Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Page 2

  So, sit back, relax and let the love of dogs wash over you as you enjoy these charming, true tales. May they inspire you to be the person your dog thinks you are!

  Share with Us

  We would like to invite you to send us stories you would like to see published in future editions of Chicken Soup for the Soul.

  We would also love to hear your reactions to the stories in this book. Please let us know what your favorite stories are and how they affected you.

  Please send submissions to:

  Chicken Soup for the Soul

  P.O. Box 30880

  Santa Barbara, CA 93130

  Fax: 805-563-2945

  You can also visit the Chicken Soup for the Soul Web site at:

  www.chickensoup.com

  We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we enjoyed compiling, editing and writing it.

  1

  ON LOVE

  Dogs are forever in the moment. They are always a tidal wave of feelings, and every feeling is some variant of love.

  Cynthia Heimel

  Patience Rewarded

  Albert Payson Terhune, the famed dog writer of the 1920s and 1930s who authored the Lassie books, often told this story about his friendWilson to illustrate the deep love that people and dogs share. It also shows how sometimes what seems to be in the best interest of all concerned may not apply when one of those concerned is a dog.

  Wilson’s dog, Jack, was an energetic, six-year-old collie that would meet him every day at the trolley station when Wilson returned from work. This was a ritual that had begun when Jack was a pup. The dog knew the route to and from the station like the back of his paw—and following that route was the highlight of his day. So when Wilson changed jobs and had to move to California, he thought it best to leave Jack on his home turf in Philadelphia with a relative. He explained all this to the dog upon leaving and told him that they both would have to adjust to new homes.

  But Jack didn’t want a new home. He would not stay with the family he’d been left with. He returned to Wilson’s old house, even though it was boarded up, and there he passed his solitary days beside an abandoned chair beneath the portico. But every evening, tail wagging, he trotted off to the trolley station. For as long as Jack had been in the world, Wilson had always taken the same trolley home from work, and Jack had been there to greet him. But evening after evening, there was no sign of the devoted dog’s master. Confused and sad, he would return alone to the deserted house.

  The dog’s depression grew. He refused the food left for him, and as the days passed, he became thinner and thinner, his ribs noticeable even through his thick blond coat. But every evening, ever hopeful, he’d go to the station to meet the trolley. And every evening, he’d return to the porch more despondent than before.

  No one knows why Jack’s new family didn’t contact Wilson, but Jack’s deteriorating condition did not go unnoticed. A friend who lived nearby was so upset by it that he took it upon himself to send a telegram to Wilson in California, informing him of the dog’s situation.

  That was all it took.

  Wilson bought a return train ticket immediately; he knew what he had to do. Upon arriving in Philadelphia, he waited several hours just so that he could take the same trolley that he always did when coming home. When it arrived at the station, sure enough, there was Jack, waiting and watching as the passengers got off. Looking and hoping. And then suddenly there he was, his beloved owner. His master had returned at last! Jack’s world was whole once more—and so was Wilson’s.

  Wilson later told Terhune, “Jack was sobbing almost like a child might sob. He was shivering all over as if he had a chill. And I? Well, I blew my nose and did a lot of fast winking.”

  Wilson took his devoted dog, Jack, back to California with him. They were never separated again.

  Hester Mundis

  The Duck and the Doberman

  Although Jessie, our eighty-pound black Doberman, looked menacing—she snarled at strangers and attacked backyard critters—she was extremely loyal and loving to our family. We wanted a second dog, but agreed that Jessie would be better off alone; we were afraid that jealousy might compel her to hurt any dog that got between her and us.

  So when our son Ricky came home from school one day with an egg, we smelled trouble. Ricky’s egg came from his second-grade class project: incubating and hatching Rhone ducks. The egg had failed to hatch at school, so his teacher allowed him to bring it home. My husband and I didn’t think the egg was likely to hatch outside the incubator, so we let him keep it. Ricky placed the egg in a sunny patch of grass in the yard and waited.

  The next morning we awoke to a bizarre squeal coming from the backyard. There stood Jessie, nose to nose with a newly hatched peach-colored duckling.

  “Jessie will swallow it whole!” I cried. “Grab her.”

  “Hold on,” my husband, Rick, said. “I think it’ll be okay. Just give it a minute.”

  The duckling peeped. Jessie growled and darted back to her doghouse. The duckling followed. Jessie curled up on her bed, clearly ignoring the little creature. But the duckling had other ideas. She had already imprinted on her new “mother,” so she cuddled up on Jessie’s bed, snuggling under her muzzle. Jessie nudged the duckling out of the doghouse with her nose, only to have the baby squirm back to its place under her muzzle. Jessie gave a big sigh and reluctantly accepted her new role.

  Ricky named the duckling Peaches and pleaded with us to keep her. Jessie didn’t seem to like having a new baby, but she wasn’t predatory toward Peaches either. We gave in and decided to see how things would go.

  Surprisingly, over the next few weeks, Jessie really took to motherhood. When Peaches pecked at the ground, Jessie showed her how to dig. When Peaches chased tennis balls, Jessie showed her how to fetch. And when Jessie sprawled out on the leather couch to watch Animal Planet on television, Peaches snuggled right under her muzzle.

  After an inseparable year of digging, sleeping and fetching together, Peaches weighed eighteen pounds. She seemed quite happy in her role as Jessie’s “puppy.”

  Then one day something changed: Peaches’ innate “duckness” kicked in. She began laying eggs once a day and became obsessed with water. During feeding times, Jessie ate while Peaches flapped and splashed in the water bowl.

  One evening Jessie became frantic when Peaches disappeared. We had visions of coyotes lurking, snatching Peaches while Jessie slept. Jessie barked and howled, as would any anguished mother who had lost a child. After a thorough search of the neighborhood, we were close to giving up hope. Just then, Jessie sprinted into a neighbor’s backyard. We followed her. There was Peaches, sloshing and squawking in the hot tub. Jessie hopped in to retrieve her.

  As much as we wanted to keep Peaches in our family, one thing was clear: She needed to spread her wings and join the duck world. Ricky tied a red ribbon around Peaches’ leg, loaded her and Jessie into the car, and we drove to a nearby pond. During the ride, Jessie curled up with Peaches and licked her head. It was as if she knew exactly what was happening and why.

  As we approached the pond, Jessie and Peaches scampered toward the water. Jessie leaped in first. Peaches wobbled behind. They waded out together several yards before Peaches took off—gliding toward a flock of her own. Jessie turned around, trudged back to shore and shook off. She sat for a few minutes, watching her daughter. Then as if to say, “It’s time to set my little one free,” she yelped and jumped back into the car.

  Back at home Ricky taped pictures of Jessie and Peaches digging, fetching and snuggling, to the inside of the doghouse. And, for a long time afterward, Jessie made weekly visits to the pond. Although we could usually see the red ribbon, we thought we could also hear Peaches’ distinctive squawk, saying hello to her “birth” family.

  Motherhood changed Jessie. Once unsociable and intimidating, she soon became a friend to all in the neighborhood. She snuck out at every opportunity to play with other dogs, jumped on visitors and licked their faces. S
narling was no longer part of her vocabulary.

  We had feared the worst the day we saw Jessie and baby Peaches standing nose to bill. We could never have imagined that an eight-ounce ball of downy fuzz would soften our eighty-pound Doberman for life.

  Donna Griswold

  as told to Eve Ann Porinchak

  Now and Always

  A few years ago when I was looking for a small dog to add to our family, I contacted the local SPCA (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) and got the name of a woman who was fostering some rescued Maltese dogs for them. I called the woman, and my husband and I drove to her home. As I looked around, I noticed a cute Maltese named Casper. My husband and I decided we would like to adopt him.

  The foster mom asked us if there were any way we would open our hearts to Casper’s companion, Kato, as well. She told us that the two boys, who had only each other for comfort, had recently been rescued from a puppy mill, where they had spent the first seven years of their lives. When the local SPCA shut down the puppy mill and seized all the dogs, Kato and Casper had been put in her foster home.

  She told us that when she first picked them up, their fur was in such terrible shape they hardly looked like Maltese dogs. They were brown, the fur on their legs was matted to their stomachs, and their paws were swollen and tender from living on the wire mesh of their cage. For seven years, the only human contact these boys had was when they were thrown their food or tossed into another cage to breed with a female. What people don’t realize, she said, is that the cute little puppies in the windows of many pet stores leave parents behind who live lives of neglect and suffering.

  Hearing all this, I turned and looked down at the little Maltese named Kato. But he’s so ugly, I thought. And he isn’t even friendly. He growled and grumbled when we looked at him. Still, I felt a tug at my heart and agreed to take Kato also. As we drove home, my husband and I worried that maybe we’d taken on too much. We’d never had dogs that had been so abused for such a long time.

  The first day at our home was very difficult for the two dogs. They didn’t understand anything but fear of humans. They stayed close to each other and mostly hid under tables or in dark corners. In an effort to give them a fresh start, we changed their names: Casper became Thomas and Kato became Timothy.

  The days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Over time Thomas became friendlier and would wag his tail when we talked to him, but Timothy still couldn’t make eye contact with us. At the sound of our voices, he’d push himself against the back wall of his crate. His plastic dog kennel—the kind used to transport dogs—was the place he felt safest. Even with the crate door left open, he preferred to spend most of the day in his crate, only emerging when we gently pulled him out to take him outside. Each time I reached for Timothy, he’d flip upside down, whimpering. One day I noticed he had a gray haze over his eyes, as though there was a film on them. I asked the vet about it and he told me that it happens to dogs that live in complete fear. They retreat to another place to help themselves live through each day.

  I did everything I could think of to help this dog, but he made little progress. He would sit at the back of his crate with his head hanging down hour after hour. Nevertheless, I kept trying. When the whole house was quiet, I sat on the floor and talked to him, but he wouldn’t look at me. He just stared off in another direction. One day as I sat and watched this poor soul suffering in silence, I thought about his past—the hunger, the isolation, the abuse—and started to sob. My heart aching, I began telling him how sorry I was for the pain humans had caused him. My thoughts were filled with the unhappiness and fear he had endured year after year.

  As the tears streamed down my face, I felt a soft touch on my hand. Through my tears, I saw Timothy. He had come out from the back of his crate to sit near me, licking the tears that fell on my hand. Quietly, so I wouldn’t scare him, I told him that I loved him. I promised that I would always love him and that no one would ever hurt him again. As I whispered over and over that he would always be warm, safe and fed, he came a step closer to me. A passage from the Bible came to my mind: Love is kind; it keeps no record of wrongs; it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. The meaning of these words was so clear as I looked at this little dog who, in spite of everything he had experienced, had opened his heart to me.

  Today, I am still the only person Timothy trusts completely; we share a very special bond. When I call his name, he spins in delight and barks, his tail wagging in a frenzy of happiness. When I sit down, he climbs into my arms and licks my face. And just as I promised, I hold him, gently snuggle him and tell him I love him—now and always.

  Suzy Huether

  Lucky in Love

  I wanted a puppy, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. My three-year marriage was crumbling and the last thing I needed was a new responsibility. Trying to escape the inevitable, my husband and I decided to go on a vacation to Big Sur on the California coast. The last day of our trip, we had stopped for lunch at a restaurant. As we returned to the car, we noticed a cage by a staircase at the edge of the parking lot. I moved closer to investigate and saw a little, irresistible black ball of fluff gazing longingly out of the bars, begging me to let her out. Someone had simply left her there and put a sign on top of the cage: “Puppy for Free. Name is Lucky. Take her.”

  I looked at my husband, and he shook his head no, but I persisted. I needed someone to love. I took the puppy out of the cage, and happy to be free, she dove into our car. We started to drive the windy Pacific Coast Highway home. A wide, grassy meadow came into view, and we stopped so she could run. As we lay on our blanket on the grass, she trampled field daisies, sniffed for gophers and jumped in circles. Her joy at liberation was my elixir.

  We renamed her Bosco, and she turned out to be a Belgian sheepdog. My loyal friend, she stayed by my side through a difficult divorce and was my guardian angel through the many years of single life that followed.

  One morning, when she was nine years old, I awoke to find her panting heavily, her black curls damp and matted. With trembling fingers, I grabbed for the phone to call my veterinarian. Bosco tiredly snuggled on my lap, her labored breathing ragged on my chest, and I kissed the top of her head over and over again, waiting for the receptionist to answer.

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer. The doctor’s out of town.” My right hand kept stroking the side of Bosco’s long, smooth nose, the left hand gripping the receiver even more fiercely as I held back tears. She directed me to another veterinary clinic. How could I trust someone else with my baby? But I had no choice.

  I tenderly placed my limp dog on the passenger seat of the car. With one hand I turned the key in the ignition, and with the other I gently stroked the quiet body underneath the faded green and blue stadiumblanket that I used for picnics—the one I’d used the day we found Bosco.

  I pulled into the clinic parking lot. I took a deep breath, said a prayer and slowly took my bundle through the doors. A matronly receptionist recognized my name and immediately summoned the doctor on call. As I waited for this unknown person to take my dog’s life in his hands, I looked around the cozy, wood-paneled waiting room. A pit bull sat meekly at the feet of the woman next to me; Bosco didn’t even seem to notice. A man called out my name.

  Dr. Summers wore an air of urgency, his blue eyes filled with compassion and concern. As I followed him to the exam room, I noticed broad, strong shoulders and a confident stride. I laid Bosco softly on the narrow steel table and then slowly took her blanket off, clutching it in my arms. Her sweet smell still lingered on the wool. Dr. Summers listened intently as I explained the symptoms, his gentle hands resting on Bosco’s side. He thought it was gastroenteritis and wanted to keep her in the clinic for observation. But he stressed that I was welcome to come by and visit. I kissed Bosco’s nose and whispered good-bye. Dr. Summers smiled. “Go home. Get some rest. I promise I’ll take care of her.” And somehow I knew that he would, that there was no better
place to leave my best friend than in his arms.

  The next day after work, I went directly to the clinic to see Bosco. The receptionist waved me into the back, and I made a beeline for the cages, trying not to run. I sat on the cold, cement floor and put my hand through the cage, stroking Bosco’s fur, watching her tail give me a faint wag. When Dr. Summers discovered I was there, he came back and opened Bosco’s cage. I held her tightly on my lap, happy to feel her warmth. Dr. Summers knelt on the floor near us. Talking softly so Bosco could sleep, we shared stories about our families, our careers, our dreams, our lives.

  During the next few weeks, I came in every day to see Bosco and my new friend, Dr. Summers. A biopsy later confirmed bad news: lymphocytic plasmacytic enteritis (LPE). I couldn’t pronounce it, let alone understand the nature of the disease. Because of the vomiting and diarrhea associated with LPE, Dr. Summers kept her in the clinic on an IV for fluids. Then, on top of LPE, Bosco developed pancreatitis, which complicated treatment.

  The day came when the medicines were failing, Bosco wasn’t getting any better—and I had to make a decision. Dr. Summers encouraged me to take her home, to be with her for a couple of days. He knew I needed to say goodbye. I wrapped her in her blanket and drove her home.

  We snuggled on the couch, and I told her how much I had loved her, how grateful I was that a puppy named Lucky had come into my life to be my best friend. She listened, her weary brown eyes looking beyond me for peace. It was time for her to go.

  Two weeks after I placed her in Dr. Summers’s arms for the last time, I made a call to the clinic. I wanted to talk to someone who understood—Dr. Summers, now my friend, had been the person who had helped me close the last door. He took me to lunch and we showed each other pictures of our families. We shared memories of Bosco and he gently wiped the tears off my cheek as tears welled in his own eyes. That day opened a new door for us and we moved through it.