That day, at exactly ten in the morning, I decided to take him to the creek. The heat was growing unbearable, and I knew he would appreciate the cool water on his thick hide. As we started along the narrow trail, the familiar landscape surrounded us—mini pineapple crops lined the edges, their spiky leaves stretching toward the sun, coconuts swayed high above, and assorted fruit trees spread out in every direction. It was peaceful, serene, the kind of beauty I had grown accustomed to.
As we approached the jackfruit and pomelo trees along the path, I gave the carabao’s rope a gentle tug. He had always been obedient, never needing more than a small nudge. But to my surprise, he halted. His body stiffened, muscles tensed, and his massive hooves dug into the dirt. I pulled harder, coaxing him to move forward. He resisted.
I furrowed my brow, puzzled. "Come on, boy, let's go," I whispered, giving the rope another firm tug.
But the carabao wouldn't budge. Instead, he pulled back. His breathing had changed—short, heavy puffs of air escaping his nostrils, his ears flicking forward in alertness. I sighed, frustrated. Why was he being so stubborn? There was nothing ahead, just the same path we walked every day.
Determined to keep moving, I ignored his resistance and pulled again—this time, stronger. As I leaned into the effort, my gaze accidentally lifted upward.
And then, I froze.
Hanging from the low branches of the pomelo tree, barely a few feet above my head, was the largest python I had ever seen. Its thick, coiled body wrapped around the branch like a monstrous rope, its patterned scales gleaming under the sunlight. My breath hitched as I locked eyes with the creature—it wasn’t just resting. It was watching.
My heart pounded violently against my chest. My entire body felt paralyzed, as if time had stopped in that instant. The python’s enormous head tilted slightly, its forked tongue flickering out, tasting the air. I suddenly realized how close I had come to walking directly beneath it—completely unaware of the danger lurking above.
I didn’t think. I jumped.
Without hesitation, I leapt backward, landing beside my carabao. Before I could even scramble to my feet, he turned sharply and bolted—and I ran right alongside him.
The wind whipped against my face as we raced away from the tree. My legs moved on pure instinct, carrying me forward without thought. The carabao didn’t stop, didn’t look back—he charged forward with an urgency that I had never seen before.
It wasn’t until we reached a safe distance—far from the pomelo tree—that I finally collapsed onto the ground, breathless. My limbs trembled, my chest heaved, and my mind spun. The python. The huge python. If I had taken one more step forward, if I had lingered for even a second longer beneath that branch... it could have dropped down on me.
The realization sent a chill through my bones.
Then, I turned to my carabao—the one who had refused to move forward. He stood a few feet away, his breathing slowing, his dark eyes steady as he watched me.
It dawned on me. He knew.
Even when I hadn't seen the danger, he did. He had sensed it, felt it, understood something that I hadn't. And because of that, he had resisted, had pulled back—had saved me.
A few days earlier, my grandfather had mentioned seeing a python slithering through the pineapple fields, knocking the plants down, leaving behind evidence of its movements. At the time, I had dismissed it. Pythons were just snakes, I thought. Nothing more. But now, I understood. This one was different. It could have killed me.
And yet, something greater had protected me.
I looked up at the vast sky, my chest filling with gratitude. God was watching. Guiding. Guarding. The carabao had been His instrument that day—an unexpected shield, a silent protector who had sensed what I could not.
That moment stayed with me for the rest of my life.
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