service to the family didn’t deserve a name.

It was a female carabao much older than I was. It didn’t bear any offspring, though; motherhood would interfere with its service to us. We were its only known family, and the good animal indeed served us like we were close blood relations.

I was the one, of us siblings, assigned to look after the carabao. I was to feed it, graze it in the open pastures or else gather fresh grass for it, everyday. I had to keep it clean and fresh, too; take it to the river early mornings and late afternoons.

It was a daily routine I took to heart. I figured out that if the carabao were not there we children would be the ones doing its job in the cornfield. It would have been impossible for the seven of us together to perform even just half the carabao’s task, especially that we were still very young then.

The carabao and I were friends. Many times I studied my school assignments on the carabao’s back while grazing it. I daydreamed a lot up there, too. It was while enjoying a lazy ride that I first sensed of my destiny – to someday become President of the Philippines, or be elected Pope so I would save the whole world instead of just one poor country.

But my friendship with the carabao was not one between equals. I belonged to the family that the carabao served, the masters that tied their loyal servant to a tree after a whole day of hard work. The animal was kept away from our house.

Through years of hard labor, the carabao eventually weakened; it was getting old. It now needed more breaks and more frequent dips in the mud pool during a day’s work. A human being in the same physical state would already be allowed to rest, to just stay home and be cared for by family members.

One night after dinner, my father instructed me to take the carabao to the river at sunrise, to bathe it. Someone was coming to see the animal. He didn’t say who or for what purpose.

The following morning, upon returning from the river, I brought the carabao to the idle field at the back of our house to graze. I saw my father with a stranger; they were talking in whispers. The stranger had his eyes fixed at the grazing animal.

The two men seemed to haggle for a while, and then shook hands. My father called for me to bring the carabao in. I was glad, thinking that the stranger came to help my ageing friend.

The stranger carefully checked the carabao. Satisfied, he took out his wallet, counted several bills, and handed the money to my father. The man was an animal trader — he was buying our carabao.

At that point, the carabao ceased to be our family’s property. The trader took the carabao’s leash from my hand. The poor animal obediently followed as the new owner pulled it away.

My heart shrank watching the carabao leave. After a few steps the poor creature stopped and turned to me, like a true friend bidding its final goodbye, its eyes sad as mine. We both didn’t understand what was happening.

The carabao had expended its usefulness to the family. My father said it had to be disposed of while there was still a trader interested to buy it. The more he explained, the more confused I became.

What happened that day, more than forty years ago, continues to haunt me today. It still bothers me to think about the old carabao: whether it was justifiable to get rid of the animal that had once served us well, simply because it had grown old and useless; whether being practical was a valid excuse for being cruel. (E-MAIL: [email protected])