Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (3 page)

There were also many stories about a pet’s power to comfort and even heal. Our pets keep us from getting sick as often, and if we do become sick, we recover faster.

Taken together, the evidence is overwhelming: pets are good for our hearts, bodies and souls.

After reading these stories, you may find yourself basking in the warm memories of a beloved pet. We also hope to give you a new perspective on animal companions that you will put into action—loving them unconditionally and valuing the simple gifts they bring to your life. If you don’t have a pet, perhaps these stories will inspire you to enrich your life by going to your local animal shelter and adopting an animal who needs your love and will return it a thousandfold. Or, if you aren’t in a position to adopt an animal, you can make life a little brighter for your fellow creatures by volunteering your time—even as little as an hour a week—to walk, feed, groom or just love the homeless animals at your local shelter.

Ultimately, it is our deepest prayer that this book will positively impact the lives of millions of pets and people around the world.

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We would love to hear your reactions to the stories in this book. Please let us know what your favorite stories were and how they affected you.

We also invite you to send us stories you would like to see published in future volumes of
Chicken Soup for the
Soul
. You can send us stories you have written or ones you have read and liked.

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Chicken Soup for the Soul
P.O. Box 30880
Santa Barbara, CA 93130
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We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we enjoyed compiling, editing and writing it.

1
ON LOVE

L
ove is God’s creation, the whole
and every grain of sand in it.
Love every leaf, every ray of God’s light.
Love the animals, love the plants,
love everything. If you love everything,
you will perceive the divine mystery in things.
Once you perceive it, you will begin to
comprehend it better every day. And you
will come at last to love the whole world
with an all-embracing love.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

©Lynn Johnston Productions Inc./Dist. by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

Delayed Delivery

Stella had been prepared for her husband’s death. Since the doctor’s pronouncement of terminal cancer, they had both faced the inevitable, striving to make the most of their remaining time together. Dave’s financial affairs had always been in order. There were no new burdens in her widowed state. It was just the awful aloneness . . . the lack of purpose to her days.

They had been a childless couple by choice. Their lives had been so full and rich. They had been content with busy careers and with each other. They had many friends. Had. That was the operative word these days. It was bad enough losing the one person you loved with all your heart. But over the past few years, she and Dave repeatedly coped with the deaths of their friends and relations. They were all of an age—an age when human bodies began giving up. Dying. Face it—they were old!

And now, approaching the first Christmas without Dave, Stella was all too aware she was on her own.

With shaky fingers, she lowered the volume of her radio so that the Christmas music faded to a muted background. To her surprise, she saw that the mail had arrived. With the inevitable wince of pain from her arthritis, she bent to retrieve the white envelopes from the floor. She opened them while sitting on the piano bench. They were mostly Christmas cards, and her sad eyes smiled at the familiarity of the traditional scenes and at the loving messages inside. She arranged them among the others on the piano top. In her entire house, they were the only seasonal decoration. The holiday was less than a week away, but she just did not have the heart to put up a silly tree, or even set up the stable that Dave had built with his own hands.

Suddenly engulfed by the loneliness of it all, Stella buried her face in her hands and let the tears come. How would she possibly get through Christmas and the winter beyond it!

The ring of the doorbell was so unexpected that Stella had to stifle a small scream of surprise. Now who could possibly be calling on her? She opened the wooden door and stared through the window of the storm door with consternation. On her front porch stood a strange young man, whose head was barely visible above the large carton in his arms. She peered beyond him to the driveway, but there was nothing about the small car to give a clue as to his identity. Summoning courage, the elderly lady opened the door slightly, and he stepped sideways to speak into the space.

“Mrs. Thornhope?”

She nodded. He continued, “I have a package for you.”

Curiosity drove caution from her mind. She pushed the door open, and he entered. Smiling, he placed his burden carefully on the floor and stood to retrieve an envelope that protruded from his pocket. As he handed it to her, a sound came from the box. Stella jumped. The man laughed in apology and bent to straighten up the cardboard flaps, holding them open in an invitation for her to peek inside.

It was a dog! To be more exact, a golden Labrador retriever puppy. As the young gentleman lifted its squirming body up into his arms, he explained, “This is for you, ma’am.” The young pup wiggled in happiness at being released from captivity and thrust ecstatic, wet kisses in the direction of the young man’s face. “We were supposed to deliver him on Christmas Eve,” he continued with some difficulty, as he strove to rescue his chin from the wet little tongue, “but the staff at the kennels start their holidays tomorrow. Hope you don’t mind an early present.”

Shock had stolen Stella’s ability to think clearly. Unable to form coherent sentences, she stammered, “But . . . I don’t . . . I mean . . . who . . .?”

The young fellow set the animal down on the doormat between them and then reached out a finger to tap the envelope she was still holding.

“There’s a letter in there that explains everything, pretty much. The dog was bought while his mother was still pregnant. It was meant to be a Christmas gift.”

The stranger turned to go. Desperation forced the words from her lips. “But who . . . who bought it?”

Pausing in the open doorway, he replied, “Your husband, ma’am.” And then he was gone.

It was all in the letter. Forgetting the puppy entirely at the sight of the familiar handwriting, Stella walked like a sleepwalker to her chair by the window. She forced her tear-filled eyes to read her husband’s words. He had written the letter three weeks before his death and had left it with the kennel owners, to be delivered along with the puppy as his last Christmas gift to her. It was full of love and encouragement and admonishments to be strong. He vowed that he was waiting for the day when she would join him. And he had sent her this young animal to keep her company until then.

Remembering the little creature for the first time, she was surprised to find him quietly looking up at her, his small panting mouth resembling a comic smile. Stella put the pages aside and reached for the bundle of golden fur. She thought that he would be heavier, but he was only the size and weight of a sofa pillow. And so soft and warm. She cradled him in her arms and he licked her jawbone, then cuddled into the hollow of her neck. The tears began anew at this exchange of affection and the dog endured her crying without moving.

Finally, Stella lowered him to her lap, where she regarded him solemnly. She wiped vaguely at her wet cheeks, then somehow mustered a smile.

“Well, little guy, I guess it’s you and me.” His pink tongue panted in agreement. Stella’s smile strengthened, and her gaze shifted sideways to the window. Dusk had fallen. Through fluffy flakes that were now drifting down, she saw the cheery Christmas lights edging the roof lines of her neighbors’ homes. The strains of “Joy to the World” floated in from the kitchen.

Suddenly Stella felt the most amazing sensation of peace and benediction wash over her. It was like being enfolded in a loving embrace. Her heart beat painfully, but it was with joy and wonder, not grief or loneliness. She need never feel alone again.

Returning her attention to the dog, she spoke to him. “You know, fella, I have a box in the basement that I think you’d like. There’s a tree in it and some decorations and lights that will impress you like crazy! And I think I can find that old stable down there, too. What d’ya say we go hunt it up?”

The puppy barked happily in agreement, as if he understood every word. Stella got up, placed the puppy on the floor and together they went down to the basement, ready to make a Christmas together.

Cathy Miller

Reprinted by permission of George B. Abbott.

Frisk

Sometimes, when our dog and cat patients died, the owners brought them in for us to dispose of them. It was always a sad occasion and I had a sense of foreboding when I saw old Dick Fawcett’s face.

He put the improvised cat box on the surgery table and looked at me with unhappy eyes.

“It’s Frisk,” he said. His lips trembled as though he was unable to say more.

I didn’t ask any questions, but began to undo the strings on the cardboard container. Dick couldn’t afford a proper cat box, but he had used this one before, a homemade affair with holes punched in the sides.

I untied the last knot and looked inside at the motionless body. Frisk. The glossy black, playful little creature I knew so well, always purring and affectionate and Dick’s companion and friend.

“When did he die, Dick?” I asked gently. He passed a hand over his haggard face and through the straggling grey hairs. “Well, I just found ’im stretched out by my bed this morning. But . . . I don’t rightly know if he’s dead yet, Mr. Herriot.”

I looked again inside the box. There was no sign of breathing. I lifted the limp form on to the table and touched the cornea of the unseeing eye. No reflex. I reached for my stethoscope and placed it over the chest.

“The heart’s still going, Dick, but it’s a very faint beat.”

“Might stop any time, you mean?”

I hesitated. “Well, that’s the way it sounds, I’m afraid.”

As I spoke, the little cat’s rib cage lifted slightly, then subsided.

“He’s still breathing,” I said, “but only just.” I examined the cat thoroughly and found nothing unusual. The conjunctiva of the eye was a good colour. In fact, there was no abnormality.

I passed a hand over the sleek little body. “This is a puzzler, Dick. He’s always been so lively—lived up to his name, in fact, yet here he is, flat out, and I can’t find any reason for it.”

“Could he have ’ad a stroke or summat?”

“I suppose it’s just possible, but I wouldn’t expect him to be totally unconscious. I’m wondering if he might have had a blow on the head.”

“I don’t think so. He was as right as rain when I went to bed, and he was never out during t’night.” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Any road, it’s a poor look-out for ’im?”

“Afraid so, Dick. He’s only just alive. But I’ll give him a stimulant injection and then you must take him home and keep him warm. If he’s still around tomorrow morning, bring him in and I’ll see how he’s going on.”