“I HAVE two dogs; I think you will like them,” a friend of mine told me.

“I will like them in what way?” I asked, and added jokingly: “You do realize I am Filipino, right?”

“I meant for dinner,” my friend replied in jest.

We both laughed, but there was a partial truth to the joke.

I ate dog meat when I was a kid. Dog meat is tough, a little rubbery, but tasty with tomato sauce, carrots and potatoes. The dish was called “kalderetang aso” (dog stew).

Wait! Hold the judgment. I promise this column is not about dog recipes. I promise this has a sappy ending.

If you have forgiven President Barack Obama for eating dog meat when he was a boy growing up in Indonesia, and Mitt Romney for driving 12 hours with his dog Seamus strapped onto the top of his car, I guess I also have a chance for redemption.

I remember two occasions when I ate a dog dish. I was 10. Dog meat was not sold in the market and somehow I knew it was not a regular dish because it wasn’t served on the dining table during meal time. It was more of a drink chaser (pupus or chesa). My uncles, who cooked the meat in a huge pot, would divide the dish in small bowls and offered them to the “adventurous” eaters.

I had to overcome the seemingly innate repulsion and reluctance to put it in my mouth. Dog meat had a “guilt” taste to it. My family never had a pet dog and I had never heard of dogs being referred to as “man’s best friend.” So, at the time I didn’t fully understand where the guilt was coming from other than the caveat from the doggone cooks.

The adventure factor attached to it somehow gave me the feeling that eating dog meat wasn’t a natural thing to do. (But just the same, eating dog meat in Asia might be less bizarre than taking pets to the spa or buying ridiculously expensive fancy pet items from SkyMall.)

How the dogs were killed? You wouldn’t want to know. You would spend thousands on therapy if I tell you. But I remember the dog killers’ sense of curious triumph – like chest-thumping beasts in Darwin’s world – during the murder process. Back then, fighting the dictatorship and fighting for victims of martial law was far more important than fighting for animal rights.

Unlike Obama and Romney – whose campaigns are both being dogged by their past transgressions – I don’t intend to run for president of the United States, so this dog memoir shouldn’t haunt any political campaign involving me. After all, I have since outgrown my childhood savagery.

I am a reformed human being. I have no desire to eat Lexi, my son’s little Chihuahua, who has been a household resident for about six months. Though delicious-looking, I fell in love with Lexi, who has turned me into one of those people I used to make fun of (e.g. people falling in love with dogs, using a personal pronoun instead of “it” and taking dog pictures to post on Facebook).

Lexi can be disastrous – she eats my shoes, she pees and poos everywhere; but I realized it took a tiny dog to build my patience. She can be annoying; she seeks too much attention and doesn’t resent rejection. That’s probably what they call “unconditional love.”

Such canine ability to sense human thoughts and emotions made me understand why dogs don’t belong on the dinner table. Ah, now I know why they put dogs in the Hallmark cards.

I probably have evolved as a human being, so you don’t have to keep your dogs away. They’re safe with me.