Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover's Soul Read online

  When Buddy and Socks met for the first time, both animals were caught off guard. Socks was hanging out in his usual spot behind the Oval Office when Buddy returned from an event with the President. Intent on protecting his turf the cat hissed and got ready to spring while Buddy, just as taken aback, barked and strained at his leash. Things got so heated between them that Bill and other peacekeepers had to step in. Concerned allies set up several summits in an effort to broker a truce between the pets. It wasn’t until the day that Socks swatted Buddy on the nose and sent the puppy off yelping, though, that they began to get along fine.

  Although there are thousands of visitors to the White House, our cat and dog lead as normal a life as possible. Neither animal keeps an official schedule. When they do make a special appearance, they seem always to rise to the occasion. Socks, especially, likes to pose for pictures. While he has an uncanny ability to sense when someone of any age needs a little extra attention, one of his most endearing traits is the extra bit of patience he musters for children.

  Among the frequent visitors to the White House are children and their families sponsored by the Make-A-Wish Foundation and other organizations that help youngsters suffering from life-threatening illnesses fulfill their fondest dreams. They’re often as thrilled at shaking the paws of Socks and Buddy as they are at meeting the President.

  When we moved to Washington from Little Rock, we brought our family traditions, favorite pictures and personal mementos to make the White House feel more comfortable. But it wasn’t until Socks arrived with his toy mouse and Buddy walked in with his rawhide bone that this house became a home.

  Pets have a way of doing that.

  Hillary Rodham Clinton

  Church Dog

  Sunday mornings are a leisurely time in many households, but they certainly weren’t in our Ogilvie, Minnesota home back in the late 1920s.

  Church services began at nine-thirty in the morning. Mother was the organist, so she had to be there early. That meant all of us kids had to be washed and dressed with our hair neatly combed by the time mother left the house.

  As you’d expect, there was a lot of hurrying around to make sure everyone was ready on time. That was trouble enough, but one day we had another problem on our hands—our dog, Brownie.

  Every morning, Brownie was let out by the first person who got up. When we called him back in, he’d usually come running right away . . . but not on this particular Sunday.

  We called and coaxed for as long as we could, but Brownie was simply nowhere to be found. Unable to locate our disappearing dog, we gave up in despair and headed off to church, leaving Brownie outdoors somewhere.

  We arrived at church and got settled in, with Mother at the organ. After some hymns and prayers, the minister began his sermon. We kids tried to sit still, just as we had been told to do, and not fidget. But as the preacher began to warm to his subject, I thought I heard something unusual. No one else seemed to hear it though. But then it came again, louder. It sounded like something was scratching at the church door. We kids all exchanged silent glances and stifled our giggles. Then the scratching sound was followed by the plaintive sound of a lonely dog howling. All the grown-ups pretended not to hear anything, leaning forward in their pews so they could hear every word of the minister’s oration. But we kids knew that howl. Only one dog in the neighborhood made that sound.

  The wailing continued and the minister paused for a moment, furrowing his brow in frustration. He didn’t want to have to compete with a howling hound, so he signaled to the usher to open the door and shoo the dog away. But the usher was not quick enough for Brownie. As soon as he opened the door, in bounded our dog with a smug look on his face! He strolled up the aisle, cool as you please, as congregation and minister looked on aghast. When Brownie got to where Mother sat at the organ, he just plopped down and sat quietly. A murmur went around the church and there were some smiles and nodding of heads. The minister, determined to ignore this unusual canine caper, resumed his sermon.

  The following Sunday happened to be one of those rare Sundays when we didn’t go to the morning service. However, no one had informed Brownie of the change in our schedule. After we attended the evening service, we heard the story: In the morning, Brownie had made a commotion at the church door until once again he was let in. Again, he sauntered down the aisle until he reached the organist, who was about to begin playing. Brownie stood stock-still for a moment, staring at the female organist. Then, when he had determined to his satisfaction that she was definitely not Mother, he returned to the church door and made it clear that he was not interested in attending this particular service.

  There were many Sundays when Brownie repeated his demonstrations of religious piety and family loyalty. As you can imagine, this was quite embarrassing for Mother. There were some people who weren’t all that happy to see a dog in church. And each time we got a new preacher, Mother had to explain our unusual dog to him. Since Brownie lived to be nineteen years old, quite a few preachers got used to having that little brown dog interrupt their Sunday services.

  Shortly after Brownie passed away, our minister came to call. After consoling us over our loss, he said, “If there is a heaven for dogs, you can be assured Brownie will be scratching at the door—and when it is opened, he will be given a place right up front with the best of them.”

  Evelyn Olson

  Bahati: The Lucky One

  In early 1994, my wife Margaret and I were living in Rwanda, in central Africa. We were working with an American-based organization, Morris Animal Foundation, to save the endangered population of mountain gorillas that lived in that region. There were fewer than 650 of these gorillas left in the world.

  One morning, I’d received radio communication that my services as a veterinarian were needed to help an injured young gorilla in the neighboring country, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, then known as Zaire. Margaret and I prepared for the long and often difficult trip that lay ahead.

  Travel in central Africa is never simple, and since the recent war in this particular part of Africa, we could never be sure what to expect or if we would reach our destination at all. Sometimes, official barriers were insurmountable.

  That day as we finally approached the border of the Congo, we hoped we would not be stopped, since the little gorilla we were traveling to see needed our help sooner rather than later. After a rather lengthy delay, the soldiers let us pass, amused when they finally understood that we were on our way to help a gorilla.

  We turned off the main road onto a wet, grassy track and headed for the base of a large volcanic peak ahead of us, where the Virunga National Park headquarters is located. As we climbed the incline to the village, the roar of our laboring engine alerted the villagers that we were approaching. As we passed by, children ran to the edge of the track, smiling and waving and calling out, “Jambo! Jambo! Hello! Hello!” and jumping on to the back of our slow-moving truck for a free ride up the mountain.

  We arrived at the headquarters and parked the truck. The next part of our adventure would be on foot. Along with a few guides and porters, who helped us carry our supplies, we started the steep climb into the rainforest where the gorillas lived.

  When we entered the forest, we were struck by the sudden quiet—no more sounds of village life—and soon we discerned the buzzing of insects and the sound of small animal movement around us. We walked a long way on our path, noting signs that a group of gorillas had recently made “night nests” in the bushes and had only left them a short while before our arrival. They couldn’t be far.

  Soon we reached a clearing, where we could see a group of gorillas resting—dark black shapes sitting up in the trees, oblivious to our presence. We stood quietly, observing the group and trying to find the injured gorilla.

  Then I spotted a young gorilla whose hand had a red, raw appearance. Taking up my field glasses, I saw the wire of a snare twisted around his hand. We had found our patient. We quietly discussed our plan of action, and
then I prepared the tranquilizer gun and stood ready. I had to watch for the right moment when I could be sure to hit just the one gorilla and hit him squarely. There were rarely second chances in situations like these; a miss could cause the group to scatter in fright or prompt the silverback, the large male leader of the group, to charge.

  Suddenly, the youngster showed himself, following his mother, and I fired. The dart hit him, causing him to yelp, but it fell out as he scrambled, already a little wobbly, onto his mother’s back. Luckily, he had absorbed enough of the drug, for the next moment he slipped gently off of his mother and lay in a drowsy heap on the ground.

  The adults of the group came over to investigate his strange behavior. They stood in a semicircle around him, looking at him in a perplexed way. Why was he so sleepy? One by one, they came forward to touch him. We watched from a distance as the little gorilla, still trying to move, rolled down the slope towards us.

  I immediately ran out and threw a cloth over him to hide him from sight. I knew that gorillas lose interest in an object if they cannot see it. And indeed, the adult gorillas, who had been so interested just a few seconds before, began to withdraw from the scene.

  Now, we had to act quickly, before the silverback became aware of what was going on. With several guides standing as sentries to warn us if any gorilla approached, we started working on our already-anesthetized patient. It took only minutes to remove the snare and clean and disinfect his severely wounded hand. I was distressed to see that three of his fingers were damaged beyond repair. Yet, in spite of the loss of his fingers, I thought the youngster would make a quick and complete recovery.

  It started raining and we retreated to spots under trees to watch the little gorilla wake up. After a while—a cold, wet, miserable while—the young gorilla was able to get up and crawl toward the other gorillas, who were hunched under trees just as we were, trying to stay out of the rain.

  I followed the youngster to make sure that he found his way back all right. When I saw him reach the other gorillas, I turned to rejoin Margaret and the others. I was almost to them, when I heard an enormous roar right beside me.

  The silverback suddenly appeared, charging at me from out of the dense undergrowth. His immense bulk—he must have weighed close to five hundred pounds—and his fierce manner were terrifying. His charge was a warning; next he would attack. I had to convince this powerful creature that I meant no harm. I immediately pulled back into the vegetation around me and cast my glance downward in a gesture of submission. Holding my breath for a tense few moments, I crouched perfectly still, waiting.

  Accepting my gesture as it was intended, the gorilla moved back a few feet. My shoulders sagged with relief. Thinking he had already turned to go back, I lifted my head from its downcast position, and for a moment, my blue eyes gazed into the deep-set and penetrating dark eyes of the enormous gorilla before me. As I glimpsed the great depth and comprehension evident in his eyes, I felt a rush of joy. But I quickly lowered my eyes again to avoid any suggestion of challenge.

  The next moment, the gorilla turned and moved towards his group. I watched him go, admiring his broad silver-haired back, then rejoined my own group.

  The danger past, we were all delighted that the young gorilla had gotten safely back to his mother, and that his group had accepted him without any problem. As we walked back through the rainforest, I realized I had another personal reason for elation. Sometimes lately, I’d wondered if our work here in Africa could really make a difference, but my moment of connection with the elder gorilla had deepened and renewed my sense of purpose and commitment. I felt in that instant that everything we had gone through, or would go through in the future, to save this remarkable species was worth it.

  As we continued homeward, the guides told us that they had named the little gorilla, Bahati, the Swahili word for “lucky,” because he’d had the good fortune to be treated by a veterinarian who’d come halfway around the world to find and heal him.

  Bahati was lucky that we had found him. Our work that day had given him the opportunity to grow up to become a magnificent creature like that great silverback, and perhaps, I thought with pleasure, he would someday even lead a group of his own in this beautiful mountain setting that was his home.

  John E. Cooper, D.T.V.M., F.R.C.V.S.

  Hamster on the Lam

  Friday. The weekend beckoned. But when I walked through the door, I heard the sniffling of a traumatized child. Amy, our eight-year-old, was sobbing. And for good reason. Hammie the hamster was inside our bathroom wall.

  One major complicating factor: Hammie was not ours. He was the class hamster. He had come to our house as part of the great second-grade pet cultural exchange, having survived more than a dozen home visits with the kids in Mrs. Blackwell’s class. A hamster with peer pressure attached.

  Now, though he had been in our house only a few hours, Hammie was performing his own version of the Hamster Olympics inside the walls of our home. He was where no paw should tread—on and under pipes, stirring up drywall dust, munching on whatever looked tasty.

  As great tragedies often do, this one started with a small act of kindness. Amy had uncaged Hammie in the bathroom for an early-evening romp as she guarded the door. With only one exit, the bathroom had seemed the perfect place for a romp. Unfortunately there was the teeniest hole where the sink cabinet meets the wall. We’d never known it was there, but to Hammie, it must have looked like the Florida Turnpike.

  A quick sprint and he was gone: down the linoleum, over the baseboard and into the wall. And now the little squirt’s telltale scratching seemed to move in rhythm to the sobs outside.

  Midnight. The family was fast asleep while I maintained the hamster watch. Poking my finger into the hole, I felt a hamster paw. I bent over and, startled, gazed right into Hammie’s eyes. He seemed to be smiling.

  At first I thought that by baiting Hammie with some hamster fast food—carrots, apple, a huge piece of lettuce— the little guy would pitter-patter back into the bathroom.

  He went for the lettuce. Unfortunately, he took it right back into the hole.

  After a restless night, we swore one another to a tell-and-you-die oath. We had forty-eight hours to capture Hammie. Monday would be bad enough without kick-starting the second-grade rumor mill.

  Saturday afternoon brought a new plan of attack: Lure Hammie into the Mice Cube, a small plastic rectangle. Bait it. The hungry rodent goes in the trapdoor, but he doesn’t come out. This night brought less sleep—more scratch, scratch, scratch—no Hammie. I guessed he still had plenty of lettuce.

  Sunday morning. The pressure was on. We prayed for Hammie. Amy said that under no circumstances would she ever go to school again if we didn’t catch him.

  A visit to Dad’s secret weapon, the Pet Store Guy, now seemed crucial. When I told him of our crisis, he barely batted an eye. Clearly he knew a lot about hamster psychology.

  In his opinion,Hammie was either (a) on the lam and loving it, (b) playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can or (c) lost in the wall. But he would come out. Hunger would win.

  The Pet Store Guy told me to take a two-gallon bucket and place an apple inside. Douse a towel in apple juice. Put the bucket a few hamster steps from the hole and drape the towel over the side—a kind of hamster ramp, if you will. Just enough towel should stick into the bucket to allow the hamster to fall in but not crawl out.

  Bedtime Sunday. The trap was in place, but the bathroom wall was eerily quiet. Was Hammie alive in there? I sat in a chair, feeling defeated. I had been beaten by a pint-size rodent. How would I break this news to sixteen second-graders?

  Then, in what seemed like one of those slow-motion Chariots of Fire moments, my hamster-loving, sweet-hearted girl was motioning to us from the door. Amy had heard the hamster drop in the bucket.

  She looked first. Her anxiety as she peered over the edge of the bucket, followed by the sheer euphoria of her realization that he was there, was indescribable.

  Hugs and k
isses. Hero Dad. Hero Mom. Hamster high-fives.

  There are moments in your children’s lives when your heart bounces through your throat—the first step, the first bicycle ride, the first sentence read, the first hamster drop.

  I never did win a stuffed animal at the carnival for my sweetheart. But now I know how it feels.

  Amy and Jim Grove

  © Tribune Media Services, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission.

  The Dog Show

  Recently it was my great honor to serve as a judge in the Key West Kritter Patrol Dog Show, which is considered one of the most prestigious dog shows held in the entire Key West area on that particular weekend.

  This is not one of those dog shows in which serious, highly competitive dog snobs enter professional dogs that can trace their lineage back 153 generations and basically spend their entire lives sitting around being groomed and fed, like Zsa Zsa Gabor. The Key West show—it benefits the Kritter Patrol, a local group that finds people to adopt stray dogs and cats—reflects the relaxed attitude of Key West, where the term “business attire” means “wearing some kind of clothing.” This is a show for regular civilian dogs, most of whom, if you had to identify them, technically, by breed, would fall under the category of: “probably some kind of dog.”

  When I arrived at the show, the last-minute preparations were proceeding with the smooth efficiency of a soccer riot. There were dozens of dogs on hand, ranging in size from what appeared to be cotton swabs with eyeballs, all the way up to Hound of the Baskervilles.

  Naturally every single one of these dogs, in accordance with the strict rules of dog etiquette, was dragging its owner around by the leash, trying to get a whiff of every other dog’s personal region. This process was complicated by the fact that many of the dogs were wearing costumes, so they could compete in the Dog and Owner Look-Alike category. (There are a number of categories in this show, and most of the dogs compete in most of them.) Many owners were also wearing costumes, including one man with an extremely old, totally motionless, sleeping Chihuahua; the man had very elaborately dressed both the dog and himself as (Why not?) butterflies. The man wore a sequined pantsuit, antennae and a huge pair of wings.