Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Page 8

  Bashur was cautious, not sure what to expect. She stuck her head out and looked both ways. When I said, “Bashur, how’s our baby?” she looked up quickly, recognizing her name.

  I had heard she was a big dog, but I really wasn’t prepared for her size. When she started to walk out of the crate, one man in the group exclaimed, “My God, when is she going to stop coming out of that crate?” Bashur just kept coming until all forty inches of her emerged.

  I dropped to one knee and took her collar. I immediately recognized the “Airborne” patch. Putting the side of my face to hers, I gave her a big hug and then attached her new leash.

  We walked outside into the early March sunshine and crossed the parking lot to my waiting van. I had spread a thick blanket behind the front seat, and Bashur stretched out on it like the Queen of Sheba—but not for long! As soon as we began to move, she jumped into the passenger seat, plopped her rear end on the seat, front paws on the floor and chin on the dash, to take in the passing scenery. I shouldn’t have been surprised she was good in the car, as she’d had lots of experience in army vehicles for most of her life.

  When we got to the house, Bashur jumped out and made a beeline for my wife, Muriel, who took one look at the big dog and immediately melted. Bashur can do that to you. She has a huge tail that is always wagging and eyes so full of love that no one can resist her.

  Bashur was officially home.

  Now each morning Bashur and I leave the house at six and head to my office—a car dealership northwest of Chicago. Everyone at work loves her. The floor of my office is strewn with her toys and chew bones. Being raised by a battalion of soldiers, she prefers men, and her favorite type of play is wrestling and roughhousing.

  When the newspaper printed a story about her, she received countless baskets of goodies from well-wishers— so many that we began to donate them to the local animal shelter—and two women came to take pictures of Bashur to send to their sons overseas. Their sons, soldiers who had known Bashur in Iraq, wanted to make sure that she was okay.

  At noon Bashur and I take our daily walk in the fields around the office. It is a special time for both of us. I love watching her bound joyfully along, gazing with fascination at birds or becoming enthralled by a smell her large hound nose has unearthed. She seems amazed by all the wonderful things in her new life.

  Bashur has certainly found her way into my heart as she has done with so many others. Sometimes when she sleeps, she rolls over and sighs, content, and I am happy. We owe this dog, and we want her to have the best life we can give her. There is really no way to repay her for the comfort she brought our son and so many others like him. But we can try. . . .

  John Fenzel, Jr.

  My Furry Muse

  Newlyweds always face challenges as they learn what to expect fromeach other. My Iranian husband,Mahmoud, came from a country, culture and especially a family very different from the close-knit, pet-loving household I’d experienced. But we had faith our love was enough to build a life together.

  In November 1979, our world blew up. We struggled to understand the taking of hostages half a world away, and we worried about Mahmoud’s relatives caught in the insanity of that awful nightmare.

  The crisis threatened our relationship as well—we were so very different. The stress became unbearable. Sometimes we hurt each other expecting too much. We’d misunderstand a word, a glance, a gesture that had different meanings for each of us. Would our love survive?

  So when Mahmoud suggested a puppy for my birthday, the gift meant everything. In his homeland, dogs were considered dirty, dangerous creatures suitable only for outdoor guard duty—inviting a dog into our home meant he understood me. That he wanted me to be happy. And that he knew what would help me most during the most frightening and challenging time of our lives.

  The German shepherd puppy kept me company when Mahmoud worked nights. Fafnir listened when I worried out loud, clowned to make me laugh and licked away my tears—and there were many tears. I felt out of place in the small eastern Kentucky town where we lived and missed my distant Indiana family. I struggled to be a “perfect” wife, and of course failed miserably.

  But Fafnir made me feel important. He didn’t care if meals never tasted likeMomused tomake, he never called me a Yankee and we seemed to have a common language that needed no words. He thought I was wonderful—and I knew he was special, too.

  Then Mahmoud was laid off, so we moved to Louisville where he attended graduate school. Less than a week after the move, I found a position as a veterinary assistant near our apartment. As a special bonus, I could take Fafnir with me to work. Our neighbor’s small cockapoo, Fidget, became best buddies with Fafnir. Things were looking up!

  Then Fafnir developed a limp. He favored first one paw, and then another. Medicine temporarily relieved his limping, but his paws turned red, itchy and swollen. He scratched constantly and only seemed happy when playing tag with Fidget.

  I tried everything. Antibiotics made him sick. A special diet didn’t help, and his weight dropped to fifty-nine pounds. Despite my discount, the treatment costs added up—and up. Nothing seemed to help. Fafnir was allergic to the air he breathed—the molds, pollens and other allergens of the Ohio Valley region. His condition grew worse day by day. Fafnir no longer looked like a German shepherd. When I stroked his black coat, his fur pulled out in clumps with flaking skin still attached. His once-expressive ears were naked on the outside, the tender inside lined with pustules and slow-to-heal scabs. Constant licking and chewing stained his tummy black except where the red, oozing sores broke the skin. Swollen feet prompted a halting, limping gait more appropriate to an aged, arthritic canine.

  When he visited the clinic with me, pet owners now shrank away and pulled their dogs out of sniffing range. They didn’t want Fafnir to give his “horrible disease” to their beloved pets. Although he wasn’t contagious, I couldn’t blame people for their concern. Fidget still invited games, but Fafnir could no longer play. He hurt too much. And he smelled.

  He was only fourteen months old.

  Had love blinded my eyes and my logic? If this poor creature belonged to somebody else, would I also shrink from touching the affectionate dog? How could I justify continued treatment? Was there a better, more compassionate option? No! Not my Fafnir! I veered away from the thought before it fully formed, but a calmer, more reasonable voice insisted that I face the facts and realities of the dog’s condition. Was I being selfish? Would death be the kindest treatment of all?

  I couldn’t bother Mahmoud with the question—he had enough to worry about. For two days and nights I argued with myself, one moment sure that any life was better than an early separation from my beloved dog; the next trying to find strength within myself to stop his suffering.

  The third morning, driving the short distance to work, it was hard to see the street through my tear-clouded eyes. Fafnir licked my neck, excited as always to visit the clinic and see his friends. Maybe he’d get to sniff a cat (oh, doggy joy!).

  The busy morning moved quickly from case to case, while Fafnir rested in his usual kennel. Each time I dug into my pocket for suture scissors or pen and touched the crumpled paper, my eyes filled again. It was the euthanasia authorization form I’d decided to complete during lunch break after playing with Fafnir one last time.

  Then an emergency case arrived. A young woman, nearly hysterical with fear, carried a Pomeranian puppy into the clinic. “It’s Foxy, please help! He chewed through an electric cord.” The woman’s two small children watched with wide, tearful eyes.

  The veterinarian began immediate treatment. “A transfusion would help since the pup’s in shock. Lucky we have Fafnir here as a donor.”

  I froze. For an endless moment I couldn’t breathe. Then without a word, I brought my boy out of the kennel. His eyes lit up at the chance to sniff Foxy’s small, shivering body. Fafnir’s scaly bald tail wagged, and he grinned. I had to coax him away to draw twelve cubic centimeters of precious blood from his
foreleg, to be given to his tiny new friend.

  By lunchtime, Foxy’s gums transformed from white to a healthy pink, and he breathed normally. The red puppy even managed a feeble wag and sniffed back when Fafnir nosed him through the kennel bars.

  For the first time in three days, I could smile through what had become happy tears. Without looking at it, I pulled the euthanasia paperwork from my pocket, crumpling it and tossing it into the trash. What if I’d made that decision even an hour earlier? If Fafnir hadn’t been there for Foxy, the puppy would have died.

  Fafnir grinned up at me, and I realized he didn’t care howhe looked. Fafnir patiently put upwith the unknowns in his world—with uncomfortable baths, bitter pills and scary needle sticks he couldn’t control—simply because he loved me and trusted that I would keep him safe. Fafnir willingly came to Foxy’s rescue, just as he’d rescued me during the first troubled months of my marriage. That’s what we do for our friends, for the ones we love. We pass it on to strangers, too, simply because it brings such joy.

  Sixmonths later,Mahmoud attained hismaster’s degree, found a great job, and we moved from Louisville to Tennessee. Away from the allergens that had plagued him, Fafnir quickly recovered and no longer needed medication. My heart swelled with quiet thanks during each afternoon walk when neighbors admired Fafnir’s proud stride and glowing coat and begged to pet him.

  In Tennessee, I began to write about my experiences working at the vet’s office. My first published article told Fafnir’s story and launched my pet-writing career. Fafnir has been my furry muse ever since. More than that, his infectious grin, his quiet trust, and his delight at meeting new critters (looky, a cat!), fill the pages of my heart with a joy beyond words.

  Amy D. Shojai

  After Dooley

  On my wife’s fiftieth birthday we were awakened in the middle of the night by the violent shaking of our bed. Dooley, our eighteen-year-old miniature dachshund, lay between us, jerking in convulsions. He was so fevered that I could feel the heat without actually touching him. We rushed him to an all-night animal hospital and waited for the inevitable heartbreak. He did not die that night, but his old and tired body had taken more than it was meant to tolerate. A few days later, with a powerful tranquilizer running through his veins, our dog fell asleep for the last time as I held him in my arms.

  Dooley was a puppy when my wife, Patricia, and her two sons received him as a gift. Five years would pass before I came into their lives. Growing up, I always had pets, but Patricia had never considered herself a “dog person.” In fact, Dooley had been her first. Other dogs made her very nervous. So, after Dooley passed, when I suggested that we consider bringing another canine into our home, she said she would go along with the idea only if I accepted certain conditions.

  First, we wouldn’t rush into anything. Our loss was still very fresh in our minds, even after several weeks of mourning, and we were both concerned that replacing Dooley too soon might somehow disrespect his memory. Second, we would consider only a puppy since an older dog might be more aggressive, and, therefore, more difficult for my wife to handle. Finally, our new dog could not weigh more than ten to fifteen pounds when fully grown.

  We decided to start our search in late March, around the time of our wedding anniversary. That way, if we found a dog we liked, we could purchase him or her as a mutual gift. Still, I knew that Patricia was doing this more for me than for herself.

  On our first visit to the local animal shelter, I saw him immediately. As soon as the door to the back room opened, we were greeted by a chorus of thirty to forty barkers wildly competing for our attention. The cages stood side by side and facing each other, forming a U around the cool, semidark room. He was there in the first cage to the right, a full-grown Lab mix calmly taking in the cacophony around him. Black as night, he nearly blended in to the dimly lit recess beyond narrow steel bars. I caught his eye and quickly looked away without a word to my wife. Too old and too big, he did not match our predetermined profile.

  After a short tour and a cursory examination of the younger residents, my wife and I left the shelter empty-handed but promising to come back soon.

  More than a week had passed when we arrived home from work to find a vaguely familiar voice recorded on our answering machine. “Where have you been?” were the first few words we heard. The message was from Vicky, the animal shelter manager, urging us to come and check out some recent arrivals.

  The next evening we went back for another visit, but again, our search for the perfect puppy came up empty. As we were about to leave, I noticed the dog I had admired the previous week, still watching us hopefully and with quiet dignity from that first cage on the right.

  I stopped and turned to my wife. I was certain of the reaction I was about to receive, but like a child who cannot help asking for the one thing he knows he can never have, I took my shot: “How about this guy?” I said.

  A few minutes later, Patricia and I were alone in a quiet room across the hall. I could hardly believe it when she had agreed to take a closer look at a dog four times the size of Dooley. Now I could sense her apprehension as we sat there on a pair of folding chairs waiting to meet the orphaned animal I was certain would never be coming home with us.

  The door opened and in popped a furry black head. He hesitated in the doorway, clearly assessing the situation. He looked at me, then at my wife. As if he knew which of us he had to win over, he walked straight up to Patricia and gently placed that beautiful head in her lap. Amazed, I watched my wife instantly fall in love. I will never forget the look of compassion on her face or the conviction in her voice when she turned to me and said, “I want this dog.”

  Exley has now been a part of our family for just over four years. I’m still dumbfounded at the thought that this gentle, loyal and loving animal was once abandoned to the streets. Likewise, I’m surprised that someone else didn’t come along to adopt him in the days between our first and second trips to the shelter. Maybe we just got lucky. Or maybe there was something else behind our good fortune.

  My wife is certain that we had some help. She believes Dooley’s spirit was with us that night, nudging the bigger dog in her direction and somehow finding a way to let us know that he was the ideal new companion for us.

  “Yeah, right,” I tell her, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “Believewhatever you like if itmakes you feel better.”

  But sometimes, when I find myself on the couch enjoying a few peaceful moments with Exley—listening to his soft breathing and feeling his warm body pressed as close as he can get against my leg—I remember our visits to the shelter and how I nearly passed by this wonderful dog without speaking out. In those moments of contented companionship, so like the times I spent with Dooley, it doesn’t seem at all far-fetched that the spirit of an old friend might find a way to help his surviving family pick out the perfect new friend.

  Gary Ingraham

  When Harry Met Kaatje

  No matter how little money and how few possessions you own, having a dog makes you rich.

  Louis Sabin

  December 1994. In Holland on a business trip, I had completed my assignment and was heading home. It was early morning on a cold and rainy Saturday, and I was on my way from the hotel to Amsterdam Central Station to catch the train to the airport.

  Just outside the train station, I came across a homeless man. I’d seen this particular man a number of times in the past, as I’d traveled through Amsterdam quite often, and usually gave him some change. Many homeless people call Amsterdam Central Station their home, but this man really stuck in my mind because he was always so good-natured.

  That day, because of the holidays, I was feeling particularly upbeat, so I handed the man fifty guilders (about twenty-five dollars) and wished him a Merry Christmas. With tears welling up in his eyes, he thanked me pro- fusely for my generosity and asked my name. I told him mine was Dave, and he said his was Harry. We chatted briefly and went our separate ways.

  As I wal
ked up to the ticket vending machine inside the train station, I reached into my wallet, but found nothing. I realized that I had just given Harry the last of my money, and the bank was not yet open for currency exchange. I had no Dutch money left to buy my ticket to the airport. As I stood, pondering my predicament, along came Harry. He saw me standing there bewildered and asked if I needed help with the ticket vending machine, as it was entirely in Dutch.

  I explained that this was not the difficulty. My actual problem was that I had no money. Without the slightest hesitation, Harry punched out the code for a ticket to the airport, and deposited the change required. Out came a ticket. He handed it to me and said, “Thank you.”

  I asked why he was thanking me when it was I who was indebted to him.

  He said, “Because I have been on the street for many years. I don’t have a lot of friends, and you are the first person in a long time that I have been able to help. This is why I thank you.”

  Over the next eight years, I continued seeing Harry at the train station when I passed through Amsterdam, which was almost every month. He usually saw me first and came over for some conversation. A number of times we had dinner together. Dinner with Harry isn’t what most people think of as a normal meal. We would purchase pizza or fries from the outdoor vendors and sit on the curb to eat, since Harry wasn’t welcome in restaurants. I didn’t care; I considered Harry a good friend.

  Then, starting in June 2002, I stopped seeing Harry at the train station. I thought the worst—that Harry, even though he was fairly young and healthy, had probably frozen to death or been killed.

  In early 2003, I was in Amsterdam for my monthly visit. It was 5:30 on Saturday morning, and I was on my way to the train station. Suddenly, I heard a voice yell, “Hey, Dave.”

  I turned to see a clean-shaven, casually dressed gentleman walking a medium-sized brown and white collie-type dog. They were coming my way. I had no idea who this person was. He walked up to me, shook my hand and said, “It’s me. Harry.”