Pet Shop: Hobby or Business?

The pet shop has definitely garnered a firm foothold in the economic landscape of the old hometown. While their number may not approximate those of the lechon-manok eating places or the must have one in each corner bakeries, the pet shop certainly can be seen and counted among the visible players in the malls and some of the heavily-trafficked commercial areas of the city.

While people from other places may wonder why my sudden interest and/or surprise in the pet shop as a business, let it be said that when I left the old homeland about 29 years ago, the number of pet shops in the city was an absolute nil. You wanted dogs or cats, you simply asked your friends or our relatives who had them. Birds or fowl as pets? Again you asked your hunter friends. Okay, so some solitary guy may position himself conspicuously in the market and sell a monkey or two or some birds, or even dogs. But not as an established business, in permanent locations, and providing the whole panoply of things needed to acquire and maintain pets.

So 30 years later, and the selling of pets ranging from dogs, cats, birds to fish, rabbits, hamsters, etc., has become a recognized economic activity designed for profit. Of course, the pet shop owner may still be the hobbyist/enthusiast/animal lover who was fond of pets and tried breeding them on the side. He may still be the guy who kept himself in the house most of the time attending to his aquaria and monitoring the progress of the many fishes that he kept in his collection.

But now it is a viable and thriving enterprise. Many families with pedigreed pets now breed them on the side and dispose of them in the pet shops around town. Pedigree and papers to show it are now common jargon among this group, and even as conversation pieces. A mixed breed can go for as low as 5,000 pesos, but a pure breed, especially those for which the locals have taken an endearing liking, or because they have seen or read that these breeds are famous and noted in other countries, can command as much as 25,000 pesos locally, and much more if in high-brow and affluent Metro Manila.

Having just recently revived an old aquarium left behind and having bought a puppy, I had occasion to travel around town giving pet shops the look-around and doing-over.

Consummated both transactions from this pet shop, located along extremely busy Corrales Avenue, congested with traffic from Cogon Market and with those heading for the malls in town.

Manned by a young couple in their 30’s, the smallish pet shop is housed in a neat concrete building owned by the couple’s family. Both husband and wife appear quite animated in hawking their wares and extolling the obvious virtues of acquiring pets. The husband is quite knowledgeable about the many intricacies of acquiring and maintaining different kinds of pets, and treats each walk-in customer with singular attention and focus. Like one was the most important client of their establishment. Very inspiring then to be dealing with such youthful personalities.

Of Pens, Pencils, and Markers

Writing has been with man most probably as early as when he learned to walk on two feet. It may have simply started as clumsy etchings on the sand or any soft surface using sticks or fingers, but we know how thoroughly inclined man is now with regard to scribbling. So engrossed or dedicated as to find time and resource for it even when doing something very personal. Maybe like relieving oneself? Many cannot help playing with their hands clasping whatever is available writing on walls and wherever pen, pencil, paint, or marker can reach and take hold. The many public bathrooms are wordy and graphic testimonies to this proclivity.

And writing implements have gone through a lot of evolution even with just our modern times, from the ink-dipped quills, to the more lasting and convenient fountain pens, to cheaper graphite pencils, and now, the explosion of the utilitarian ballpoint pens made famous and popular initially by the popular French brand BIC. Ball pens are now so cheap and common, they can be found literally everywhere. On the moon, too? Oh, Yeah! “Neil Armstrong and crew would have been trapped there had Buzz not improvised by jamming a ball point pen into the switch's hole to activate liftoff.”


This is not say that there are no more writing implements that can still cause considerable pain on the wallet and are exquisitely crafted, and even made of precious metals. In the not too distant past Parker, Schaeffer, Waterman, and other expensive brands made use of silver- or gold-tipped nibs that many of us wealth-deprived cherished with all of our puny hearts. And they were good writing instruments, too, especially for those inclined to calligraphy. Time was when Cross ball pens and pencil sets were the gold standard, fit and appropriate even as worthy reward for and acknowledgment of long tedious years of service and as keepsake tokens to loved ones. Of course many would say the Mont Blanc fountain pens stand on a high pedestal all its own as a superb writing instrument, not counting its very expensive price tags, running in the hundreds of dollars.

Anyway, however everybody else may view writing implements and their value and use, I took a quick inventory of all pens, pencils, and those indispensable marker pens, in the house and without counting, came up with 5 plastic boxes of them, excluding those strategically located in the house – in a desk drawer, on a cabinet in the kitchen, and maybe a dozen (those with both priceless memories but with modest monetary values attached) stored in a safer place.

Again, this collection did not materialize over time with any intended deliberate purpose and effort. We just over time ended up with them rather than the garbage cans from a variety of sources – from family members, friends, businesses, etc.

They obviously are mostly ball pens, or more appropriately ballpoint pens, of various shapes, sizes, materials, colors, etc.

Of Hats And Caps

In this sainted land of overarching consumerism and an unrelenting era of abundance, it is not difficult to understand why people unwittingly become collectors of stuff. Thus, even if bereft of any crazed proclivities an Imelda Marcos would find casual and natural, items fall into one’s lap in great heap-full quantities especially consumer items that come in differing styles, colors, designs, shapes, etc. And reaching sufficient critical mass, they rightly then could be adjudged as collections. Whether they are shoes, cars, hats, cosmetics, accessories, toys, sports items, matchbooks, etc.

Since a lot of ladies, and I suppose men, too, are fond of personal accessories, we hear how good fortunes are spent on them not only for daily usage but also as prized “collections”. Thus collections of expensive and exquisite perfumes, exorbitantly prized hand-made designer handbags, different shades of lipsticks, etc. do not anymore raise many eyebrows. And imagine what good-sized fortunes are spent to collect either antique or just plain expensive cars? We read that the initial design of Bill Gates’ mansion had a garage that could accommodate 89-100 cars and that was just the initial design in a now completed house that had to undergo so many changes and additions that if they were cosmetic facelifts you would not recognize the finished product.

But anyway, the subject is collections, whether so designed and intended, or simply because one ends up with so many pieces of one item that it then becomes a collection. Let’s talk then about caps and hats. It is almost always when one decides to move to another location after dwelling in one place for a considerable amount of time that one realizes the extent of one’s “holdings” on certain things, whether considered valuable, useful, or not on both.


So proceeded I did to take stock of one such item – hats and caps. Cramped into one carton box in the spare room, I laid them out on the floor to be surprised to realize there were 40 of them – of varying shapes and colors, of different logos and purposes, and I suppose of different fits. One looks like the old railroad cap of yore one sees on old Western movies, others used primarily as visors against the sun, and the rest you wear identifying your favorite teams or government agencies. And one, my favorite, is a real cowboy hat in black, though a little too tight for my fit. And I do hereby declare that of this entire menagerie, it is the only one that I bought with my own money, a used one and bought at a flea market at that. The rest just happened to float around and end up at home, or in other words, given, left behind, or gifted.

But I knew there should be more around the house. Spotted a stray one prominently displayed on the dashboard of the truck parked in the garage. Next stop was the shed where bikes repose and found 4 more tightly bunched in a little leftover space. Thus the final tally scored 45. And wouldn’t you say that given that number that this could qualify as a collection?









Now let me see, it would take me over a year (450 days) to wear each one ten times assuming I wear a hat/cap everyday. Not too bad compared to a comparison with Imelda’s shoes. A similar estimate was made on her shoe “collection”. The unabashed conclusion was that she would have to wear out her feet before she could try all her shoes and walk on them – just for one time.

Now let me tell you about T-shirts, sleeveless or with sleeves, used or brand-new. And the initial dilemma would be: where do I begin? And please not counting those already disposed or given over time.

Can I include this bike helmet as another head covering?

What Is Art, again?

Maybe the above question is something we ought to ask often if only to highlight the attendant difficulties and uneasy confusion people encounter when trying to define what art is. The oft-quoted cliché that beauty is in the eye of the beholder could apply also in judging what art is, whether serious, pop, or whatever.

This untended difficulty reared its head during the last entry on my poster collection of Norman P. Rockwell works. Many critics had panned Rockwell’s works by denying him the honor of considering his work as serious art; instead that he was simply an illustrator however gifted he was as such.

And I always have a problem with such restrictive delineation because my mind has not really been able to grasp the exact parameters of what serious art really is. Should one rely strictly on the judgments of the art critics? But don’t they disagree amongst themselves? And many would go further and decry the lack of objectivity or relevance in many admired critics.

Anyway, I am not making this orphaned confusion my personal problem, because I simply follow my gut feelings and try to work up good feelings about the works that appeal to what I could consider my sense of what is beautiful, tasteful, or extraordinary.

To reveal somewhat what could be considered works that I value and keep, presented hereunder are several works which currently hang around the house.

The first one hangs almost unnoticed in the garage. Now, this is so simply because the interior of the house is already littered to capacity with other odd stuff. Anyway, it is clearly an oil painting of the Last Supper of Christ, but quite coarse and rudimentary if I may be forgiven in saying so. It appears to have been created from an art-by-the-numbers kit, the actual execution of which may not have been perfectly faithful to accompanying instructions (depth in the ceiling appears like an optical illusion image). But it is reasonably valued and loved by us because it came from a dearly departed widow who was very close to the wife. The same widow who gifted us with the antique furniture, subject of an earlier blog entry. According to her, it was meticulously created by her late husband who was quite an eclectic handyman around the house. Thus, it will be part of our house and will be reasonably cared for and treasured as work of art.

The next one hangs in one of the guest rooms and is accented with a wall clock underneath it. The subject is the same, the Last Supper of Christ. However, it is not painted. It is woven into a fabric. It was gifted to the wife by some client in the bank she worked. For my part, I got me an old wooden frame, sanded and spruced it up. Then installed the fabric tightly to the inner frame. I consider it unique because the intricate image is woven into the fabric, thus I treasure it and again consider it a valued work of art.

The third one, or actually nine of them, is similar in that the images are woven into the fabric and all have Japanese motif, most prominent of which are the ones with holy and majestic Mount Fuji . I have already framed six of them and two of them hang close to the stair landing.

Now, the last two could not be considered ones of a kind, or maybe even originals because one believes that somewhere there are templates used to “manufacture” these works. Still I again treasure them and consider them truly works of art.

So there, I have answered the question above, based entirely on my own personal perception and judgment. The extraordinary ingenuity, the dogged determination to creatively produce something, and indeed, the uniqueness of the works, all played in setting my own standards.

And I end with this narrative which came from a news item I read in one of the national papers many years ago.

Some staid museum in New York (or was it elitist Boston?) had reported this rather unusual account about an abstract painting that it dearly treasured. It was a huge framed painting by some noted painter about an abstract subject. It had been prominently ensconced in an equally prominent and huge wall of the museum that was always well-visited and admired. A stenciled metal plate had a few statements about the painting, what it signified and its artistic highlights.

Anyway, after many years the solicitous keepers of the museum decided it was time to spruce up that part of the museum. Plans called for cleaning the painting and frame and repainting the huge backdrop of a wall.

But when the huge painting was carefully lowered down, a surprising revelation. At the back, the painter had handwritten some data and instructions about the painting, specifically about how it was to be hung. Surprise of surprises, the museum had been hanging the painting upside down all these years.

Moral of the story. Art and its appreciation are in the eye of the beholder.

How else to explain the above faux pas, where no viewer, whether learned or not, noticed that “the book was being read upside down”.

Here's a couple more of my keepers this time coming from my unworthy hands: