Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (41 page)

“Do you have any pets?”

“Yes—a cat and a dog.”

“Do they have pedigrees?”

“No, we took them out.”

One Link in my own family chain loves dogs, so when he saw a magnificent Saint Bernard on the leash, he rushed up, hugged him and then began to stroke his long, bushy tail. Moments later, his mother came along and was horrified to see her child clutching the tail of the tremendous animal.

“Get away from that beast!” she shouted. “He’ll bite you!”

“Oh no, Mommy,” he reassured her. “This end never bites!”

On the other hand, one little four-year-old cried bitterly when a large friendly dog bounded up to him and licked his hands and face.

“What is it, darling?” cried his mother. “Did he bite you?”

“No,” came the reply. “But he tasted me.”

Then there was little Susan, who was inclined to exaggeration. Her stories always seemed so full of adventures, and she could never be talked into admitting the complete truth. One day she was playing in the front yard when a fox terrier belonging to a neighbor darted at her playfully. With a shriek of fright, Susan fled to her mother and yelled:

“Mama, a great big lion ran down the street, jumped over the fence and almost ate me up.”

“Susan,” said her mother sternly, “aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I was sitting here at the window and saw the whole thing. Now you go in your room and get down on your knees and confess that it was just a little pet dog and you lied to your mother. Ask the Lord to forgive you for this sin.”

Susan reluctantly went to her room and shut the door. In less than a minute she opened the door and poked her head out.

“It’s all right, Mother,” she said. “I told God all about it and he says he could hardly blame me. He thought it was a lion, too, when he first saw it.”

And while we’re on the subject of children and animals, I love this quickie:

“Hurry, Mother, and come look,” said little James when he saw his first snake. “Here’s a tail wagging without any dog on it!”

Art Linkletter

DENNIS the MENACE

“That’s funny . . . my dad can tell if it’s a boy or a girl
just by lookin’ at the bottom of its feet.”

DENNIS THE MENACE
^®
used by permission of Hank Ketcham and ©by North America
Syndicate.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

One afternoon, I was in the backyard hanging the laundry when an old, tired-looking dog wandered into the yard. I could tell from his collar and well-fed belly that he had a home. But when I walked into the house, he followed me, sauntered down the hall and fell asleep in a corner. An hour later, he went to the door, and I let him out. The next day he was back. He resumed his position in the hallway and slept for an hour.

This continued for several weeks. Curious, I pinned a note to his collar: “Every afternoon your dog comes to my house for a nap.”

The next day he arrived with a different note pinned to his collar: “He lives in a home with ten children—he’s trying to catch up on his sleep.”

Susan F. Roman

“He’s very good at down boy!”

Reprinted by permission of Martha F. Campbell.

The Legacy

When I was growing up, we always had boxers. One time my dad, who was a macho kind of guy, fell in love with a magnificent, black-and-tan Doberman who had just come from the show circuit. Dad had to have this beautiful animal, so he purchased him and brought him home. His name was Baron. He was a young, non-neutered male, about eleven months old. Having been raised for the show ring, Baron had no experience with children. I was five at the time, the second of four kids. Like most homes with young children, there was usually a lot of noise and activity at our house. My parents figured since Baron was relatively young, he would adapt quickly to his new life.

One day, not long after Dad brought Baron home, I came running inside the house, all bundled up from playing in the snow. Not seeing Baron sleeping on the floor, I accidentally stepped on him. Dobermans are highly reactive dogs—this is one of the reasons they make such good guard and police dogs. But in this circumstance, it spelled disaster. Baron leaped up and in his fright grabbed me by the face. His top teeth penetrated my left cheek and my upper lip, just below my nose, while his bottom teeth tore right through my chin. My parents rushed me to the emergency room, where I had immediate reconstructive surgery. When they brought me home, all stitched and bandaged, they put me straight to bed.

When Dad came up to check on me a little while later, he stopped in the doorway to my room, startled by the scene in front of him. Baron had crept into my room. The dog had nudged my elbow with his nose, and by continuing his nudging, had managed to work his head under my arm so that my arm lay across his shoulders. He rested his great black head on my sleeping chest and sat there, still as a statue. Watching and guarding, he conducted a vigil of apology and love. My father said that Baron never moved, but held the same position through the long hours of the night.

Amazingly enough, I have no physical disfigurement from my encounter with Baron. And no lasting fear of dogs, as so often happens in these cases. When I think of Baron, I hardly remember his fierceness; instead, I recall the weight of his head on my chest and the concern in his expressive eyes. I had talked about wanting to be a veterinarian even before this incident, and my love for animals actually grew stronger after experiencing Baron’s true display of sorrow. Even now, I still chuckle a little inside every time I treat a Dobie.

Baron’s story has become a family legend. My mom rescued an adult Dobie and kept him until he died. Of course, she named him Baron. My younger sister has two Dobermans and, yes, one is named Baron.

Baron was a great dog in the wrong situation. We found him a home where there were no children, and he lived the rest of his life there, happy and loved.

Jeff Werber, D.V.M.

The Truth About Annie

Taco, an orange-winged Amazon, came to us as a rescue bird. Taco had started to pluck. He tore at his back with such a vengeance that he made himself ill. The cost of treating him was beyond his owner’s financial capability, so we agreed to take him. We picked him up at the veterinarian’s office after he and his owner had said their good-byes.

The essential elements for beautiful feathers and a healthy bird are sound nutrition and a lot of love. We introduced Taco to the diet that our birds thrive on, and within just a few days he lost interest in his back and began playing with the wooden toys in his cage.

By the end of the first week, he was fully acclimated to the food, his cage and his neighbors, Gideon, a double-yellow-headed Amazon, and Tutt, a Mexican red-headed Amazon. Taco accepted the constant handling, bathing and talking going on around him without any hesitation.

Two weeks passed and Taco began acting like a normal Amazon, with one exception. He wasn’t talking. In fact, he wasn’t making any sounds. This is highly unusual for an Amazon. Most parrots will mimic what they hear in their own environment: a cat’s meow, a creaky door and, depending on the parrot, even an entire sentence. Taco didn’t whistle or squeak. He was completely silent. I decided to give him one more week and then take him back to the vet for a more thorough checkup.

Friday mornings are bath-and-cage cleaning day at our house. This particular Friday, I decided Taco was ready for his first community bath. I opened his cage and put my hand in, and he stepped onto my finger. I held him at eye level and said, “Taco, aren’t you ever going to talk?”

He cocked his head to one side, fluffed his feathers and said, “Annie died. Poor Annie. Annie is bleeding.”

The shock was immense. I think my mouth was hanging open. I know the goose bumps were visible on my arms.

Hurrying through the baths and the cleaning of the cages, I was finally able to call our vet and ask for Taco’s previous owner’s telephone number. I had to know who Annie was. Had Taco witnessed a crime? Had a member of his household died? Maybe he was talking about another animal that lived in one of his previous homes.

I called Taco’s most recent owner and told her what Taco had said. She said she had never heard him say that or anything else during the four years she had owned him. She definitely didn’t know anyone named Annie. She gave me the name and telephone number of the person from whom she had bought Taco.

After a short conversation with this owner, it was clear he had never heard Taco say a word the entire time he had owned him, either. That was one of the reasons he had sold Taco. He wanted a bird that talked, and Taco never did. He had purchased Taco from a breeder near Chico, California, but he couldn’t remember the breeder’s name. It seemed I was at a dead end.

In the meantime, Taco was becoming more vocal and was adding to his tale about Annie. His new version was, “Annie died. Annie died. Poor Annie, she is bleeding. Oh, poor Annie.”

The president of our bird club gave me some names and numbers of breeders in the area where Taco came from originally. Each phone call led to another dead end, but I wouldn’t give up. I was determined to get to the bottom of this!

My husband suggested that I call the library in Chico and check the local newspaper obituaries going back to the time that Taco might have lived there. The reference librarian was intrigued with the story that Taco was telling and was very helpful. She said she would call her brother, who worked for the police department, and ask him to check their records as well.

Two days passed and the librarian hadn’t called. Taco repeated his story so many times that our Congo grays, Jack and Jill, started saying “Poor Annie,” too.

Spurred on by the growing chorus of “Poor Annie’s,” I decided to check on the librarian’s progress. She answered on the first ring. “Have you found anything?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “My brother went back fifteen years in their records and he couldn’t find anything either.” She took a deep breath and asked, “Are you sure the bird is saying ‘Annie’?”

I told her that at this point that was the only thing of which I was sure. I thanked her for her help and hung up.

There was one more thing I was certain of—Taco had heard about Annie somewhere. Birds do not make things up. Somehow Annie’s plight had stuck in his memory. It was time to accept the fact that I might never find out who Annie was or what had happened to her.

Two months passed. Taco continued gaining weight and was becoming more and more affectionate. He feathered out to a brilliant green and his eyes were clear. His back was completely healed. And he continued talking about Annie. He talked about Annie from morning to evening. We didn’t get goose bumps anymore. We just accepted what had happened to poor Annie.

One evening, it was my turn to host our bird club meeting. The coffee and cookies were set out as everyone arrived. We gathered in the living room, which is next to our bird room, to discuss the fund-raiser that was coming up.

Suddenly, a voice sounded loud and clear.

“Poor Annie. Annie died. Annie is bleeding. Poor Annie.”

Startled, everyone stopped talking and listened. One of the club members turned to me and said, “I thought you didn’t like to watch soap operas!”