Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover's Soul Page 12

  The rabbit in his cloud of soft, warm fur had touched something deep in the child—something that had died from too much hard experience. Soapy’s innocence and trust appeared to kindle those very same qualities in the little girl.

  Numerous times, I’ve seen how the loving presence of an animal can heal where words have no effect. It seems the language of the heart is simple after all.

  Maureen Fredrickson,

  program director for the Delta Society

  Body and Soul

  I was fifteen years old when I began my long battle with anorexia nervosa and bulimia. As a teenager, I succumbed to the intense peer pressure to be thin. But when I started dieting I soon lost control, and I couldn’t stop losing weight. When I dropped below ninety-five pounds, my frightened parents took me to the hospital. Back in 1969, few people had even heard of eating disorders, and neither my parents nor the doctors knew how to help me.

  Finally, after four years and several prolonged hospital stays, I forced myself to get better. I managed to gain back every pound I’d lost and resolved to get on with my life. I even had a boyfriend.

  Then one day my best friend told me she’d seen my guy out with another girl. “He hates me because I’m so fat,” I sobbed.

  And so it wasn’t long before I’d all but stopped eating again. My family watched in helpless horror as I repeatedly collapsed from malnutrition. I felt so ashamed and couldn’t bear the pain I was causing them.

  Finally I left home, hoping to make a fresh start. I packed my car and drove until I ran out of money in Phoenix, Arizona. I liked the Phoenix climate. The warm sun felt good on my emaciated body.

  Unfortunately, hot sunny weather also meant lots of short shorts and halter tops. I was painfully thin, but whenever I looked in the mirror I was horrified by what I saw. “I need to lose more weight,” I panicked.

  Whenever I went out with friends I ate and drank normally, but afterward I always raced to the restroom to purge. The more I purged, the more depressed I became.

  Depression led to binge eating, which led to even more purging. I knew I was slowly killing myself. I didn’t want to die, but my illness was stronger than my will to live.

  I went to psychologists and attended support groups, but they didn’t help. Ultimately, I grew so weak I had to quit my job and go on disability. My health steadily deteriorated as I lost irreplaceable muscle tissue. My seventy-eight-pound body was so ravaged from malnutrition, my kidneys began to shut down and I was in constant pain.

  “There’s nothing more I can do,” my doctor said bluntly. “Barring a miracle, you’re going to die.”

  My brother Robert brought me home to Michigan, where I took an apartment, crawled into bed and waited for God to take me. I hated my life and could hardly wait for it to be over.

  The first morning I opened my eyes in my new place, I discovered a pair of liquid brown eyes looking back at me. It was Cassie, the Australian shepherd a friend in Phoenix had given me just before I’d left town.

  “I suppose you need to go out,” I sighed, struggling to my feet and putting on a robe.

  At the front door, Cassie just sat there gazing up at me.

  Ruff! “You come, too,” she seemed to be saying, and grudgingly, I shuffled off to get dressed.

  A few days later in a nearby field, Cassie started pouncing at my feet and barking, eager to romp. “Go on ahead,” I said, but Cassie wouldn’t leave my side. She barked and barked until I finally got the message and began walking with her. Daggers of pain shot through my nutrient-starved bones with every footfall. I cried out in agony, but every time I stopped moving Cassie waited at my side and wouldn’t quit barking until we were again on our way. As painful as it was, I felt my blood—life—stirring in me for the first time in a very long while.

  Somehow, Cassie knew there was something terribly wrong with me. She sensed my every mood and refused to leave my side. When I grew despondent, she curled up beside me. When I sobbed in pain, she licked away my tears.

  Once, on one of my bad days, I asked my sister Pam to adopt Cassie. “I don’t have enough strength to take care of her anymore,” I explained.

  Pam shook her head no. “I won’t take her,” she said firmly.

  “Please reconsider,” I begged. “Cassie needs a good home and someone who will love her.”

  “She already has both of those things,” Pam insisted. As hot tears filled my eyes, she hugged me and said, “Don’t you understand, Cynthia? Right now that dog is the only thing keeping you alive.”

  She was right. I needed a miracle to stay alive, and Cassie was that miracle. She was my constant companion, my best and truest friend.

  For Cassie’s sake, I forced myself to eat. A few raw vegetables. A dry turkey sandwich. After all, I thought, if I died, who would take care of my Cassie? Who would brush her fur, romp with her in the fields or cuddle with her on the sofa at night?

  Cassie refused to let me surrender to despair. Her confidence in my ability to overcome my illness became infectious. Our daily walks made me physically stronger. Cassie’s love and understanding gave me the will to fight on.

  In time, I ventured out to church and made several friends. At a singles’ dance, I met a man named Philip. When he asked me out I said yes. We fell in love, and a year later we were married. And even though the doctors said that because of my health it could never happen, miraculously I got pregnant—not just once, but twice.

  Today, I still battle my anorexia, but now I have four more reasons to fight my disease: Philip, my teenaged stepdaughter, Corrie, and my two young sons, Trevor and Zachary.

  Cassie is still my constant companion. Wherever I go, she’s always right there by my side. But at ten years of age, Cassie’s health has begun to go downhill.

  Cassie once took care of me, but now the tables are turned; it’s my turn to take care of her. Often, with an understanding look, with a gentle paw on my arm, she seems to tell me it will soon be time for her to go.

  This wonderful dog once gave me the courage to live.

  Now she’s giving me the courage to live on without her when she goes. I won’t let her down.

  Cynthia Knisely

  As told to Bill Holton

  For Better or For Worse®

  by Lynn Johnston

  © Lynn Johnston Productions, Inc./Dist. by United Features Syndicate, Inc.

  Dolly

  When my son was small, we purchased a lovely pearl cockatiel as a pet. We named her Dolly because she had large orange dots on each side of her face like a doll. (Also, she liked to puff out her chest, which reminded me of another Dolly.)

  Dolly grew in our hearts with her endearing and loving ways. She loved to sing and whistle and always looked for someone to scratch her little head. Dolly and I were especially close, and each time she heard my voice she let out a long, shrill wolf-whistle. It was our own special greeting. Although we loved her very much and knew she was special, we did not yet realize quite how special she was.

  One day, we were saddened when we found out that our friends’ little daughter, Shayna, was stricken with leukemia. Shayna’s parents were devastated; she was just four years old. Wanting to help my friend, I began to visit Shayna at the local children’s hospital each time she underwent her chemotherapy. There was little I could do other than cheer her up and be by her mother’s side. Each night, I prayed for Shayna’s cure.

  Several weeks later, my family lost our beloved Dolly when her cage was left open and she got outside. We searched the neighborhood diligently but to no avail. Our pet was gone, and we had to face the fact that such a delicate little bird could not possibly survive the wild for very long.

  Five days passed with no sign of Dolly. We lost hope of ever finding her, and we missed her so very much.

  That evening I received a phone call from Shayna’s mother.

  “I think we’ve found Dolly,” she said.

  “You’ve found Dolly?” I could hardly believe it. “Where? Are you sure it’
s her?”

  “Orange dots either side of her face, right?”

  “That’s Dolly!”

  “I’ll tell you the story when I see you. Come over now.”

  Their house was five miles away, and I drove over immediately, hoping with all my heart that it really was Dolly.

  When I arrived, if I couldn’t believe my eyes, I certainly believed my ears because when the bird heard my voice she let out a long wolf-whistle. . . . It was my sweet little bird!

  My friend explained what had happened.

  “I’ve been out most of the day, but our baby-sitter told us that Shayna was in the backyard. She was just sitting quietly, since she doesn’t have much energy these days, when she saw a small bird in a tree. She told me she had been feeling a little lonely and had said, ‘Look at the pretty bird. Wouldn’t it be nice if it came down to see me?’ Of course, it was Dolly, although Shayna didn’t know. And the bird flew directly to Shayna, landing on her shoulder and giving her a kiss on the cheek. Shayna was ecstatic.”

  My friend continued, “Our baby-sitter saw that the bird was domesticated and managed to tempt her into an old cage we had in the garage—she was going to find a home for her.

  “I got home in time to tuck Shayna into bed, and she told me the whole story. I was stunned. I knew how upset you’d been about losing Dolly.”

  I was silent, trying to take it all in. I was grateful to see my lovely bird again, but there was more. I knew something that neither Shayna nor her mother knew. After watching that poor child suffer so much, and praying for her every day, I had finally asked God for a sign that Shayna would be healed. I considered it miraculous that we had really found Dolly again, but that he had sent our simple little bird to rest on Shayna’s shoulder seemed truly wondrous. I took it as his promise, and I felt in that moment that Shayna would recover.

  Today, Shayna is thirteen years old and cancer free.

  Dolly is getting on in years for a bird, but we see to it that she lives a life of luxury because it was through her that we were all given the greatest gift—the gift of hope.

  Renée Sunday

  The Cat Doctor

  Dr. MacFarland, a veterinarian who goes by the name The Cat Doctor, has a practice in my hometown, where we bring our cat, Ragamuffin. At one point, we had to put Ragamuffin on a strict diet of prescription food, sold only at the vet’s office. One time, when I went there to get a refill, I saw one of the saddest sights I have ever seen—a cat whose hind quarters were paralyzed and could get around only by dragging his back legs behind him.

  I asked the receptionist about the cat. She told me his name was Slick, and that some people had found him by the side of the road a couple of years earlier and brought him in. The poor little guy had been shot and left for dead. The Cat Doctor treated him and when he recovered, they decided to keep Slick as the office mascot.

  At first, it just broke my heart to see him pull himself around the office, using just his front legs. But Slick has such spirit, that each time I saw him, I seemed to notice his difficulties less and less.

  Not too long ago, Ragamuffin became ill and I had to take him to the vet. The cat was scared to death to leave our house. Although he was in horrible pain from his illness, he put up a terrific fight. He fought his way out of the cat carrier three times before I could secure it.

  I finally got Ragamuffin into the car and headed over to see The Cat Doctor. Ragamuffin howled and cried the whole way. Even as I carried the carrier into the office, my cat was putting up a fight. He was terrified of being in this strange place filled with new cat and people smells.

  As I looked around, I noticed Slick sitting on a little cat bed across the room, oblivious to all the commotion I’d brought into his kingdom. He ignored us, continuing to groom himself.

  Setting the carrier down on the floor, I tried not to listen to Ragamuffin’s strident pleas for help as I filled out the proper paperwork.

  Then suddenly it got quiet. Really quiet. No more screaming. No more howls. I cocked my head to listen as I continued to calculate Ragamuffin’s weight in my head. Still, silence.

  A sudden fear rushed over me as I realized that the front door to Dr. McFarland’s office was still open. Omigosh, I thought, Ragamuffin must have gotten out of the carrier and run outside! I dropped my pen and turned to bolt out the door. I hadn’t taken more than two steps when I stopped short—captivated by the scene before me.

  Ragamuffin, still in his cage, had his pink nose pressed up against the bars. He was exchanging a calm little cat greeting with Slick, who had managed to crawl all the way across the room to comfort the agitated Rags. Slick, with his paralyzed hindquarters splayed behind him, pressed his nose to the bars as well. The two cats sat quietly, Slick continuing to soothe Ragamuffin’s fears in a way only another cat would know how to do.

  Smiling, I realized that there was more than one Cat Doctor around this place.

  Norma and Vincent Hans

  4

  PET-POURRI

  Dogs come when they are called; cats take a message and get back to you later.

  Mary Bly

  © 1996, Washington Post Writers Group. Reprinted with permission.

  Paw Prints in the White House

  The White House became home to our family on Inauguration Day—January 20, 1993. Our black-and-white cat, Socks, is only the fourth cat to live here since Franklin Roosevelt took office in 1933, so he became something of an international celebrity. He has been immortalized in poems, commemorated on postage stamps in a foreign country, and has even become a well-known figure on the Internet, where his cartoon persona takes children on cybertours of the White House.

  Socks had been with us for awhile before our move to Washington. One day when I took Chelsea to her piano lesson, we spotted two kittens rollicking in her teacher’s front yard. Although the teacher had been making calls for several days to try to reunite the small strays with their mom, she hadn’t had any luck and didn’t know who else to phone. As we were walking to the car, Chelsea reached out to the kittens and the black one with white paws—Socks—jumped right up into her arms. That clinched our decision to make him part of our family. We also arranged a good home for Socks’s sibling, Midnight, with the help of a local animal shelter.

  When he became “First Cat-elect,” as the press dubbed him after the 1992 election, he had to adjust quickly to becoming a public figure. And although the Secret Service protects the White House and its inhabitants, Socks and Buddy don’t have their own cat and dog agents.

  Socks loves to spend sunny days in the yard behind the Oval Office, under a beautiful, historic pin oak planted by President Dwight Eisenhower and his wife, Mamie. When the weather gets too cold or rainy, the cat usually saunters over to the Visitors’ Office in the East Wing. He’s discovered that the high back of a Queen Anne chair there makes the perfect window seat for him to keep tabs on what’s going on outside. Sometimes, he jumps up on a staff assistant’s desk to look over her paperwork or take a sip of water from a vase of flowers (which he once inadvertently sent crashing to the floor!). The Visitors’ Office is home to a plush three-story “cathouse” complete with scratching post, a gift handcrafted by a devoted F.O.S.— Friend of Socks—in Florida.

  A few weeks after Bill, Chelsea and I moved in, letters and postcards from across the country began arriving, first by the bundle, and then by the bin. A lot of the mail was for Socks—a spontaneous outpouring of affection for the first feline to live in the White House since Amy Carter’s Siamese, Misty Malarky Ying Yang.

  Over the years, Socks has heard from animal lovers of all ages, including admirers from England, Bangladesh and nearly fifty other countries, who have written asking for celebrity shots and “paw-tographs” (his paw print signature).

  Children of previous generations wrote to F.D.R.’s dog Fala or the Kennedys’ dog, Pushinka. Today’s children who write to our pets often ask: “How does it feel to have all the food you want?” “Do you have a Secret Servic
e agent?” “Do you ever annoy the President?” “Are there any good mice in the White House?” “What do you do for a living?” Children and their animal friends have extended many invitations to our cat and dog to fetch sticks, chase squirrels or simply to get away from the White House for what they perceive as some much-needed R & R. And Socks has even received his share of marriage proposals.

  Soon after Buddy arrived, Socks was deluged with messages from children who wanted to console him about having to share the White House with another pet—a dog, no less. “Maybe you need to teach that dog some cat manners,” a young letter writer suggested. Others offered support to Buddy. “I got used to my brother,” wrote one child, “so I’m sure you will get used to Socks.”

  Before Buddy joined our family, we often talked about getting another dog. Finally, after Chelsea went off to college, we decided it was the right time. When we thought about what kind we’d like, a big dog seemed to make the most sense. We also had heard that Labs are particularly smart, loving and playful. Buddy arrived at the White House one afternoon for a tryout with the President. Within minutes, he convinced Bill that he was the perfect candidate for First Dog. They bonded so quickly that when they sat down on a bench in the backyard, it looked as if they were two friends catching up on old times.

  Our first challenge was to pick the perfect name. We received hundreds of clever suggestions in the mail. A few of my favorites were “Barkansas,” “Arkanpaws,” and “Clin Tin Tin.” One little girl came up to me and offered “Top Secret.” We had to laugh when we imagined the President running around the South Lawn calling “Top Secret, Top Secret.” Finally, we settled on Buddy, the nickname of my husband’s favorite uncle who had passed away. We think Uncle Buddy would have loved his namesake as much as we do.