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

Prince’s gifts to us, naturally, started to take on a very maternal bent. One morning, he proudly deposited a new kitten on my stoop. “Thanks, Mr. Charming,” I said as I opened the door, “but please take this back.” A scowling mother cat from next door appeared a few minutes later to retrieve her offspring. Undaunted, Prince found me a new present: the neighbor’s pet duck. It became a daily ritual. Prince plopped the duck down, the duck gave me a “here-we-go-again” look, and the three of us waddled and trudged back across the field to my neighbor’s pond. “Oh, well,” I told myself. “It’s good exercise.” And it was awfully endearing.

  I suppose that’s why, one morning, I was so surprised to hear Prince emit a long, low, menacing growl. I was watering flowers near the house, Prince by my side, when he made the noise, and I stood up to see a large, disgruntled rottweiler advancing on us. Frightened, I reached for the faucet, hoping to turn a blast of water on the rottweiler with my hose. Prince, feeling my fear, positioned his small body in front of me—did we ever call him wimpy?— meeting the dog halfway as it lunged for me. The combination of the hose and Prince gave the rottweiler pause, and he turned and ran off. Prince had taken a gash on the neck, but he recovered with only a small scar to remind us of his valor.

  We still talk about that shining moment of Prince’s bravery, the pinnacle of any dog’s life, but more than that, we marvel at his selfless love and nanny instincts. Where did a dog who had been shown nothing but abuse learn to treat other creatures with such tenderness and kindness?

  We’d like to think it was our doing, but I have a feeling that our beloved dog was never the pauper we took him to be. Underneath that ratty disguise he had always been the good guy.

  Sharon Landeen

  “I listened to some of your motivation tapes while you were at work and I've decided to become a Great Dane.”

  Reprinted by permission of Randy Glasbergen.

  Fifteen Minutes of Fame

  If your dog thinks you’re the greatest person in the world, don’t seek a second opinion.

  Jim Fiebig

  I dashed out an exit at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago and ran towards a waiting cab. I was greeted by a cab driver with a three-day-old beard, an old baseball cap and arms the size of tree trunks.

  As he tossed my bags into the trunk, he spotted my luggage tags and said, “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “A veterinarian,” I said. Instantly, his grizzled face broke into a smile. This happens to veterinarians all the time, as people love to talk about their pets.

  The doors slammed, he put the car into gear and hit me with this opening salvo, “My wife claims I love my toy poodle Missy more than I love her. Just once, she wants me to be as excited to see her as I am Missy. But Doc, it ain’t gonna happen. Ya see, when I get home from a long day in the cab, dead tired, I open the door and there are the two of them looking at me, Ma and Missy. Ma has a scowl on her face and is ready to tear into me. Missy, on the other hand, is shaking all over, she’s that happy—her face is grinning so wide, she could eat a banana sideways. Now who do you think I’m going to run to?”

  I nodded my head in agreement because I understood his point only too well. He loved his wife, but he simply wanted permission to savor his fifteen minutes of fame.

  It’s been said that everybody gets fifteen minutes of fame once in his lifetime. We pet owners get our fifteen minutes every time we come home—or even return from the next room.

  A few days after I saw the cab driver in Chicago, I returned home. I was tired from my travels and looking forward to seeing my family.

  Pulling into the driveway, I peered through the windshield, straining to catch my first glimpse of my loved ones. My two children, Mikkel and Lex, are very close to good ol’ dad, but I didn’t see their faces pressed against the window looking for me. Nor did my beloved wife, Teresa, come running in super slow motion across the yard, arms open wide ready to embrace me.

  But I didn’t despair. I knew I was still wanted, a Hollywood heartthrob, hometown hero to my two dogs: Scooter, a wirehaired fox terrier, and, Sirloin, a black Labrador retriever!

  As soon as I exited the pickup, Sirloin and Scooter charged to meet me. Their love-filled eyes danced with excitement, and their tail turbochargers whipped them into a delighted frenzy of fur.

  Was this affection-connection routine, or ho-hum for me? Was I cool, calm and collected?

  Heck no. I turned into a blithering idiot as I got out of my truck and rushed to meet the hairy-princess, Scooter, and Sirloin, the fur-king.

  There I stood, all the false layers stripped away, masks removed and performances cancelled. It was my true self. Extra pounds, bad-hair day, angry people, travel strains, no matter. Scooter and Sirloin came to the emotional rescue and allowed me to drink in the sheer love and joy of the moment. I was drunk with contentment.

  I was glad this took place in the privacy of my own home. What happened next might have spoiled my polished professional image. I immediately smiled, and raised my voice an octave or two, exclaiming, “Sirloin, yuz is daaaaddy’s boy, aren’t ya?” And, “Scooter, have you been a good girl today? Yeah you have, you’ve been a goooood girl!!”

  They responded by turning inside out with delight, pressing themselves against my legs and talking to me. I felt as if I could tap directly into their wellspring of positive, healing energy. Gee, it was great to be home!

  I bounded up the steps to find the rest of the family, heart open, stress gone and spirits restored by my fifteen minutes of fame.

  Marty Becker, D.V.M.

  A Gift Exchange

  My favorite Christmas custom is placing reminders of special people or events on my tree. It’s only a tiny artificial tree, but it’s loaded with mementos. Many were never intended to be ornaments: intricately whorled cross sections of pink seashells from Florida; several small, hand-carved olivewood crosses from my trip to the Holy Land. A few traditional ornaments, such as a deep blue, hand-blown ball well over a century old, given to me by an “adopted aunt,” bring to mind people I love. Two antique stars are family heirlooms. But the ornament I save to put on last, most honored at the very top, came to me in a most unusual way.

  It started late one autumn, a chilly evening in 1980, when I got home from work. I happened to glance up at the crooked old apple tree next to the apartment garage, and a squirrel caught my eye. His patchy coat looked unhealthy, and his tail downright bedraggled. He looked hungry as well as sick. I watched as he climbed the tree, but he couldn’t climb very fast. I felt sorry for him. He looked as forlorn as an old bachelor with no one to love or look after him.

  I went inside and found an old sack of pecans. Then I placed one on the open cement porch, went back inside, and peeked between the red-and-white-checked door curtains. “Come on down, Old Batch,” I thought.

  But the squirrel stayed in the tree. I was too tired and hungry to keep vigil so I fixed supper and forgot about the nut. Next morning it was gone, and I put another in its place before leaving for work. That evening it was gone too, so I put out a couple more. This became a daily ritual even though I seldom saw Old Batch.

  About a week later, I was surprised to be welcomed home by the cautious old squirrel, who approached to within three feet of me on the sidewalk, obviously ready to back off if I made even one wrong move. I spoke softly, and slowly climbed the steps: “I’m glad you can use the nuts,” I said. “Let me get another one.”

  When I returned with it, I stooped to place it in the accustomed spot. Then I went inside, gently closing the glass storm door. Old Batch could see me, but he must have known I could not get near him. I waited excitedly, hoping to watch him eat this time.

  Sure enough, the aging squirrel hopped up my steps. But Old Batch ignored my nut. Instead, he inched hisway to the brick planter next to the porch, hopped in, rummaged around and quickly pulled out a whitened fragment of bone from his hiding place beneath the dead leaves. Holding it in his paws, he seemed to be using it as a tool, as if he
was sharpening his teeth. His bright eyes watched me all the while. Then he dropped the bone and picked up the nut. He held it near his mouth but made no attempt to crack it with his teeth. Dropping the nut, he hopped down my steps one by one, turned and cocked his head, and waited on the sidewalk. His silent message came through loud and clear: this old squirrel was too decrepit to crack hard old shells without breaking his teeth! He must still be hungry.

  I found my nutcracker, cracked three nuts and slowly opened the door. I placed the meal on the porch and retreated. Back in a flash, Old Batch ate two nuts, nibbling away as he held each one in his tiny paws. He took the third nut with him. From then on, I put out only cracked nuts, several at a time. I continued to put cracked pecans out till mid-January, when the nuts went untouched. I never saw Old Batch again. But he left behind vivid memories and something else.

  The day after I began cracking the pecans, in exactly the spot where I had left them, I found a glittering, many-faceted amber glass bead, about half an inch long. I wondered where the mysterious gem had come from. Maybe Old Batch had scavenged it from a trash sack, or picked it up after someone dropped it in the alley. Had he held it in his tiny paws, turning his treasure around as the sun sparkled on it? I like to believe that he left it just for me, as his only way of thanking me for understanding his need.

  I was so moved that I sent the bead to a Florida cousin, a jeweler who created a metal holder for my trinket. I carefully sewed it in the center of a miniature white star made of starched hand-crocheted lace. And at Christmas time the squirrel’s sparkly gift is always the topmost ornament on my memory tree.

  For me it is a beautiful reminder that I must never take for granted all the incomprehensible wonders of nature or forget that even the apparently voiceless can communicate very clearly if we pay attention when they feel moved to say “God bless you.”

  Mary Bucher Fisher

  Chitra’s Calling

  Teaching a child not to step on a caterpillar is as valuable to the child as it is to the caterpillar.

  Bradley Miller

  Chitra Besbroda didn’t plan to be a hero, but she is. And as often happens, Chitra’s heroism began with one small act of kindness.

  Many years ago, shortly after arriving in the United States from her native Sri Lanka, Chitra was walking home from her job as a clinical social worker. Her path took her through the streets of Harlem. As Chitra passed by one of the area’s many dilapidated buildings, she heard a strange sound from inside. She paused for a moment, and was about to continue her journey, when again she heard an almost imperceptible high-pitched whine. Walking over to the weathered door, Chitra peered through its small keyhole. Peering back was a large dog with sad, brown eyes. From what Chitra could see, the dog looked like a German shepherd crossed with who-knew-what else. She guessed he had been left to guard the building from intruders. But if so, the dog wasn’t doing his job, because Chitra could see that he was wagging his tail as she spoke softly to him.

  As a Buddhist-born woman, Chitra had been raised to respect all forms of life equally. It didn’t seem right for such a friendly dog to be expected to stay by himself day and night behind locked doors. Gazing through the keyhole into the dog’s mournful eyes, Chitra vowed to help him gain his freedom.

  This decision set Chitra on an arduous journey. For a few weeks she visited the dog, whom she called Teddy, on her way to and from work, carrying a small bag of dog food. The door was always locked, so to feed her lonely charge she sat by the door, poking the small morsels of food through the keyhole—piece by piece. Soon, Teddy learned to hold his tongue under the hole to catch the food. Chitra’s only reward for her efforts was his occasional high-pitched whine. It was enough.

  Eventually, after asking around the neighborhood, Chitra learned the name of the man who owned the building and Teddy. Cautiously she approached the owner and introduced herself, being careful not to anger him or make him feel guilty about Teddy. After a couple of weeks, she convinced the man to let her take Teddy home with her for the weekend. After all, she told him, she had a nice place downtown where Teddy would be well-cared for, and it would save him the expense of feeding the dog, at least for a couple of days each week. The man agreed after Chitra promised to bring his dog back early on Monday. Thus began Teddy’s weekend excursions downtown, where Chitra pampered him like a child.

  Bringing him back to his desolate place behind the shabby door each Monday became harder and harder. One weekend, Chitra picked Teddy up from the ramshackle building that had been his prison for so long and never returned.

  For weeks Chitra suffered verbal abuse and threats of physical violence from Teddy’s owner, but she refused to return the dog to him, knowing how unhappy Teddy would be imprisoned again. Instead, she pleaded with the man to have compassion and to let her keep Teddy. Finally, he relented. Chitra was overjoyed but quickly realized it would be impossible to keep such a large, rambunctious shepherd in her small downtown apartment full-time. Even though she knew she could not be Teddy’s owner, she prayed for someone to appear who could give Teddy a good life.

  One day she was told of a kind, soft-spoken Spaniard who worked at the United Nations who wanted a dog. Chitra called him, instantly liked him and felt in her heart he’d make a good owner for Teddy. But even so, she conducted a thorough background check and insisted on meeting the man before she’d decide whether to relinquish Teddy to him.

  There were a number of delays, but finally, the day arrived when Chitra and Teddy would meet the man with the gentle voice. Chitra’s heartstrings were taut with conflicting emotions. She longed for Teddy to find the perfect home where he could live out the rest of his life in luxury, but at the same time her heart ached at the thought of losing him. With a simple prayer, she promised to do whatever was right and trusted that she’d know what that was once she met the man face-to-face.

  The three met in a park not far from Chitra’s apartment. The meeting did not start well. The Spaniard appeared nervous and ill at ease. Was he hiding something that I should know? wondered Chitra. Teddy also seemed a bit concerned, partially hiding behind Chitra’s legs. After a few minutes of chitchat, Chitra wasn’t sure about this man and, remembering her prayer, thought she should call the whole thing off.

  Then the man’s attention switched to Teddy. He bent down and coaxed Teddy to him. Slowly the dog crept closer to the man, whining softly. As he did so, the man reached into the pocket of his trench coat and brought out a few small nuggets of dog food. Seeing and smelling the food, Teddy scurried closer. As the man held out a nugget between his fingers, Teddy gently reached out with his tongue for it, as he had done at the keyhole hundreds of times before.

  Chitra looked across at the man’s face and saw that it had broken into a smile of pure pleasure at how Teddy had accepted his offering. Chitra knew that look. It was the look of a true dog lover. As Chitra gazed at the kind man and the big dog, she knew she had fulfilled her vow. Teddy was finally free.

  But it wasn’t long before she realized there were “Teddys” everywhere. All around Harlem, she noticed other dogs being used as “living burglar alarms.” She could not turn her back on them either.

  For over twenty-five years, Chitra has continued her crusade to save the “junkyard dogs and cats” of Harlem. In the process, she has helped rescue over three thousand animals, many of them starved and physically abused. Eventually Chitra founded Sentient Creatures, Inc., a charity dedicated to helping pets and people live harmoniously together.

  The need of the animals called her so strongly, Chitra couldn’t help but answer. Teddy, her first rescue, had left indelible paw prints upon Chitra’s soul.

  W. Bradford Swift, D.V.M.

  3

  PETS AS

  HEALERS

  A faithful friend is the medicine of life.

  Old Proverb

  “Eat some grass.”

  Reprinted by permission of Charles Barsotti.

  The Therapy Team

  My s
ister found Jake roaming the streets. He was all skin and bones, his fur was matted, and he was filthy and exhausted. The only thing shiny about him were his big eyes. They looked just like the eyes of a deer.

  My family telephoned me to come look at him as soon as my sister brought him home. When I saw Jake I knew. My family didn’t even have to ask, and I didn’t need to say a word. “We knew you’d take him,” said my sister.

  The next day, I took Jake to the vet. After his examination, the vet said, “I’m afraid this dog has a serious heart condition. I don’t expect him to make it to the end of the week.” I’d only had him one night, but the news hit me hard. Jake looked at me and I at him and I said, “Let’s go home, boy.”

  A month passed as Jake proved the doctor wrong. Jake blossomed; clearly he adored people and loved life. Grateful for his recovery, we simply took things one day at a time. Then, one morning, I noticed a newspaper article requesting dogs and volunteers for a pet-assisted therapy program. I thought this would suit Jake—and I must have gotten over twenty calls from friends and family who had seen the article and insisted that Jake would be perfect— so I scheduled an interview. Jake was, as the interviewer said, “enthusiastic,” and he went on to pass several more interviews, vet visits and discipline tests with flying colors. He was now an official hospital volunteer.

  I was so proud, and Jake was too. For the next six years, we spent every Friday night at the hospital in the oncology/hematology unit; we saw hundreds of patients.

  One particular visit stands out. We were working with another team, Sherry and her dog, MacDuff. It had been a long Friday night after a long Friday, and we were all tired. It was well past eleven o’clock, and as we passed the elevator, the doors opened and a man in his fifties and his grown son stepped out. They almost ran into Jake and Mac. “Oh, how beautiful,” said the son. “Can we pet the dogs?”