Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (16 page)

“Oh, honey . . .” her voice broke, and Mark continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“I mean, the fluids and the pills, they’re just not going to help anymore, are they?” He looked to us for confirmation. “Then I think,” he swallowed hard, “I think we should put him to sleep.”

True to form, Mark stayed with Mojo until the end. He asked questions to satisfy himself that it truly was best for Mojo, and that there would be no pain or fear for his old friend. Over and over again he smoothed the glossy head, until it faded onto his knee for the last time. As Mark felt the last breath leave Mojo’s thin ribs and watched the light dim in the kind brown eyes, he seemed to forget about the rest of us. Crying openly, he bent himself over Mojo’s still form and slowly removed his cap. With a jolt I recognized the effects of chemotherapy, so harsh against such a young face. We left him to his grief.

Mark never told us anything about his own illness, or his own feelings throughout Mojo’s ordeal, but when his mom called months later to ask some questions about a puppy she was considering buying, I asked her how he was doing.

“You know,” she said, “it was a terrible time for him, but since Mojo’s death, Mark has begun talking about his own condition, asking questions and trying to learn more about it. I think that dealing with Mojo when the dog was so sick gave Mark strength to fight for himself and courage to face his own pain.”

I always thought Mark was being brave for Mojo, but when I remember those calm, trusting eyes and gently wagging tail that never failed no matter how bad he felt, I think maybe Mojo was being brave for Mark.

Roxanne Willems Snopek Raht

Saddle Therapy

One morning, as I lay in bed, I watched sparrows peck at the feeder outside my window, then flap their wings and soar away. Stricken with multiple sclerosis, a disease that destroys muscle control, I could barely lift my head.
I
wish I could fly away with you,
I thought sadly. At thirty-nine, it seemed my joy-filled life was gone.

I’ve always loved the outdoors. My husband, Dan, and I had loved to take long walks near our home in Colorado Springs. But in my mid-twenties, my joints began to ache after our hikes. I thought it was just sore muscles.

Motherhood, a dream fulfilled with the adoption of Jenny, eleven, and Becky, thirteen, made me jubilant. But as eager as I was to be a great mom, I would just flop on the couch after work as a recreational therapist, too tired to help the girls with homework. I figured it was just exhausting being a working mom.

Then one morning I tried to reach for the coffeepot and couldn’t: my arm was numb.
What’s happening?
I thought in alarm. One doctor prescribed a pain reliever for bursitis. Another diagnosed tendonitis.

Then one day, I was out walking with my daughters when my legs buckled.

“Mom, what’s wrong with you?” my frightened, now seventeen-year-old Becky asked.

“I must really be tired,” I joked, not wanting to upset the girls—but now I was deeply worried. At Dan’s urging, I saw a neurologist.

“You have multiple sclerosis,” he told me.

All I could think of was a slogan I once heard: “MS— crippler of young adults.”
Please, no!
I anguished. Blinking back tears, I asked, “How bad will it get?”

“We can’t say for sure,” he said gently. “But in time, you may need a wheelchair.”

Though Dan tried to console me, that night I lay sleepless.
How will I care for myself and my family?

That fearful question echoed in my mind over the next weeks and months. As time passed, I could walk only using a painful process of locking a knee and forcing the stiff leg forward with my hip muscle. Then, at other times, my legs grew numb, refusing to respond at all. I steadily lost control of my hands, until I could barely make my fingers work.

“It’s okay, Mom, we can help,” the girls would say. And they did.

But
I
wanted to be caring for
them
. Instead, I could barely get dressed and wash a few dishes in the morning before collapsing, exhausted, into bed.

The morning that I lay watching the birds, wishing I, too, could fly away, my heart felt heavy. Hope was dying in me.

Then I saw Dan come in, his eyes alight. “Honey,” Dan said, “I heard something amazing on the radio.” A nearby stable was offering something called therapeutic horseback riding. The technique reportedly helped with many ailments, including MS.

“I think you should give it a try,” he said.

Riding as therapy?
It sounded impossible. Still, as a child in Iowa, I loved to ride.
And even if it just gets me out of bed,
it’d be worth it.

“I’m going to fall on my face,” I joked a few days later, as Dan helped me struggle on canes to the stables. I needed help getting onto the horse, but as I gripped the reins and began circling the riding arena, my body relaxed.

“This is great!” I exulted. When my ride was over, I told Dan I couldn’t wait to try again.

Each time I rode, my hips felt looser and my shoulders became more relaxed. I knew something was happening. At home, I didn’t feel hopeless anymore. I wasn’t tired all the time, I realized happily.

One afternoon, I told the riding-center volunteers I’d like to ride bareback, the way I had as a child. As I galloped across the pasture, the wind tossing my hair, I thought,
For the first time in years, I feel free!

Then, as Dan helped me off the horse, something seemed different.

“I can feel my legs again,” I gasped to Dan. Dan watched, amazed, as I picked up my leg, then easily and smoothly placed it down again.

It had taken me thirty minutes with two canes to reach the stables from my car. But the return walk took less than three minutes—and Dan carried the canes!

“You did it!” he cheered. Tears of joy welled in my eyes.

Soon after, my daughters came home from college for a visit. I walked over and hugged them.

“Mom, look at you!” Becky cried. With an overflowing heart, I told them how the horses had healed me. My doctors cannot explain why the horse therapy works. All I know is that somehow, it does.

Today, I remain nearly symptom-free as long as I ride at least three times a week.

Each morning I bundle up and set off on a long, brisk walk. Breathing in the fresh mountain air around my home, I feel a special rush of joy. I’m so grateful God has given me back my life.

Sherri Perkins as told to Bill Holton
Excerpted from
Woman’s World Magazine

Kitty Magic

G
reat golden comma of a cat,
You spring to catch my robe’s one dangling
  
thread,
And somehow land entangled in my heart.

Lida Broadhurst

After a meeting one night, I felt very tired. Eager to get home and get to sleep, I was approaching my car when I heard
mew, mew, mew, mew
. . . Looking under my car, I saw a teeny little kitten, shaking and crying, huddled close to the tire.

I have never had a fondness for cats. I’m a dog person, thank you very much. I grew up with dogs all my young life and cats always bugged me. Kind of creeped me out. I especially hated going into houses that had cat boxes. I wondered if the residents just ignored the awful smell. Plus, cats always seemed to be all over everything—not to mention their hair. And I was semiallergic to them. Suffice it to say, I had never in my life gone out of my way for a cat.

But when I knelt down and saw this scared little red tabby mewing like crazy, something inside urged me to reach out to pick her up. She ran away immediately. I thought,
Okay, well, I tried,
but as I went to get into my car, I heard the kitten mewing again. That pitiful mewing really pulled at my heart, and I found myself crossing the street to try to find her. I found her and she ran. I found her again and she ran again. This went on and on. Yet I just couldn’t leave her. Finally, I was able to grab her. When I held her in my arms, she seemed so little and skinny and very sweet. And she stopped mewing!

It was totally out of character, but I took her into my car with me. The kitty freaked out, screeching and running at lightning speed all over the car, until she settled herself right in my lap, of course. I didn’t know what I was going to do with her, and yet I felt compelled to bring her home. I drove home, worrying the whole way, because I knew my roommate was deathly allergic to cats.

I got home very late, put the kitten in the front yard and left some milk for her. I was half hoping she would run away by the time morning came. But in the morning she was still there, so I brought her to work with me. Luckily, I have a very sympathetic boss. Especially when it comes to animals. Once we had a hurt sparrow in the office for weeks that he had found and nursed back to health. All day at work, I tried to find someone who would take the kitten, but all the cat lovers were full up.

I still didn’t know what to do with the kitty, so I took her on some errands with me when I left work. Again she freaked in the car and this time wedged herself under the seat. My last stop that afternoon was at my parents’ house.

Recently my father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He had undergone hormone treatment and the doctors now felt they had arrested the cancer. At least for the present. I liked to go there as often as I could.

That afternoon, parked in front of my parents’ house, I was trying to coax the kitten out from under the seat when she zoomed out of the car and into the neighbors’ bushes. There are a lot of bushes in that neighborhood, and I realized after looking for a while that it was a lost cause. I felt a bit sad but consoled myself that this area had many families with kids.
Surely someone would find her
and give her a good home,
I told myself.

To be honest, I felt somewhat relieved because I didn’t know what I would have done with her. I visited with my parents, and as I was leaving, I told them to call me if the kitty came around their place and I would come pick her up. I kidded my father, saying, “Of course, you could keep her if you wanted,” to which he replied, “Not on your life!” I supposed that Dad wasn’t that interested in having pets, particularly cats.

That night there was a call on my answering machine from my father. The kitty had actually shown up on their front doorstep! He said he had her in the house and she was okay, but could I come pick her up the next day? My heart sank.
What am I going to do with this cat?
I thought. I didn’t have the heart to take her to the pound, and I was sure that my roommate wasn’t feeling up for a hospital trip to treat a cat-induced asthma attack. I couldn’t see a solution.

I called my father the next day and told him I would come over and pick up the kitty. To my great surprise, he said not to rush. He had gone out and bought a cat box (oh, no!), cat food and a little dish. I was amazed and thanked him for his generosity. He proceeded to tell me what a character the kitten was and how late the previous night she had been zooming back and forth across the floor. I listened, open-mouthed. The topper came when he said that “Kitty” came up and lay on his chest when he was lying down. I asked, “You let her do that?”

“Oh yes. I pet her and I can feel her motor running,” he replied lovingly. “So take your time, dear, finding a home for her. I can keep her until you do.”

I was floored. My dad, Seymour, Mister “Keep-Those-Dogs-Outside,” had a kitty purring on his chest. In his bed, no less!

As the weeks went on, Dad got weaker. His cancer had reappeared. Yet whenever I called Dad, I heard more and more about how cute Kitty was, how she zoomed around, how loud her motor was, how she followed him everywhere. When I was at the house, my father would call for her, have her come up on his lap, pet her, talk to her and say how much he loved her.

“Dad, aren’t you allergic to cats?” I asked once, as he was putting his handkerchief away after one of his infamous loud honks. He just shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly.

As he got sicker, and could barely move without terrible pain, one of his few joys was to have Kitty lay on his chest. He would pet her and say, “Listen, her motor is running. That’s a good Kitty, good Kitty.” We all watched in awe at Dad’s unabashed affection for this little feline.

Kitty worked her magic on both Dad and me. Charming a reluctant pet-owner, the little cat became one of my father’s single greatest comforts in his final days. And me? Kitty opened my eyes to the wonder and mystery of how life unfolds. She taught me to listen to my heart, even when my head is saying no. I didn’t realize on that unusual night that I was simply a messenger. An unknowing courier delivering a most beautiful and needed friend.

Lynn A. Kerman