Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  On April 3, two years to the day Bosco passed away, I married Dr. Summers, the man who had so tenderly cared for her—and for me. My father gave a speech during the ceremony, pausing to look up to the heavens. He smiled and said, “I know Bosco is here with us today, blessing this marriage.” I smiled, too, through happy tears. Bosco had always, even in her passing, brought love into my life.

  Jennifer Gay Summers

  Jethro’s World

  My dog, Jethro—a Rottweiler/German shepherd mix— was always low-key, gentle and well mannered. From the moment we met at the animal shelter when he was just nine months old, to the day he died, two things were clear: Jethro and I had a special bond, and he had a soul of exceptional kindness and compassion.

  Jethro never chased animals. He just loved to hang out and watch the world around him. He was a perfect field assistant for me as I studied the various birds, including Western evening grosbeaks and Steller’s jays, living near my house in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies.

  One day while I was sitting inside, I heard Jethro come to the front door. Instead of whining as he usually did when he wanted to come in, he just sat there. I looked out at him and noticed a small furry object in his mouth. My first reaction was, Oh, no, he killed a bird. However when I opened the door, Jethro proceeded to drop at my feet a very young bunny, drenched in his saliva and very much alive. I could not see any injuries, only a small bundle of fur that needed warmth, food and love. I guessed that the bunny’s mother had most likely fallen prey to a coyote, red fox or the occasional mountain lion around my house.

  Jethro looked up at me, wide-eyed, as if he wanted me to praise him. I did. He seemed so proud of himself. But when I picked up the bunny, Jethro’s pride turned to concern. He tried to snatch her from my hands, but failed. Whining, he followed me around as I gathered a box, a blanket, some water and food. I gently placed the baby rabbit in the box, named her Bunny and wrapped her in the blanket. I put some finely chopped carrots, celery and lettuce near her, and she tried to eat. I also made sure that she knew where the water was.

  The whole time, Jethro was standing behind me, panting, dripping saliva on my shoulder, watching my every move. I thought he might go for Bunny or the food, but he simply stood there, fascinated by the little ball of fur slowly moving about in her new home.

  When I turned to leave the box, I called Jethro but he didn’t move. He usually came to me immediately, especially when I offered him a bone, but that day he remained steadfastly near the box. Hours passed and nothing could entice him away from his spot near Bunny.

  Eventually, I had to drag Jethro out for his nightly walk. When we returned, he made a beeline for the box, where he slept through the night. I tried to get Jethro to go to his usual sleeping spot but he refused. His intention was clear: “No way. I’m staying here.”

  I trusted Jethro not to harm Bunny, and during the two weeks that I nursed her back to health, he didn’t do anything to even scare her. Jethro had adopted Bunny; he would make sure that no one harmed her.

  Finally, the day came when I introduced Bunny to the outdoors. Jethro and I walked to the east side of my house and I released her from her box. We watched her slowly make her way into a woodpile. She was cautious, her senses overwhelmed by the new stimuli—sights, sounds, odors—to which she was now exposed. Bunny remained in the woodpile for about an hour until she boldly stepped out to begin life as a full-fledged wild rabbit. Jethro remained in the same spot as he watched the scene. He never took his eyes off Bunny and never tried to approach her.

  Bunny hung around for a few months. Every time I let Jethro out of the house, he immediately ran to the place where she had been released. When he arrived there, he would cock his head and move it from side to side, looking for Bunny. This lasted for about six months. If I said “Bunny” in a high-pitched voice, Jethro would whine and go look for her. He loved Bunny and was hoping to see her once again.

  I am not sure what happened to Bunny. Most likely she simply lived out her life in the area around my home. Since then, other bunnies and adult rabbits have come and gone, and I’ve observed that Jethro never chases them. Instead, he tries to get as close as he can and looks at each of them, perhaps wondering if they are Bunny.

  A few summers ago, many years after he met Bunny and treated her with such delicate compassion, Jethro came running up to me with a wet animal in his mouth. Hmm, I wondered, another bunny? I asked him to drop it. This time it was a young bird that had flown into a window. It was stunned and just needed to regain its senses.

  I held it in my hands for a few minutes. Jethro, in true Jethro fashion, never took his eyes off the bird. He watched my every move. When I thought the bird was ready to fly, I placed it on the railing of my porch. Jethro approached it, sniffed it, stepped back and watched it fly away. When it was out of sight, he turned to me and seemed to give the canine equivalent of a shrug. Then together we took a long meandering stroll down the road leading away from my house. All was well in Jethro’s world once more.

  Marc Bekoff

  The Great Dog Walk

  Although I was born and raised in New York City, my parents had an exuberance for the great outdoors. Every summer Dad rented a small cottage for us on the eastern end of Long Island. The cottage was nestled in a wooded area close to the beach, so my childhood encompassed fishing, swimming, boating and the pure enjoyment of the environment. After I married and had children, we lived down the street from my parents and continued to join them on their yearly retreats to Long Island.

  One year shortly before summer vacation, my parents adopted a magnificent English basset hound puppy. My two daughters were overjoyed. The dog immediately became the most important thing in their lives. They named the puppy Huckleberry Hound after the television cartoon character.

  Every day after school they headed to their grandparents’ house to walk and feed the dog. The trio basked in the admiring glances they received as they paraded around the neighborhood. Huckleberry was certainly a sight to behold, with his elongated body and droopy ears that nearly touched the ground. His four stubby legs were attached to extra large paws that he tripped over constantly. His narrow face held two of the most soulful eyes imaginable. Huckleberry swaggered down the street as if he knew he was special and enjoyed every moment of the attention showered upon him.

  Our first summer journey to the cottage with Huckleberry was a true nightmare. He disliked the motion of the car and became violently ill. He tossed and turned on the backseat, his eyes rolling and his tongue hanging from his mouth. He drooled so much that my mother got her new shower curtain from the trunk of the car and draped it around the girls who were riding in the backseat with Huckleberry. We all arrived exhausted from the trip. Even with the shower curtain, the girls were wet with slime and smelled like the city zoo.

  When Huckleberry emerged fromthe car, he gazed at his new surroundings, standing dumbstruck for the longest time. Then he began to bark. Where were all the tall buildings, the fire hydrants and the curbs to sniff? Where were all his loyal fans?

  A flock of geese flewoverhead honking loudly. Two frogs jumped directly in front of the trembling animal. A butterfly landed on his head and a stray cat hissed at himin passing. Itwas all toomuch for this poor urban creature. He fled into the house and under the nearest piece of furniture.

  Huckleberry was a city hound. Give him a concrete sidewalk and he was in his element. The country offered him no benefits. He became a recluse and spent his days on the screened front porch. Huckleberry would sit and watch the girls play outside, but when it was time for his walk, he hid. We all felt sorry for him but decided to let this timid animal spend his summer as he wished, curled up on his comfortable porch chair.

  One morning a pipe burst in the kitchen, and my father called the plumber, Young Charlie, who was the son of one of his fishing buddies, Old Charlie. Young Charlie was accompanied by an old black Lab named George, who announced their arrival loudly from the back of the pickup truck. T
he girls scooted outside to greet the dog and were thrilled to see that he wanted to play. After a rousing game of catch and a romp around the property, all were in need of a cold drink.

  Huckleberry had watched them play from his window seat. When they stopped to rest, he began to howl. All efforts to silence him were to no avail. The girls hooked up his leash and pulled him outside. At that moment, the black Lab stepped up, grabbed the leash in his mouth and began to walk Huckleberry around the yard. The howling stopped. Huckleberry, head held high, a spring in his step, tail wagging, followed in whatever direction George led. Both dogs were rewarded with hugs and doggy treats at the end of their walk.

  The next day, Young Charlie arrived with George and announced that his dog was very anxious to return to our house. From that day on, George, who appeared to know that he was doing a good deed, took Huckleberry on his daily walk.

  The summer slipped away and school beckoned: It was time to return to the city. Both dogs nuzzled each other as we packed the car for the journey home.

  The following winter was harsh. Huckleberry became ill after eating something encrusted in the snow and died within aweek. The entire familywas horrified. Wemourned, each in our own way, and my parents decided not to get another pet. Our lives continued: Winter passed, spring blossomed and summer was at hand once more.

  The trip to the country was marred by the emptiness we all felt without Huckleberry. Within a few days, Young Charlie’s truck pulled into our driveway and George was lifted out of the truck. Over the winter, he had lost the sight in one of his eyes and Young Charlie felt that walking Huckleberry would enrich George’s life.

  Dad explained the situation to Young Charlie, who was deeply saddened by our loss. “George still gets around okay, but he’s getting old. Sure makes me sad that he won’t have his friend to play with this summer,” he said. We all felt a lump in our throats as the pair departed.

  The next morning, the girls announced that they had a plan. We drove into town and visited the town’s thrift store. We purchased one extra large stuffed animal, two pairs of old roller skates and one cabinet door. I cut the board to size and my mother glued the stuffed dog onto the platform. Dad bolted the skates to the bottom of the plank and the girls made a coat from Huckleberry’s chair blanket. When the coat was tied around the finished product, we called Young Charlie to bring George for a visit.

  We crossed our fingers as the black Lab sniffed the creation. My daughters attached the leash to it and handed it over to George. We’ll never know if he humored us or if Huckleberry’s scent gave him the feeling of having his friend back. However, for the next eight weeks George took great pride in walking that stuffed animal.

  The story spread around town, and many of the residents came by to take pictures of the event. Shortly after returning to the city that year, we learned that George had passed away in his sleep, the stuffed animal at his side. We cried when we got the call.

  A few days later, when our summer photos had been processed and picked up, our sorrow turned to joy. The pictures of George leading his “friend” around were vivid reminders of the happy timeswe had spentwithHuckleberry and George. We knew we had witnessed a true act of love. Now, the two dogs will live forever in the telling and retelling of one of our favorite family stories: The Great Dog Walk.

  Anne Carter

  off the mark

  by Mark Parisi

  www.offthemark.com

  OFF THE MARK, ©1999 Mark Parisi. Reprinted with permission of Mark Parisi.

  Velcro Beau

  Money will buy you a fine dog, but only love can make it wag its tail.

  Richard Friedman

  When I first saw him, he looked worried. His furrowed brow and uncertain eyes gave his regal face a haunted look. I would come to know that this was a dog who was spooked by change until he got his bearings. And that day his world had been turned upside down.

  The large German shepherd had been running away on a regular basis. He always showed up at a neighbor’s house where they played with him and fed him—and eventually called his family, asking them to come and get him. Sometimes when the family showed up to retrieve him, they were rough with him. The neighbors noticed that the dog never seemed too excited about getting into their truck. And lately he hadn’t been looking well. His coat was rough and he was losing weight.

  One day, when they called the dog’s family to report his whereabouts, the family said they weren’t coming to get him. They’d had enough; the dog was on his own. Fortunately, the neighbors called a friend who was a volunteer at the shelter where I also volunteered as dog-intake coordinator and breed-rescue liaison. She took him home and then called me.

  As I drove up to my friend’s house, I saw her sitting on the porch with her children. The dog was sitting on the porch, too, but wasn’t interacting with any of them. Instead, he was scanning the street and sidewalk with nervous eyes.

  He was a stunning dog, in spite of his worried expression, rough coat and emaciated frame. I was told he was a little over a year and a half, still a pup by German shepherd standards. He was very tall and would be an imposing creature once he filled out. I had never handled a dog his size and was intimidated at first. But, aside from being agitated at the strangeness of his surroundings, he seemed perfectly friendly and readily jumped into the back of my car.

  My plan was to take himto the vet for an examand then take himto the shelter or arrange for himto go to the nearest German shepherd rescue group. But first I thought I’d stop and show him to my husband, Larry, as he’d grown upwith German shepherds and loved the breed. (Over the years, I’d heard many stories about his favorite dog, Marc; none of our rescued mutts could compare.)

  When I opened the back door of the car and the shepherd leaped out, he immediately loped over to my husband. After a cursory sniff, he lost interest and began exploring the parking lot where we stood. We watched him, and I could tell Larry was impressed. He turned to me and said, “I want him.”

  I was surprised. We already had three dogs—an occupational hazard of volunteering at an animal shelter—and Larry often complained that the household dog population was too high. Plus, this dog was huge—it would be like adding two more dogs to our menagerie! But I didn’t argue; I was pleased that Larry wanted a dog for himself.

  So Beau joined our family. It wasn’t easy at first. He had physical problems that made it difficult for him to gain weight. He was too skinny, yet couldn’t digest any fats. His digestion was, to put it mildly, finicky. All that was certainly difficult, but his behavioral problems were even more troubling.

  To our dismay, we soon learned that Beau had been “reverse house-trained.” He consistently messed in the house and then stood by the door, waiting to go outside. We figured out that his first family had not given him regular opportunities to visit the great outdoors. Then, when he made the inevitable mess inside, they would get mad at him and throw him out the door. He was an intelligent dog and made the obvious connection: Go to the bathroom and then you get to go outside. We had quite a time convincing him it actually worked better the other way.

  But what was worse was his utter lack of interest in people. He loved the other dogs, but had no use for the two-legged members of his new family. In my experience, German shepherds were just like that. I thought of them as “big, impersonal dogs,” and didn’t feel hurt by Beau’s coldness. Not Larry. Hewas deeply disappointed by Beau’s aloof disinterest. It was the antithesis of his experience with Marc, whose devotion to Larry had been the stuff of family legend.

  Over time, Beau got the hang of being housebroken and established his place within our canine foursome. His physical problems also gradually cleared up, and he eventually tipped the scales at 108 pounds. He was such a handsome dog that people constantly stopped us in the street to comment on his beauty.

  Sometimes when I would see him lying sphinxlike in a patch of sun or running in the fields near our house, my breath would catch. He resembled a lion or some other ma
jestic wild animal—his physical presence was simply magical. But still, his heart remained shut. He had no love to give to us. And when he looked at us, there was no spark of joy in his eyes. The lights were on, but no one was home.

  What could we do? We did our best to love him and hoped we might reach him someday.

  Then one day about four months after we got him, I glanced at Beau and was startled to see that he was following Larry closely with his large brown eyes. He seemed to be studying him—learning what actions signaled a chance to go for a ride or presented the possibility of a walk, treat or a scratch behind the ears. It was as if he suddenly realized that people had things to offer him— things that might not be half bad.

  His interest in all things Larry began to snowball. Swiftly, it became Beau’s mission to keep an eye on my husband at all times to make sure he didn’t miss any opportunities for doggy fun or excitement.

  Larry didn’t let him down. He knew what big dogs liked to do and where they liked to be scratched. He threw balls and sticks and took Beau to interesting places. Beau soon started whining if Larry left him behind. And when Larry finally returned from those solo jaunts, Beau was beside himself with joy. The floodgates of Beau’s love had opened. The dry disinterest fell away and his heart began to bloom.

  Today we call him Velcro Beau, because he sticks so close to Larry’s side. Every day when Beau wakes up, he stretches his long body luxuriously and then finds one of us to give him his morning rubdown. He lays his ears flat against his head and shyly pokes his large nose against an arm. This beautiful big dog, overflowing with affection, lets us know he is ready for some serious lovin’.

  I am grateful that although he is clearly Larry’s dog, he has included me in the circle of his love. Often, while rubbing his large chest, I lean over and touch my forehead to his. Then he lifts his paw, places it on my arm and sighs with pleasure. We stay that way for a while, just enjoying our connection.