Read Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
After that evening, the once nameless dog never stopped moving. His whole purpose in life was to keep up with Amy. Wherever she went, you could count on Albert being no more than two steps behind her. As she fed the other dogs, Albert trotted along with her, responding to the other dogs as if to say, “I am finally happy.”
Amy and Albert were inseparable. Even when Amy walked to the nearby fire station to take a shower, Albert accompanied her. When Amy got into the shower, Albert hopped right in too, refusing to let Amy out of his sight.
I was beginning to notice, though, that Albert still did not have the energy of an eighteen-month-old dog. We decided it would probably be a good idea to have Albert pay a visit to Dr. Hight, the veterinarian in Bainbridge who was a great help to us. The vet confirmed our fear: Albert had heartworm. The good news was that because Albert was a young dog and the problem was not yet advanced, the doctor was willing to try to treat the frequently fatal illness.
This gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to call Albert’s owner. When I explained to him that Albert had heartworm and that it would cost at least $300 to treat him, I expected he’d say, “I don’t have the money, so you keep the dog.”
But I was wrong. He wanted Albert back.
“You understand that if the dog isn’t immediately treated for the heartworm, he’ll die,” I told the man on the other end of the phone, still hoping I could convince him to release the dog to me.
“Yeah. I understand. That’s what happens to all my dogs, and when I lose this one, I’ll get myself another one,” the man replied, without the least bit of remorse in his voice. “Oh, yeah, my house didn’t flood, so I’ll be out shortly to pick up my dog.”
With that, the man hung up.
In the distance, I saw Amy and Albert playing tug-of-war with a towel. “How am I going to tell Amy we have to give Albert back?” I said half-aloud, as tears streamed down my cheeks. “It’ll kill them both.”
An hour later a dark blue Camaro pulled up to the front gate, and I immediately recognized the man who stepped out of the car. In his hand he carried a heavy chain. As he came through the gate, Amy spotted him too. I had just explained to her that Albert’s owner would be there soon to reclaim his dog. It was one of the most difficult things I’d ever had to do.
At that moment, I wished I were not the director of the rescue program. I wished more than anything that I could make one dog mysteriously disappear. Because of my responsibilities, I knew that I couldn’t. If we got the reputation of taking people’s animals and not giving them back because we didn’t like the way they were cared for, it could prevent us from helping animals in the future.
We have, during disasters, reported instances of animal abuse to local authorities, but as long as an owner is providing food, water and shelter and is not physically abusing the animal, the law protects the person from having his or her animal confiscated. Since emotional neglect is not considered abuse, Albert’s owner was within the law.
When I remembered the shell of a dog that had arrived less than a week before, and what Amy had done to bring him to life, I was distraught. How could we just let him die now?
“Where’s my dog?” the man asked in a gruff voice when he spotted me near the intake tent.
“One of the volunteers is walking him right now,” I replied, looking over his shoulder to where I could see Amy crouched on the ground next to Albert, her arms wrapped around his neck. This time I didn’t have to imagine what she was whispering in his ear. I knew she was saying good-bye.
“Well, get him. I have things to do,” he replied impatiently. I had to ask one more time. “Are you sure you want your dog back?” I asked. “I expect he’s not going to live much longer.”
“Yeah. I want him back,” the man said as he turned to survey the property. It took him only a second to spot his dog, still cradled in Amy’s arms. “There he is,” he said as he started toward the far end of the property.
That was when I reached my hand into my pocket.
“Wait!” I shouted, causing the man to stop and turn back toward me. “How about if I buy that dog from you?” I offered, and then held my breath, waiting for his answer, the fifty-dollar bill scrunched in my hand.
I didn’t have to wait long. Before I knew it, the man’s hand was palm-up in front of him. His reply was exactly what I wanted to hear. “Sure. I’ll sell him.”
And so Albert went to live with Amy and her family. He was successfully treated for the heartworm, and when I saw Albert about a month after the floods, it was hard to believe he was the same dog. Albert had been dead inside, but now with his shining eyes and happy prance, he was simply overflowing with life and love. He had been rescued in spirit as well as in body.
Terri Crisp and Samantha Glen
Maria, a gentle, soft-spoken woman of seventy, had always managed to view the world with a child’s sense of wonderment. She greeted the dawn of each new day with the brightness of the sun itself and found joy in the smallest of things: a dove perched on her birdfeeder, the fresh morning dew, the sweet scent of jasmine in her garden.
A widow, Maria lived alone in a run-down neighborhood in Deerfield Beach, Florida. One day while out tending the small garden in front of her modest home, Maria had been injured in a drive-by shooting. The bullet had pierced through her skin with a ferocious bite and lodged itself in the old woman’s right thigh. Crying out in agony, she had dropped to the sidewalk. When the mailman found her unconscious nearly an hour later, her injured leg had been bleeding profusely. She’d made it to the hospital just in time and later, the doctor had told Maria she was lucky to be alive.
Returning home, Maria didn’t feel so lucky. Before the shooting, the elderly woman had always been grateful that she was healthy for her age. Now just getting the daily mail required a Herculean effort. In addition, her medical bills were mounting alarmingly, straining her meager income. And although she had watched the neighborhood deteriorate, somehow things had seemed safe in the daylight—but not anymore. For the first time in her life, Maria felt frightened, alone and vulnerable.
“I feel defeated,” she had told her friend Vera. “I’m just an old woman with nothing to do and nowhere to go.”
When Vera came to pick up Maria for her checkup at the medical center, she hardly recognized her old friend. Maria’s soft brown eyes held a haunting sadness and her face was gaunt and haggard. All the curtains were drawn and her hands shook with fear as she hobbled out onto the front porch, a cane stabilizing her injured leg.
They were a little early for Maria’s appointment, so to try to cheer up Maria, Vera took a longer, more scenic route. They were stopped at a red light when Maria suddenly shrieked. “Look at that cat! It’s trying to run across the street!”
Vera looked up to see a small black-and-white cat bounding out into the middle of traffic. Both women screamed as they saw one car, then another, and finally a third, hit the cat. The cat lay motionless, its small body flung into the grass. Cars slowed, but no one stopped to help.
“We must save that poor creature,” said Maria. Vera pulled over, got out of the car and went to the hurt animal. Miraculously, it was still alive, but badly injured.
“Take my jacket and wrap the kitty in it,” said Maria. Vera carefully put the cat on the seat between them. It looked up at Maria and gave her a plaintive, barely audible meow.
“Everything will be all right, my little friend,” Maria said tearfully.
Finding an animal clinic, they went inside and told the receptionist what had happened.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we cannot accept stray animals.”
It was the same at the next clinic. Finally, at the third clinic, a kind veterinarian, Dr. Susan Shanahan, agreed to help and quickly started working on the cat.
“This little guy is lucky to be alive,” she told Maria and Vera. “If you hadn’t been there for him, he never would have made it.”
The vet took Maria aside. “The cat’s injuries are very serious,” she said. “He has severe head trauma, crushed paws and a cracked collarbone. He’ll need a lot of expensive medical attention. Today’s bill alone will cost at least $400.”
Maria gasped. But taking her worn cloth wallet out of her handbag, she gave the doctor all the money she had after paying her bills—$50.
“It’s all I have right now, but I promise I will pay you the rest over time. Please don’t put that kitty to sleep,” she pleaded. “I’ll take him home. We
need
each other.”
Sensing how important this was, Dr. Shanahan kneeled and took Maria’s hands in hers. “I could get into trouble with my boss for doing this,” she said gently. “You see, I really shouldn’t have helped the cat in the first place, but, don’t worry . . . I will personally pay for this.”
While the cat was at the clinic, Maria went to check on him every day. She spoke softly to him and gently stroked his chin with her little finger. As the days passed, the cat began to purr and the sparkle returned to Maria’s eyes.
The day arrived for the cat to come home. As excited as a little girl on Christmas morning, Maria smiled brightly as she walked into the clinic to pick him up.
“What have you decided to name the cat?” asked Dr. Shanahan.
Cradling the cat in her arms, Maria answered happily, “I’m going to call him Lucky, because together we have found a new life.”
Christine E. Belleris
C
ry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
from Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
In Vietnam, we all made choices with which we now must live. How many bullets do you carry versus how much water? When the rescue chopper says “only three” and there are four of you left, do you leave a guy or “lock and load” on the Huey driver, hijacking the craft? Worst of all, when it’s dark and nobody can help you, do you let some fatally injured kid die slowly or just get it over with?
Not all my decisions were ones I regret. And not all my memories are the kind that jerk my breath away at three in the morning and leave me waiting with clenched fists for the first blessed light of dawn. In the darkness of that time, there was one bright spot: a big German shepherd named Beau.
Beau was a scout dog attached to my infantry unit. His job was to sniff out Viet Cong tunnels, ammo caches and booby traps. Like many of us, he was a soldier on the outside and a puppy in his heart.
When we had to wait for our next move, which was often, Beau was a great source of entertainment. His handler would tie a thin monofilament line across a path, then dare someone to step over it. Beau’s job was not to let anyone trigger a booby trap. He’d been taught it was better to attack one GI than have a mine pop into the air and detonate at the level of everybody’s head.
I would spend a minute petting Beau and sharing my C-rations with him. Then I’d start walking toward the string. Beau was never won over by my offers of food. As I approached the trip wire, he’d race to get between me and it, then flatten his radar station ears and roll out an awesome set of glowing white, bone-crushing teeth. His eyes looked straight into mine as his huge torso sank into a crouch, preparing to spring. We dealt with pretty scary stuff, but when Beau told you to stop, no one had the guts to take a step.
After nearly getting shredded by the big guy, I’d go back to my food. Immediately we were pals again.
One steamy, miserable day, my unit was moving through an area of light jungle and tall trees. I was about fourth from point; Beau and his handler were behind me. Gunshots, their sharpness blunted by the smothering heat and humidity, exploded overhead. We hit the vine-covered jungle floor. Beau crouched between me and his handler. “In the trees,” someone hissed. As I looked, there were more shots, louder this time. Beau flinched but gave no other sign of injury. I emptied three twenty-round clips in the direction of the noise. My frantic and scruffy peers did likewise. In a moment, it was over.
I looked at Beau. He seemed okay. We made him roll over, then stand up. It was then I caught that line of slick, dark blue-red we all knew too well. A bullet had pierced his foreleg. It appeared to be a clean hole, bleeding only slightly. I patted him and he wagged his tail. His sad, intelligent eyes expressed, “It’s okay, Joe. I’m not important. I’m just here to protect you.”
A chopper took the dog and his handler away. I patted him and wondered if they would send the big guy home. What a naive kid I was. Some weeks later they were back. Beau had learned even more ways to con me out of my dinner.
Mid-summer, 1967. We were a thousand meters from a huge field outside a tiny hamlet called Sui Tres. In that field was an American artillery unit. Around them were 2,500 Viet Cong. Our job was to shoot our way through and secure the Howitzer guys.
We slept on the jungle floor, lying with our heads on our helmets. Just before dawn we heard the unsteady rumble of machine-gun and heavy-weapons fire erupt from the direction of Sui Tres. Time to face the enemy.
I put on my helmet and reached for the rest of my gear. Beau wandered over to see if we had time for breakfast. The dark jungle was filled with the normal din of muttered curses and rustling equipment. Overhead, Russian-made rockets were about to burst in the treetops around us. The approaching rockets sounded like escaping steam, followed by what seemed like a long moment of silence. Then deafening, lung-crushing thunder.