Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (9 page)

I pulled into the nearest parking lot and grabbed a five-pound bag of dog food, a container of water and a twenty-dollar bill from my purse. I approached the ragged-looking man and his unhappy dogs warily. If this man had somehow hurt these creatures or was using them as come-ons, I knew my anger would quickly take over. The older dog was staring up at the sky, whining pitifully. Just before I reached them, a truck pulled up alongside of them and asked how much the man wanted for the older dog.

“Fifty bucks,” the man on the corner replied, then added quickly, “but I really don’t want to sell him.”

“Is he papered?”

“No.”

“Is he fixed?”

“No.”

“How old is he?”

“Five. But I really don’t want to sell him. I just need some money to feed him.”

“If I had fifty bucks, I’d buy him.” The light turned green, and the truck sped off.

The man shook his head and continued dejectedly pacing the sidewalk. When he noticed me coming in his direction, he stopped walking and watched me approach. The pup began wagging his tail.

“Hi,” I offered, as I drew nearer. The young man’s face was gentle and friendly, and I could sense just by looking in his eyes that he was someone in real crisis.

“I have some food here for your dogs,” I said. Dumbfounded, he took the bag as I set down the water in front of them.

“You brought water, too?” he asked incredulously. We both knelt down next to the older dog, and the puppy greeted me enthusiastically.

“That one there is T. C., and this one’s Dog. I’m Wayne.” The sad, older dog stopped crying long enough to see what was in the container.

“What happened, Wayne?” I asked. I felt a bit intrusive, but he answered me directly and simply. “Well, I just moved out here from Arizona and haven’t been able to find work. I’m at the point where I can’t even feed the dogs.”

“Where are you living?”

“In that truck right there.” He pointed to a dilapidated old vehicle that was parked close by. It had an extra long bed with a shell, so at least they had shelter from the elements.

The pup had climbed onto my lap and settled in. I asked Wayne what type of work he did.

“I’m a mechanic and a welder,” he said. “But there’s nothing out here for either. I’ve looked and looked. These dogs are my family; I hate to have to sell them, but I just can’t afford to feed them.”

He kept saying it over and over. He didn’t want to sell them, but he couldn’t feed them. An awful look came over his face every time he repeated it. It was as if he might have to give up a child.

The time seemed right to casually pass over the twenty-dollar bill, hoping I wouldn’t further damage his already shaky pride. “Here. Use this to buy yourself something to eat.”

“Well, thanks,” he slowly replied, unable to look me in the face. “This could get us a room for the night, too.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“All day.”

“Hasn’t anyone else stopped?”

“No, you’re the first.” It was late afternoon and quickly getting dark. Here in the desert, when the sun dropped, the temperature would dip into the thirties.

My mind went into fast-forward as I pictured the three of them going without even a single meal today, perhaps for several days, and spending many long, cold hours cooped up in their inadequate, makeshift shelter.

Seeing people beg for food isn’t anything new in this city. But this man stood out because he wasn’t asking for food for himself. He was more concerned with keeping his dogs fed than with his own welfare. As a pet-parent of nine well-fed and passionately loved dogs of my own, it hit a deep chord in me.

I don’t think I’ll ever really know what came over me at that moment, inspiring me to do what I did next, but I just knew it was something I had to do. I asked him if he’d wait there for a few minutes until I returned. He nodded his head and smiled.

My car flew to the nearest grocery store. Bursting with urgency, I raced in and took hold of a cart. I started on the first aisle and didn’t quit until I reached the other side of the store. The items couldn’t be pulled off the shelves fast enough.
Just the essentials,
I thought. Just food that will last a couple of weeks and sustain their meager existence. Peanut butter and jelly. Bread. Canned food. Juice. Fruit. Vegetables. Dog food. More dog food (forty pounds, to be exact). And chew toys. They should have some treats, too. A few other necessities and the job was done.

“The total comes to $102.91,” said the checker. I didn’t bat an eye. The pen ran over that blank check faster than I could legibly write. It didn’t matter that the mortgage was due soon or that I really didn’t have the extra hundred dollars to spend. Nothing mattered besides seeing that this family had some food. I was amazed at my own intensity and the overwhelming motivation that compelled me to spend a hundred dollars on a total stranger. Yet, at the same time, I felt like the luckiest person in the world. To be able to give this man and his beloved companions a tiny bit of something of which I had so much opened the floodgates of gratitude in my own heart.

The icing on the cake was the look on Wayne’s face when I returned with all the groceries. “Here are just a few things . . . ” I said as the dogs looked on with great anticipation. I wanted to avoid any awkwardness, so I hastily petted the dogs.

“Good luck to you,” I said and held out my hand.

“Thank you and God bless you. Now I won’t have to sell my dogs.” His smile shone brightly in the deepening darkness.

It’s true that people are more complicated than animals, but sometimes they can be as easy to read. Wayne was a good person—someone who looked at a dog and saw family. In my book, a man like that deserves to be happy.

Later, on my way home, I purposely drove past that same corner. Wayne and the dogs were gone.

But they have stayed for a long time in my heart and mind. Perhaps I will run into them again someday. I like to think that it all turned out well for them.

Lori S. Mohr

Priorities

I
love cats because I enjoy my home; and little
by little, they become its visible soul.

Jean Cocteau

The conditions were ideal for a fire.

The parched hillsides that outline the San Francisco Bay area provided the fuel, and the hot gusts of wind would breathe life into the flames. It was a dangerous combination.

On Sunday, July 7, 1985, an arsonist lit the match—the only missing ingredient—and ignited a disaster.

It started as a small fire in the mountains above Los Gatos. Fire crews responded quickly and predicted an easy containment and no property damage. The fire prompted little concern among the residents of this mountainous community as they went about doing what they normally did on a Sunday afternoon. After all, fires, earthquakes and mudslides were part of the way of life in the mountains, the price one paid for seclusion.

Monday morning, as usual, the mountain dwellers descended from their wooded enclaves for jobs in the valley below as the winds picked up and the temperature climbed into the nineties. By the end of the day, the Lexington Hills fire had been upgraded to a major wildfire.

When the residents of the area tried to return to their homes after work, they were stopped. No one could go back. At the roadblock, there were many emotions—fear, anger, despair and panic. Many people were frantic with worry about their pets.

I was one of the volunteers who made up the animal rescue team in our area. As the rescue team made its way to the front of the crowd at the roadblock, we hoped that the police would let us through. When they finally agreed to let us go into the area to look for pets, we set up a table at the Red Cross shelter and began the process of taking descriptions of pets and addresses.

We worked as late as we could that night and returned at daybreak to continue. It was a large area and the fire was spreading—almost faster than we could move to stay ahead of it. But we just kept going. A grueling ten hours had passed since I’d arrived that Tuesday morning. With a few hours of daylight left, and my van empty of rescued animals, I decided to make one last check at the Red Cross shelter. No one had yet told us that we couldn’t go back for more animals.

A woman ran up to my van before I’d even parked. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with a smooth, blonde pageboy that framed wide, anxious eyes. I knew she was searching for a pet.

She grasped the bottom of my window frame as I stopped the van and blurted out, “Please, miss, can you help me? I gave my address to one of your colleagues yesterday, but I haven’t heard from anyone. It’s my kitten. She’s only eight weeks old. The poor thing must be so . . . frightened.” Her voice broke as she spoke.

“Why don’t you give me the information again, and I’ll see if I can find your kitten,” I told the woman as I pulled a blank piece of paper from my notebook. “Where’s your house?”

“Aldercroft Heights. A fireman told me early this morning there were still some houses that hadn’t burned.”

I could see the hope in her face. But I knew that when the wind changed that afternoon, the fire had headed back in the direction of the Heights—probably to burn what was left.

“My house isn’t very big. You could search it in less than five minutes. The kitten likes to lie on the rug in my sewing room, especially when I’m in there working.’’ The recollection brought more tears to the woman’s eyes.

Her expression was a mirror image of all of the other displaced people with whom I’d had contact in the past two days. I wanted so much to help them, to ease the anguish and frustration.

“What’s the quickest way to your place?” I asked, looking at my map.

The woman used her finger to point out the best route. As she gave me directions, I asked for landmarks. By now a lot of the street signs had melted.

“Okay. I think I have what I need,” I said, attaching the paper to my clipboard. “Oh, one last thing. What’s your name?”

“April. April Larkin.”

I followed April’s directions without getting lost. As I got closer to Aldercroft Heights, I could see that the homes I’d passed the day before were now gone. All that remained standing were the chimneys. As I wound up the steep hillside, my gut told me what I’d find. There was no way April’s kitten could have survived this inferno.

April had told me her house was exactly one mile up from the horseshoe curve. I watched my odometer. Eighttenths. Nine-tenths. I was getting close to the devastation. Too close. What I saw made me want to close my eyes. I stopped the van and covered my mouth with my hands.

The house was gone.

I leaned my head back against the car seat and stared at the ceiling. Tears ran down my cheeks. This was hard . . . really hard. I don’t know how long I sat there. But before I left, there was something I knew I had to do. I’d have to look for the kitten. Unfortunately, there wouldn’t be a live kitten to place in April’s arms. She had told me she’d wait at the Red Cross shelter until I returned. How could I tell her the kitten had died, much less that her whole house was gone?

I knew I didn’t want April to see whatever remained of the kitten when she returned. I had to find it and bury it. I got out of the van and forced myself forward.

Through my boots I could feel the heat from the blanket of ash as I wandered through what had once been a home. I used my shovel to poke my way through the rubble. There was so little left, a teacup handle, a twisted metal frame, a chipped ceramic vase—but no kitten. My search seemed futile.

I was on my way back to the van when I heard something. I stopped, but all I recognized was the sound of an approaching helicopter and the persistent wind. After the helicopter passed over, I remained by the van, listening. Hoping. Was it a kitten I’d heard? I suspected not. It had to have been my wish for a miracle that teased my ears.

No! I was wrong. Somewhere nearby there
was
a cat, crying for help.

About then the helicopter was passing overhead on its return trip to scoop more water out of Lexington Reservoir, to douse the southern flank of the fire.

“Get out of here! Move!” I screamed in frustration at the noisy ’copter. “Move!”

It seemed an eternity before it was quiet enough to be able to hear the faint meow again.

“Here, kitty kitty kitty!” I called frantically before the helicopter returned. “Please, where are you?” I moved in no specific direction, hoping to hear again the meow that would lead me to the cat.

There it was . . .

The cry for help was coming from the dried-up creek bed across the road. I dropped my shovel and ran, tripping over blackened bricks and mutilated pieces of metal. At the charred edge of the creek I stood still and listened. My heart was beating fast and my hands were shaking.

“Here, kitty kitty kitty!”

“
Meoooow
.”

Across the creek was the wasted remains of an aluminum ladder, lying almost submerged in ash. The sound had come from there. When I reached the ladder, I gasped. There, huddled next to the first rung, was the tiniest soot-covered kitten I’d ever seen. With the bluest of eyes, it looked up at me and meowed.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here.” I reached down and carefully picked up the kitten. Holding it in midair in front of me, I saw that her whiskers were singed and her paws burnt . . . but she was alive.