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

  I found the old man sitting at his kitchen table in the fading light. He drew up another chair and poured coffee.

  Somehow I couldn’t talk about the dog. Instead, I asked, “Do you know if anyone was cutting weeds around here today?”

  “Seems to me I heard a tractor down along the brook this morning,” Mr. Jolliff replied. “Why?” He looked at me. “Did something happen?”

  “Yes,” I said, and the words were tight in my throat. “Inky’s back leg’s nearly cut off. The vet came for him. . . .” I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. “It’s growing dark,” I finally murmured. “I’d better head home.”

  Mr. Jolliff followed me into the yard. “About Inky,” he said hesitantly, “if he lives, I’d give him a chance. He’ll still have you folks and Tim, the farm and the animals. Everything he loves. Life’s pretty precious . . . especially where there’s love.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but if he loses a leg, will love make up for being crippled?”

  He said something I didn’t catch. But when I turned to him, he’d removed his glasses and was rubbing the back of his stiff old hand across his eyes.

  By the time I reached our yard, the sun was gone. I walked down by the barn and stood with my arms on the top fence rail. Then I dropped my head to my arms and let the tears come.

  I cried because Inky had been so gentle with the animals, and because he loved Tim so much, and Tim loved him. Butmostly I cried because I hadn’t really wanted him; not until now, when this terrible thing had happened.

  Inky’s paw couldn’t be saved. Too vividly, I recalled how Inky had raced across fields and meadows, swift and free as a cloud shadow. I listened skeptically as the vet tried to reassure us: “He’s young and strong. He’ll get along on three legs.”

  Tim took the news with surprising calmness. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just so Inky comes home.”

  “But those long jaunts the two of you take may tire him now,” I cautioned.

  “He’s always waited for me. I’ll wait for him. Besides, we’re never in much of a hurry.”

  The vet called a few days later. “You’d better come for your dog. He’s homesick.” I went immediately and was shocked at the change in Inky. The light was gone from his eyes. His tail hung limp and tattered, and the stump of his leg was swathed in a stained bandage. He hobbled over and pressed wearily against my leg. A shudder went through the hot, thin body and he sighed—a long, deep sigh filled with all the misery and loneliness of the past few days.

  At the farm, I helped Inky from the car. He looked first to the sheep, grazing in the pasture; then, beyond the fields of green winter wheat, to the autumn woods where the horses, dappled with sunlight, moved among the trees. My heart ached as I realized how great must have been his longing for this place. At last, he limped to the barn and slipped between the heavy doors.

  While his wound healed, Inky stayed in the barn, coming out only in the evenings. Throughout those days a sick feeling never left me. You are a coward to let him live in this condition, I told myself. But in my heart I wasn’t sure.

  About a week after bringing Inky home, I was in the yard raking leaves. When I’d finished under the maple, I sat on the steps to rest. It was a perfect Indian summer day; our country road was a tunnel of gold, and sumac ran like a low flame along the south pasture.

  Then, with a flurry of leaves, Inky was beside me. I knelt and stroked the fur so smooth and shiny again. He moved, and I was achingly aware of the useless limb. “I’m so sorry, Inky,” I said, putting my arm around his neck and pressing my head against his.

  Sitting awkwardly, he placed his paw on my knee and looked up at me with soft, intelligent eyes. Then he pricked his ears and turned to listen. In an instant, he was off to meet the school bus. He ran with an ungainly, one-sided lope—but he ran with joy.

  Tim jumped from the high step and caught the dog in his arms, “Oh, Inky! Inky!” he cried. Inky licked Tim’s face and twisted and squirmed with delight. They remained there for a time, oblivious to anything but the ecstasy of being together again.

  Watching them, I knew I’d been right to let the dog live. What was it Mr. Jolliff had said?

  “Life’s pretty precious . . . especially where there’s love.”

  Aletha Jane Lindstrom

  2

  THE MAGIC

  OF THE BOND

  We are shaped and fashioned by what we love.

  Goethe

  MUTTS by Patrick McDonnell. Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.

  The Fishermen

  Peppy was an old dog put together with a few genes of this and that. His body was a mass of gray curls that still had traces of the black that once covered him from head to toe. A lot like my own hair. But it was his eyes that could melt your soul. Dark-brown discs were clouded milky white. Pep was blind and a stroke had rendered his legs useless. The poor dog had to be carried everywhere. He was 15, 105 in human years, and I was nearing 80. We could commiserate.

  We met for the first time in an elevator that took us down from the thirty-second floor. Peppy’s master, Nick, held the old dog in his arms. They were my new neighbors and had come to Florida from the north. I said a few words to break the awkward silence, and Peppy immediately lifted his drooping head at the sound of my voice. His nose sniffed in every direction searching for this new stranger in his midst. Reaching out his snow-white muzzle and shaggy white head, he licked my fingertips with a warm tongue. I stroked his head. His tail wagged a little faster, and his backside moved to the same tempo. By the time we reached the lobby, I knew I had a friend.

  With Nick’s enthusiastic approval, I started taking care of Peppy while Nick was off at work. I’d spend hours telling him about my life. He would close his sightless eyes and listen to everything I had to say. His curly tail would wave slowly, and his nose would punch the air catching the different tones of my voice.

  After a while, Nick rigged up a baby carriage with a platform built on its frame. How wonderful—Pep now had a set of wheels. I even began taking Peppy to my favorite fishing spot. Peppy loved being wheeled along on the quay. The wind pushed back his floppy ears, and he lifted his nose to drink in the many fascinating, fishy smells.

  It wasn’t long before another old critter joined our party. It was a pelican that usually sat nearby and waited for a meal every time I threw over the line. I knew what an effort it was for him to fly. He was too old and worn out to join his wingmen, diving from high altitudes and skimming fish from the edge of the sea. The other pelicans flew off in perfect formation, but the old one just sat there and watched. He survived by gliding a few feet off the dock and snaring baitfish in his huge mouth. Between that and my handouts, he just barely survived.

  Peppy and the pelican hit it off from the first time they met. They sat close to each other and developed a special kind of rapport. What a picture we must have made, Pep on his platform carriage, the tattered bird dozing and me, still casting in the twilight of my own ancient life.

  One day I dropped a baited hook in the water and waited as the line swayed gently in search of a fish. Suddenly Peppy whimpered, not loud, more like a purr. He could see nothing, but his head stretched over the platform till he was facing directly into the sea. His tail beat faster, and his ears stood erect. Somehow the old dog was trying to help me catch a fish. His motions and whimpering alerted the pelican. The old bird stood up and also peered into the water. His yellow eyes bulged, and he stared at my line. The two clairvoyants were telling me something was about to happen. Sure enough, it did! The line became taut! Wham! We had a hit! The pole bent in half, and I strained with all I had to bring something up to the planks. Peppy was half-crazy with excitement; he even pulled himself up on his haunches to get closer to the struggle. And the pelican waddled over to keep an eye on the end of my pole.

  With a lot of grunting, I finally brought up a big, beautiful yellowtail snapper and laid it at Peppy’s feet. Peppy sniffed at the fish madly, then res
ted on his blanket and seemed to enjoy the sound of the pelican eating his freshly caught lunch.

  These days I’m spending more time at the quay than ever and catching loads of fish. My two pals never disappoint me. Alerted by a wagging tail, a whimper and a flutter of wings, I’m always ready when the magic begins. Everyone knows about bird dogs, but who’s ever heard of a fish dog? Or a fish bird? Who’d ever believe I have pets like this?

  These are wonderful days for old Peppy. Instead of moping indoors, alone all day, he’s out in the sunshine with a whole new mission in life. Just last week, Peppy celebrated his sixteenth birthday with some of the most exciting catches of his new career.

  And the pelican? All this activity’s had an effect on him, too. As dusk came to the quay not long ago, I watched as he unfurled his trailing feathers and actually lifted himself off the ground. He pumped his long, weathered wings, and slowly made it to a roost to sleep for the night.

  We’re a threesome of old fishermen. A sightless dog, a flightless bird and an old man who’s having the time of his life.

  Mike Lipstock

  GARFIELD © 1996 Paws, Inc. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.

  Sister Seraphim’s Deal with God

  Ye shall not possess any beast, my dear sisters, except only a cat.

  Ancrene Riwle (“Nun’s Rule,” c. 1200)

  Mother Superior wrung her hands. “Sister Seraphim, you know full good and well that a convent is not a refuge for every stray cat.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “One mouser per convent is quite enough.”

  “Yes, Mother.” The diminutive Russian Orthodox nun bowed her head, more to conceal a grin than to convey contrition.

  At that moment, a voice in the hallway murmured, “Oh! The sweet precious babies. Please Sister Seraphim, the mama must have another saucer of milk.”

  The diminutive Russian Orthodox nun slipped unnoticed out of the room.

  Mother Superior shook her finger at empty air. “And just last week we found the kitchen coffer empty because you took the money to purchase two ragged kitties from little boys, who were unable to care for them.” Mother added, “And Sister, how many times must I remind you, you are not allowed to raid the refrigerator for meat for the cats.”

  Sister Seraphim returned to the lecture scene. “Yes Mother, but when I was but a child, I made a deal with God.”

  “Sister Seraphim,” Mother said with long-suffering patience, “We do not make deals with God!”

  “I do,” Sister said serenely. “I vowed early in life to take care of all living creatures who came my way so long as God provided the means.”

  Mother Superior sighed as she watched the sisters file into Sister Seraphim’s room to coo and pet the newest addition to Sister Seraphim’s collection of waifs—Grisette and her three newborn white balls of fluff.

  For Sister Seraphim, cats had spirits and every one had to have a name. She rescued Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego (named after the men in the Old Testament who survived the fiery furnace) from the burning heat of the summer sun. The duo hiding behind the nunnery received the Biblical names of Luke and Eli. Mary Magdalene was christened after she waited at a well for Sister.

  And then there was Pandora, the born troublemaker. Pandora believed in the virtue of awakening Christian nuns at the crack of dawn. At first she tried to pry Sister’s eyes open with her paw. Soon the mere presence of Pandora’s paw on Sister Seraphim’s face was enough to roust the sister out of bed. But that wasn’t the worst of Pandora, as Sister Seraphim found out one Sunday after services, when Mother Superior called her over.

  Mother Superior stood with her arms folded. “That cat is impossible. Come see what she has done to the convent bathroom.”

  Sister Seraphim’s eyes widened with horror at the destruction. The haughty Pandora was sitting on the window sill, licking her dainty paws.

  Sister asked sternly, “What have you to say for yourself?” But Pandora’s attitude only said, “See how I have excelled at bathroom transgressions. Pulled down all the curtains and towels. Chewed on the toothbrush bristles. Sharpened my claws on the toilet paper and then shredded it into confetti. One good swipe broke all the pretty bottles and knocked over tin cans. Then I mixed up the powder, vitamins, and cough syrup and rolled in the mess.”

  Mother Superior continued, “Why just this morning after being ousted from the chapel, again, Pandora actually had the impudence to flick her tail at His Most Holy Reverence the Bishop.”

  Suppressing a giggle, Sister Seraphim admitted, “Yes, Pandora is incorrigible, but if I don’t love her, who will?”

  Mother Superior looked at her sternly. She was not going to make any concessions. “Other arrangements will have to be made. For all the cats.”

  Sister Seraphim’s round face grew troubled. She knew she had to obey Mother’s instructions, but what would happen to her cats?

  Over the next few weeks, after much worry and many phone calls and visits to local families, Sister Seraphim managed to find homes for all the cats. She vowed to start afresh with a slate clean of animals and an uncomplicated life. But it wasn’t long before a couple of stray cats appeared, obviously in need of her help. Sister Seraphim fed them. What else could she do? And of course it wasn’t long before word spread along the feline grapevine, and more unwanted cats sought succor from the angelic sister.

  Mother Superior appeared to turn a blind eye at first, but inevitably, the day came when “other arrangements” had to be made.

  And so the years passed. As she grew older, Sister Seraphim began to suffer from respiratory problems and arthritis. The time came when her order arranged for her to move to Arizona, hoping that the dry climate might improve her health.

  Of course, Sister Seraphim’s compassion for homeless cats didn’t lessen at all in her new location. Shortly after arriving in Tucson, she decided to take matters into her own hands. The elderly nun persuaded a local real estate agent to donate a house and land. And there she founded the Hermitage, a no-kill cat shelter. At the Hermitage, Sister Seraphim and her cats found a refuge where, for the rest of her days, she no longer had to make “other arrangements.”

  And when Sister Seraphim finally met God, they had both kept their end of the bargain.

  Jane Eppinga

  Heart of a Champion

  Though it’s been years since his racing career ended, Niatross is still a powerful horse. Taller than most men, he weighs half a ton, with a broad chest and chiseled muscles that ripple under a rich bronze coat.

  A racing legend, the champion Standardbred racehorse won thirty-seven of thirty-nine races in 1979–80 and over a million dollars. No horse could pass him once he got the lead.

  In 1996, when he was nineteen years old, Niatross made a twenty-city tour across North America. For sixteen years, Niatross had done little more than romp in his paddock and munch hay and oats. Now he’d have a rock star’s schedule, with press conferences and photographers in every city, a strange stall to sleep in and thousands of fans wanting to pet and fuss over him. As his tour manager, I traveled with him.

  Niatross greeted fans from Maine to Illinois, in big cities and county fairs, in scorching heat and chilly winds. Niatross endured it all with grace and almost eerie intelligence. He was always able to sense what was expected of him and do it.

  One night in Buffalo, New York, Niatross pawed and stomped his feet as he waited for his cue to pace down the racetrack for a photo session. The big horse, in his impatience, reared up on his hind legs, pulling his handler (a six-foot, six-inch man) off his feet, before lunging on to the track. But the outburst was over quickly and soon he stood to be photographed, once again the obliging star.

  After his track appearance, Chris, his handler, unharnessed Niatross and brushed his lustrous coat. As the two rounded the corner from the barn to the grandstand where a crowd of fans waited, Niatross rolled his eyes and stopped in his tracks, as if to say, “Oh, no. I have to
do this again?” But with a gentle tug on the lead rope, Niatross moved ahead to take his place of honor.

  For two hours, he was petted, stroked, prodded and swooned over. I was silently thanking Niatross for another night of patience with us when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a moving, buzzing blur zipping across the pavement toward Niatross. As it drew closer, I could see that the blur was a child in an electric wheelchair. The child had his chair going full throttle and before I could caution him not to scare Niatross, he came to an abrupt halt under the horse’s nose, mere inches from his powerful front legs.

  Clearly startled, but maintaining his poise, Niatross widened his eyes and craned his neck to peer down at the tiny blond boy, who was around five years old and looked like a doll in the heavy, motorized chair. I said hello to the child, who perhaps because of his handicap, was unable to speak. The fingers of his right hand were clutched around a button that propelled his chair; the fingers on the left hand were frozen around a Niatross poster. He looked at me intently, his eyes burning a hole through my face.

  “Would you like Niatross to sign your poster?” I asked. With great solemnity, he nodded his head yes. I pulled the poster from his fingers, tapped Niatross’s foot to get him to lift it, placed the poster beneath it and traced his hoof.

  “There,” I said, slipping the poster back between his fingers, “Niatross signed his name for you.” The child said nothing, but continued his fixed gaze at me.

  “Do you want to give Niatross a pat?” I asked. Again, he solemnly moved his head up and down. Yes.

  A mild panic came over me. How could we do this? The boy couldn’t extend a hand or unclench his fingers, his arms were frozen at his side. How could he reach up to pat a horse? I turned to Chris, not knowing what to do, but knowing we couldn’t disappoint this child.

  “Chris?” I said, hoping he’d have an idea. Without hesitation, Chris placed his hand a few inches beneath Niatross’s soft muzzle. Niatross lowered his velvety nose into Chris’ hand. Slowly, cautiously, Chris moved his hand, with Niatross following, lower and lower, past the boy’s head, past his tiny shoulders. Chris pulled his hand away and Niatross, closing his eyes, rested his head in the boy’s lap.