Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (30 page)

At this point, a wave of maternal concern moved through me.
Where is my dog and what will happen to her?
I thought. Turning to a Buddhist onlooker for understanding, I related the events of the last fifteen minutes.

He smiled and explained that I had met the “Karmapa,” a monk who is quite high in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition— second only to the Dalai Lama. He told me that I was very fortunate because today the famous and beloved Karmapa was here from Tibet to bless this monastery along with its surrounding land. People from all over the world had come to pay him their respects, but rarely did anyone enter into his private receiving room. To enter there and be blessed by His Holiness, and then for him to accept my generous gift, was an auspicious event, one that rarely happens in a lifetime! He shook his head, “You must have earned a lot of merit in past lives; you are very fortunate, my dear.” Closing his eyes, he pondered for a moment, then added, “Then again, perhaps it is your dog’s good fortune!”

At that moment the door flew open again, and this wondrous Buddhist monk exited from the building and down the red-carpeted exterior steps, holding his head up high while greeting the people. Women and children gathered around, holding baskets of flowers to throw at his feet.

I was so caught up in the magic of it that I didn’t notice her at first. But then to my surprise, I saw my pup—the pup that was considered ugly—now looking like a beautiful star! The Karmapa held her up high with what seemed to be the greatest of pride, and the crowd roared with delight. I would swear that the puppy appeared to be smiling, too.

From that point on, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. They continued down the stairs. Slowly they entered the waiting black limousine. Through the closely-hovering crowd, I caught my last view of the dog and the monk, glimpsing them through the tinted-glass windows. Something in the way they sat together told me she was going to be all right. It wasn’t just that she was with the Karmapa; it was the way she sat on the lap of the Karmapa. They seemed to have gained a great deal of respect and trust for one another in a short period of time. The limousine drove them away, leaving behind a path of colorful rose petals.

After that, the monks at the monastery kindly kept me posted on her adventures and whereabouts. Over the years, I heard that the Karmapa traveled all over the world with his Tibetan terrier. The sight of her funny face always brought him and others a feeling of joy, and therefore, he gave her a name that translates from the Tibetan language as Beautiful Happy One. She became his friend and devoted companion, and they were rarely apart during her entire lifetime.

Once considered an ugly puppy, few appreciated what she possessed, yet from the moment she was born, she emanated happiness. It was as if she knew she’d eventually meet her wonderful friend, the Karmapa, who would recognize her true beauty and love her great soul.

Angel Di Benedetto

Babblers Anonymous

During my college days, I began cultivating myself to fit the image I held of an aspiring author. I fancied myself a connoisseur of language and shuddered at others’ misuse of it. Most of all, I scoffed at people who spewed drivel at babies or, even more loathsome, at pets. Although neither babies nor pets were part of my life, I felt quite certain that when they were, I would be a role model for mothers and animal lovers everywhere.

Then one day my friend Marcia called and asked if I would take in a stray cat. “He’s cold and scared,” she said. “He’s been living on my neighbor’s garage roof. Someone dumped him from a car.”

Cats are sensible animals,
I thought. I had always admired their regal bearing and independence. Besides, Charles Dickens, H. G. Wells and Mark Twain had all owned cats. I imagined a cat curled at my feet as I typed, perhaps inspiring my creativity to new heights. I invited Marcia to bring over the stray.

As Marcia approached my apartment, I heard rather than saw the cat. He protested loudly until she set the carrier on my living room rug. The moment she opened the door of the carrier, a skinny black cat streaked out, raced into the bedroom, jumped into the bathroom and bathtub, leapt out, then charged back into the living room and onto my lap.

“I’ve got to run,” Marcia said, grabbing the carrier and stepping outside in one smooth move. “Yell if you need anything.”

By this time, the cat was kneading his paws on my stomach in frantic rhythm, much like a boxer jabbing a punching bag. “You’re not shy,” I said wryly. Although the cat was bony, his coat shone blue-black in the lamplight. His mustard-yellow eyes blinked at me momentarily before he resumed his activity.

“I guess I need to call you something.” I choked on my words.
Listen to me,
I thought.
I’m talking to this animal as if
he understands.

“Ralph,” I continued, despite myself. “Ralph is a nice, no-nonsense name.” No cutesy Boo-Boos or Fluffys for me.

That night I set down the rules of cathood. Ralph would not be allowed on my bed. He would sleep on the rug in the living room. He would learn to respond appropriately to simple, one-word commands. For my part, I would speak to him like the intelligent animal he was.

After a two-night cycle of putting Ralph on the floor and awakening to find him beside me in bed, I gave in on that rule. I told myself that this was for my good rather than his, because his purring relaxed me, and his warm, fuzzy body felt wonderful against my back.

As the week wore on, we seemed to understand each other perfectly. I made sure not to speak to Ralph other than as master to animal. Then one morning, I accidentally stepped on his tail. Such a pitiful wail! I scooped him up and held him close.

“Oh, Mommy’s so sorry!”

I looked around. Who said that? Oh, no! It was happening. I was beginning to talk like one of
them
.

Over the next few days, I desperately tried to curb my maternal feelings. I decided to squelch the Mommy business first, but nothing else seemed appropriate. Master was a bit much. Kathy? No, too familiar—I would lose my authority. “Mommy” best summed up my role. So grudgingly, I became Ralph’s mommy . . . but I promised myself I would make no further concessions.

Then one night Ralph was sick on the carpet. After cleaning up, I hugged and stroked him.

“Poor baby,” I cooed. “Him was sick.”

Him was sick!
I envisioned my English professor tightening a noose around his neck. As Ralph napped, I reviewed my worsening condition. I could no longer deny the facts. I was rapidly becoming a pet owner-babbler.

During the next few weeks, I resolved to control every word that came from my lips, but the unthinkable happened. Such aberrations as “You is a widdle baby boy” flowed freely, as though the evil spirit of grammar atrocities possessed me every time I looked at Ralph. Worse yet, he seemed to expect such talk.

One night I decided to go cold turkey. I placed Ralph on my lap so he faced me. “Now,” I began, consciously resisting the babble, “you’re a sensible, intelligent animal. You want an owner who treats you as such, don’t you?”

Ralph’s eyes never moved. I read understanding there, encouraging me to go on. “Henceforth, I will treat you with the dignity and respect such a noble cat deserves.”

Ralph’s mouth was opening. So intent was his stare that for one insane moment, I thought he would speak. He yawned in my face.

“You silly, pweshus baby,” I said, laughing and cuddling him to me.

Now the rules are gone. I never had the authority anyway. Only love and the babbling remain. Does anyone know of a Babblers Anonymous?

Kathleen M. Muldoon

“Was it a ’ittle putty tat?
’es it was. It was a putty!
Tum tum tum!
Tum on, pwetty putty, tum det on Mommy’s wap.”

Drawing by Booth. ©1974 The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.

A Damaged Dog

A jarring cry roused me from my sleep early one Friday morning. Running to my window, I saw what I expected— the canine victim of yet one more hit-and-run driver. The gaunt, wolf-like creature lay huddled against a doorway. I knew there was no owner. The dog was clearly one of the many homeless, hungry mutts prowling the streets of Kiev, where I was temporarily working as a journalist.

Perhaps he isn’t too badly injured,
I hoped vainly. But when he tried to walk, he kept falling on his hurt shoulders, leaving a blood-soaked path on the pavement behind him.
He
could be dangerous,
I worried. Wrong again. He kept nudging passersby with his head in an obvious plea for help.

In no time, I was one of a small group of people surrounding the shocked animal, debating what could be done. “I’ll take him,” I said, startled by my own words. “Temporarily.”

Someone brought out a bed sheet, and I smiled as the dog immediately tried to roll himself onto it. My neighbor, Yelena, volunteered her services and we soon drove around in her car, from one primitive clinic to another. The recommended treatment was a merciful death. The bone in one of the dog’s legs was shattered and no one had the facilities, skills or medication to treat him. Ukraine in 1992 was a cash-strapped country.

The dog looked at me plaintively, his eyes glazed from the effects of morphine. I became determined, with an advantageous wad of American dollars in my pocket, to save this creature’s life. “Surely something can be done,” I said.

“If anyone can do anything, it’s Oleg Feodoseyevych, a professor at the Agriculture Academy. He’s the best veterinary surgeon this country has,” I was told. Yelena and I were soon carrying our canine patient through a stable of pigs and cows into a large teaching surgery full of giggling students in funny white paper caps. The famed Oleg Feodoseyevych gingerly felt around the dog’s body, smiled, and said the magic words: “He’ll be all right.”

The operation lasted four hours, and I watched as the professor patiently inserted a metal rod into one of the dog’s legs. The dog, awake throughout, yelped whenever the local anesthetic started to wear off. “He needs more anesthetic,” someone would volunteer. Usually it was me.

Just minutes after the operation, we were back in the car, the dog with two new white casts, and me with a sheet of instructions on post-operative care and medicine to buy. Where was I supposed to get gauze or painkillers in a city whose pharmacies carried little more than vitamins and herbal teas?

“Don’t worry,” said Yelena. “The pharmacies are empty but home medicine cabinets are full.” Sure enough, Yelena came over that evening with a bag full of vials, tubes, syringes and tablets.

For three days and nights my sick patient groaned, lying motionless on a blanket. He moved nothing but his tail, which thumped loudly against the parquet floor each time I entered the room. I fed him chicken soup through an eyedropper. Six times a day I changed the bandages over a partial opening in the casts, causing him obvious pain as the gauze ripped his bloody shaven skin.

Foolishly hoping he perhaps had an owner, I placed ads in the local papers. I received many calls, but none from a long-lost master. Several people offered to adopt him, and I began compiling a list of possible owners for the day he would be recovered.

Before long the dog was ready for solid food, and I called my cleaning woman, Nadia, in a panic over what to feed him—Western-style commercial dog food was not yet available in Ukraine. Chubby Nadia, dog-lover extra-ordinaire, soon stood at my stove, brewing a concoction of mashed potatoes, carrots and chopped beef. She instructed me, who had never owned a dog, on the basics of dog care.

Eventually my patient started walking and I ventured outside with him after carrying him down the final twenty steps of my building. Teetering along on his two plastered legs, tail wagging, he was met with a wave of sympathy. Grannies on their balconies shook their heads, making little
tsk-tsk
sounds, children jumped around us asking if it would hurt to pet his head, and every dog owner in sight stopped to offer his favorite canine home remedy for broken bones.

“Eggshells,” said one woman, who ran half a block to tell me this.

Finally the day came when Oleg Feodoseyevych arrived to remove the casts. We heaved the dog into the bathtub, and I held him as the doctor cut away the plaster.

“You know, a dog has to have a name,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I answered, waving the list of potential owners at him. “I’m not planning on keeping him. You can see, my lifestyle, the traveling I have to do . . .”