Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “Everybody’s lonely,” he grumped. “What else is new?”

  “The poor thing spends her life tied to a rusty chain in a muddy backyard. She’s totally unsocialized.” I warmed to my subject. “Maybe you shouldn’t take her after all. She’s going to need an awful lot of training, patience and love. You might not be up to it.”

  “I guess I could take her on a trial basis,” he mumbled.

  “Well, if it doesn’t work out, you can always give her back,” I offered brightly.

  The first thing George did was to rename the dog Daisy II. Her coat grew out, soft and fluffy, and she learned to walk on a leash and come when called. She still got anxious when he left her for grooming, then exploded in a yapping fury when he came to pick her up.

  “Watch this,” he said one December day, placing his car keys on the chair beside my counter. “Daisy, want to go get doughnuts?”

  In a furry flash, she raced to the chair, jumping up and then landing squarely at his feet, head cocked to one side and keys gripped tightly in her mouth. George beamed proudly.

  David and I stood in the doorway, watching the happy pairwalk across the snow-dusted parking lot as the church bells chimed a Christmas carol. “Merry Christmas, George!” I called after him. “And don’t forget—if it doesn’t work out, you can always give her back!”

  Kathy Salzberg

  Devotion

  To your dog, you are the greatest, the smartest, the nicest human being who was ever born.

  Louis Sabin

  The truck chugged into the parking space beside me in front of the supermarket and shuddered to a stop. Its rusty hinges protested as the man leaned his shoulder against the door to force it open. The truck was old, its red paint so faded and oxidized, six coats of wax could not have coaxed a shine from its ancient hide. The man, too, was old, stooped and faded like his truck. His washed-out red and black checkered flannel shirt and colorless trousers were a perfect match for the aura of age surrounding him and his truck. A farmer, I thought, judging by the leathery, tanned skin of his heavily lined face and gnarled, dirt-encrusted hands. The creases radiating from the corners of his eyes bore witness to years of squinting against the sun. As he stepped out of the truck, he turned to address the only youthful thing in the whole picture, a lively young springer spaniel attempting to follow him.

  “No, Lady,” he said. “You stay here and guard our truck. I won’t be long.” He didn’t roll up the window, apparently secure the dog would hold her post.

  As he entered the grocery store, the dog moved over to assume a position behind the steering wheel, her eyes following the man’s progress. As the door closed behind him, she settled back on her haunches, staring almost unblinking at the closed door.

  The minutes passed. The dog did not move, and I began to feel her anxiety.

  “Don’t worry, girl,” I said. “He’ll be back soon.”

  I knew she heard me by the way her long brown ears perked up and by the sound of her tail as it thumped a tattoo on the seat beside her. Her nose twitched and the brown freckled fur covering her muzzle shivered in response, but her eyes never wavered from their scrutiny of the door through which the old man had disappeared.

  No Buckingham Palace guard could have maintained a more steadfast devotion to duty. Each time the market door opened, the dog stiffened in anticipation, settling back when the emerging figure was not the one for whom she waited.

  At last he appeared, carrying a laden plastic bag. The sedate little lady on guard duty erupted into a brown and white flurry of pure joy. She yipped a series of sounds that could only have been interpreted as laughter. She chased her tail in a tight circle, sending up a cloud of dust from the dirt-encrusted seats. When he finally wrested the protesting door open, she launched herself at him, standing with her front paws on his shoulders, licking his face with great swipes of her pink tongue. The spray of white lines at the corners of the man’s eyes disappeared as his face crinkled in response to her pleasure. His broad smile revealed strong, slightly stained teeth, probably the result of years of smoking the scarred old pipe peeking out of his shirt pocket.

  “Move over, Lady, I’ll drive now,” he said as he gently pushed the dog to the other side and slipped behind the wheel. That did not end her display of affection. She jumped on him again, her tongue washing his face and ears, knocking off the old misshapen hat protecting his head. From her throat rolled a garbled stream of sound, a language only he understood. Taking her face in his hands, he ruffled the hair at the base of her ears and looking into her eyes said, “I know, I know. I took longer than I expected. But guess what I brought you.”

  Her hips stopped their frantic swinging as she sat back, alert, watching his every move as he pretended to search his pockets and then the plastic bag, finally producing a package of beef jerky. The dog licked her lips as he slowly tore open the package, removing at last a strip of the hard, dried beef. Gripping it in his strong teeth, he let it protrude from the corner of his mouth as if it were a cigar. Her eyes never left the promised treat. She sat beside him, quivering with anticipation until he nodded. Then she stretched her neck and using only her front teeth, pulled the blackened meat from his mouth. She didn’t eat it immediately. Instead, she sat back, watching and waiting, drooling, as the jerky protruded from her mouth in the same way as it had from his.

  A smile twitched the corners of theman’s lips as he took another piece, placing it into his mouth as he had before. They looked like two old cronies settling back to enjoy a quiet cigar. I felt a smile spread over my own face. He nodded again and the dog flopped down to begin enjoying her treat. He glanced over, seeing me for the first time.

  We both grinned sheepishly. I, for having been caught eavesdropping on a private display of a man’s affection for his dog. He, for having been caught in the foolish little game he played with her. He snatched the beef strip from his mouth.

  As he coaxed his old truck into protesting life, I remarked, “That’s a fine dog you have there.”

  He bobbed his head and replied, “She’s a real champion, all right.”

  Giving me a parting smile, he backed out of the parking space, the old truck resenting every demand being made of it. I watched them as they drove away and noticed the jerky was back in the man’s mouth. The dog, having wolfed down her prize, was sitting erect again, eyeing his share, too. I was willing to bet she’d get the last bite of it before they reached their destination.

  Marjie Lyvers

  off the mark

  by Mark Parisi

  www.offthemark.com

  OFF THE MARK,©2000 Mark Parisi. Reprinted with permission of Mark Parisi.

  Dixie’s Kitten

  Dixie was a pretty dog, an English setter dressed in a white coat adorned with black and brown markings. In her younger days she had spent many happy hours in the fields, running and hunting quail. But now Dixie was so old that she spent most of her time lying in the sun, basking in the soothing warmth of its rays. She especially loved to lie in the yard. There was a full water bucket and brimming food dish within easy reach, and her outdoor shelter was lined with clean, fragrant hay. There were times when her old bones ached and pained her, and she would groan as she stood up to move to another patch of sunlight. But sometimes there were wonderful days when somebody brought by a young bird-dog pup, and a spark would leap in her tired eyes. She adored puppies and would forget her age for a little while as she romped with the younger dogs.

  “It’s been a long time since you were a puppy, old girl,” I told her one day, stopping to comb my fingers through her silky hair. She wagged her tail and looked toward the pup being admired in the front yard. Then with a soft whine, she eased her aching body into a more comfortable position and dropped her chin to her paws. Her eyes were fastened on the younger dog and she seemed lost in thought. Probably dreaming about the days when she was running through the fields teaching the younger dogs to sniff out quail, I decided. I gave her one last pat on the head, and went into
the house.

  Lately Dixie had seemed lonely. I remembered the family of ducks that used to cross the road in front of our house every evening to share her dish of dog food. Not once had Dixie growled or snapped at the ducks, and sometimes she would even move aside so they could have better access to her food. Visiting cats were always welcome to join in the meals, and it wasn’t unusual at all to find her with her nose in the same bowl with several ducks, cats and whatever stray dog may have wandered up. Dixie was a gentle, social soul and nowadays there just didn’t seem to be as many guests dropping by to chat over dinner.

  One day there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find my next-door neighbor standing there with a concerned look on his face. “Have you seen my kitten?” he asked. “He slipped out and is missing.”

  It was a cute, fluffy little thing, not much bigger than a minute, and I knew my neighbor was right to be concerned. A tiny lost kitty would be no match for the coyotes and wild cats that roamed our rural area.

  I told him I hadn’t but that if I spotted it, I would give him a call. He thanked me, sadness etched on his face. “He’s so little,” he said as he headed for the next house. “I’m afraid if I don’t find him soon, something bad will happen to him.”

  Later that afternoon I carried dog food out to Dixie. She was in her house and I could hear her tail thumping a greeting as I poured the food into her bowl. I fetched the water hose and filled her bucket, then called her out to eat. Slowly she emerged and painfully, carefully, stretched. As I reached down to pat her head, a tiny gray kitten stepped out of the dark doghouse and twined itself around Dixie’s legs.

  “What have you got there, girl?” I exclaimed. Dixie glanced down at the kitten, then looked back up at me with a gleam in her eye. Her tail wagged harder. “Come here, kitty,” I said and reached for it. Dixie gently pushed my hand aside with her nose and nudged the kitten back inside the doghouse. Sitting down in front of the door, she blocked the kitten’s exit and I could hear it meowing inside. This had to be my neighbor’s lost kitten. It must have wandered through the thicket of bushes between our places and straight into Dixie’s doghouse.

  “Crazy dog,” I muttered. Dixie wagged her agreement, but didn’t budge from in front of the door. She waited until I was a safe distance away before she stood up to begin nibbling at the pile of food. I went into the house and telephoned my neighbor.

  “I think I’ve found your kitten,” I told him. I could hear the relief in his voice, then the laughter as I told him that Dixie had been hiding it. Promising to come over to collect the runaway cat, he hung up after thanking me again.

  He showed up, eager to look at the kitten. “Yep, that’s my cat!” he said as the little gray fur ball stepped out of the doghouse. Dixie backed away from us and nosed the kitten toward the door. Gratefully, the man reached for the cat. In the same instant, Dixie snarled at him.

  I was shocked. She’d never growled at anybody before! I scolded her, and my neighbor reached for the kitten again. This time Dixie bared her teeth.

  “Let me try,” I said. I reached for the kitten but Dixie shoved it inside the doghouse, then followed it in and flopped down, blocking the tiny cat from us with her body. Nobody was going to take her kitten!

  We could hear the kitten purring loudly inside the house. Then it stepped up, bold as brass, and rubbed itself against Dixie’s face. She licked its fur and glared out at us. It was plain that she had adopted the little cat and planned to keep it. “Huh,” I said. At the moment, it seemed the only thing to say.

  “Well, it looks like the kitten’s happy,” my poor neighbor said after a few minutes. The little gray cat had curled up between Dixie’s front paws and was grooming itself intently. Every once in a while it stopped to lick Dixie’s face. Kitten and dog seemed perfectly content. “I guess she can keep the kitten, if she wants it that bad.”

  So Dixie was allowed to help raise the kitten that she had claimed as her own. Thanks to the kindness and understanding of my neighbor, the tiny cat and the old dog spent many happy hours together. The kitten benefited from the arrangement and grew into a fine, healthy cat. And Dixie was happy to live out her days basking in the sun, dreaming of kittens and puppies and romping in the fields.

  Anne Culbreath Watkins

  Bashur, the Iraqi Dog

  My son,Mike—MajorMike Fenzel of the 173rd Airborne Brigade—parachuted into northern Iraq on March 27, 2003. After two weeks on the ground, Mike and the three thousand others in his unit began their mission to capture the city of Kirkuk.

  During the first hours of the mission, they made a brief stop to refuel by the side of the road. The unit’s intelligence officer noticed something moving in the grass. Looking closer, she saw it was a tiny puppy, no bigger than a dollar bill. The puppy was alone and in bad shape; the officer knew it would die if she left it there. So she scooped the pup into her arms and took it with her into Kirkuk.

  When they finally reachedKirkuk, the puppywas brought to headquarters, washed off and fed. There was a vet on hand whose primary responsibility was to check food for the troops, and he gave the puppy a distemper shot. After that, they released the tiny dog on the airfield to roam with the hundreds of other wild dogs who lived on the base. Over the next few weeks, the little puppy made an impression on the soldiers living on the base, including Mike. The men in the unit made sure the little female pup—whom Mike had named Bashur after the airfield they had parachuted into—had enough food, giving her leftovers from the mess hall and from their MREs (Meals Ready to Eat).

  Bashur survived being hit by a Humvee in her first weeks on the airfield. After recovering from a badly bruised hip, Bashur grew strong and healthy. Although she had the run of the base, she mainly stuck around the headquarters building where she received food as well as lots of attention from the men going in and out on their round-the-clock missions.

  Bashur stood out from the other dogs on the airfield. Not only was her coloring distinct and beautiful—she had a caramel-colored head with a well-defined white blaze and the soulful amber eyes of a hound—but she was determined to be with the soldiers. She bounded up happily to everyone who passed, tail wagging, eyes sparkling, ready for a game or a cuddle, a comforting sight after the stress of the soldiers’ missions. She was a one-dog welcoming committee and the soldiers loved her for it.

  But an army camp is a busy and sometimes dangerous place, and one day a pickup truck speeding across the camp ran over Bashur’s paw, crushing it. By then, Mike had become very fond of Bashur, and when he heard she had been hit, he ran to find her.

  After carrying her to his room, he brought in his medics to give her attention. Mike decided to keep Bashur with him while her paw healed and then possibly until they left Iraq, to prevent her from becoming another casualty. Soon Bashur recovered fully, and Mike began taking her to the battalion headquarters where he worked each day. There he tied her up outside so that she couldn’t run free and be hurt again. The men provided her with a special red collar with an “Airborne” patch on it to identify her as their mascot.

  Over the next six months, though Bashur remained the unit’s mascot, Mike and Bashur developed a special bond. Mike told me that caring for Bashur kept his mind in a positive place. Every morning they jogged together and every evening they relaxed together. Mike marveled at the power of her companionship to lift his spirits.

  Living with Bashur had other benefits as well. Once when I was on the phone with Mike, Bashur began to bark wildly. Mike said, “Must be incoming, Dad. Gotta go.” It turned out that Bashur could detect mortars and artillery rockets long before human ears could register the sound. When she would look up, startled, Mike knew another enemy artillery strike was on the way.

  In February 2004, Mike realized he would be leaving Iraq soon. He knew he couldn’t leave Bashur behind, so when he called home he asked me if we would take Bashur if he could manage to get her to us. My wife and I knew what Bashur had come to mean to him and I told him we would.

&n
bsp; At first, Mike thought he would be able to ship her through the country of Jordan with the help of an official at the Baghdad zoo. But nothing is certain in a country at war. First, Jordan stopped allowing dogs to transit through their country and then his contact at the zoo left, taking with her Bashur’s best chance of leaving Iraq.

  Time was running out, but Mike kept trying. Finally, he found an international veterinary hospital in Kuwait that would be able to ship Bashur to the states. The next hurdle was getting her to Kuwait. As it happened, Mike was the executive officer of a battalion that was preparing to redeploy to Vicenza, Italy—through a port in Kuwait City. He would take Bashur with him when they left.

  On the day that his battalion left Kirkuk for Kuwait with their 140 vehicles, Mike loaded Bashur in his Humvee, and they made the 600 mile journey to Kuwait City together. Bashur already had her required shots but had to spend a week in quarantine at the International Veterinary Hospital. Luckily, the hospital was located right next door to the port site, so Mike was able to visit her every day.

  The last obstacle Mike faced was finding a crate large enough to ship Bashur home in—she had grown a lot since the day she had been found on the side of the road. There were none available in Kuwait City, so the veterinary hospital built an immense wooden box to meet airline requirements. The refrigerator-sized container had a steel grate in front so that Bashur could breathe and see out.

  At last, Bashur, snug in her specially made crate, was loaded on to a KLM plane headed to Amsterdam. From Amsterdam, she would make the final leg of her journey to O’Hare Airport in Chicago.

  At the appointed time, I drove to O’Hare to meet Bashur. The KLM freight employees needed a forklift to get the big wooden container onto the terminal floor. When the door was opened, there were probably nine men—including me—clustered around Bashur’s crate.