The fifth week after the puppies’ birth I placed an ad in the newspaper, and within a week we had people interested in all the pups—except the one with the deformity.
Late one afternoon I went to the store to pick up a few groceries. Upon returning I happened to see the old retired schoolteacher who lived across the street from us, waving at me. She had read in the paper that we had puppies and was wondering if she might get one from us for her grandson and his family. I told her all the puppies had found homes, but I would keep my eyes open for anyone else who might have an available cocker spaniel. I also mentioned that if someone should change their mind, I would let her know.
Within days all but one of the puppies had been picked up by their new families. This left me with one brown and tan cocker, as well as the smaller puppy with the cleft lip and palate.
Two days passed without my hearing anything from the gentleman who had been promised the tan and brown pup. I telephoned the schoolteacher and told her I had one puppy left and that she was welcome to come and look at him. She advised me that she was going to pick up her grandson and would come over at about eight o’clock that evening.
That night at around 7:30, Judy and I were eating supper when we heard a knock on the front door. When I opened the door, the man who had wanted the tan and brown pup was standing there. We walked inside, took care of the adoption details, and I handed him the puppy. Judy and I did not know what we would do or say when the teacher showed up with her grandson.
At exactly eight o’clock the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was the schoolteacher with her grandson standing behind her. I explained to her the man had come for the puppy after all, and there were no puppies left.
“I’m sorry, Jeffery. They found homes for all the puppies,” she told her grandson.
Just at that moment, the small puppy left in the bedroom began to yelp.
“My puppy! My puppy!” yelled the little boy as he ran out from behind his grandmother.
I just about fell over when I saw that the small child also had a cleft lip and palate. The boy ran past me as fast as he could, down the hallway to where the puppy was still yelping.
When the three of us made it to the bedroom, the small boy was holding the puppy in his arms. He looked up at his grandmother and said, “Look, Grandma. They found homes for all the puppies except the pretty one, and he looks just like me.”
My jaw dropped in surprise.
The schoolteacher turned to us. “Is this puppy available?”
Recovering quickly, I answered, “Yes, that puppy is available.”
The little boy, who was now hugging the puppy, chimed in, “My grandma told me these kind of puppies are real expensive and that I have to take real good care of it.”
The lady opened her purse, but I reached over and pushed her hand away so that she would not pull her wallet out.
“How much do you think this puppy is worth?” I asked the boy. “About a dollar?”
“No. This puppy is very, very expensive,” he replied.
“More than a dollar?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so,” said his grandmother.
The boy stood there, pressing the small puppy against his cheek.
“We could not possibly take less than two dollars for this puppy,” Judy said, squeezing my hand. “Like you said, it’s the pretty one.”
The schoolteacher took out two dollars and handed it to the young boy.
“It’s your dog now, Jeffery. You pay the man.”
Still holding the puppy tightly, the boy proudly handed me the money. Any worries I’d had about the puppy’s future were gone.
Although this happened many years ago, the image of the little boy and his matching pup stays with me still. I think it must be a wonderful feeling for any young person to look at themselves in the mirror and see nothing, except “the pretty one.”
Roger Dean Kiser
7
FAREWELL,
MY LOVE
Agood dog never dies, he always stays; he walks beside you on crisp autumn days when frost is on the fields and winter’s drawing near, his head is within our hand in his old way.
Mary Carolyn Davies
Dad’s Right Knee
We had gathered from our distant homes to be with my mother as she kept her heartrending watch at my father’s bedside. He had suffered a series of strokes at Thanksgiving, lingered through the holidays and was loosening his tenuous hold on life as the New Year dawned. The stages of our grief had been punctuated by moves from a hopeful bed in the ICU, to a bargained-for stay in a long-term ward, and a final spiral downward to the cold, cruel equations of a move to hospice. Dad’s strong body had become a skeletal frame, silent and unmoving, as his essence fled. His stroke-destroyed and disintegrating brain had left him flaccid and limp.
There had always been a dog in my parents’ hearts and home; the one at the time was an elderly golden retriever named Randy. We used to call him “Dad’s right knee” and marvel at the precision and military bearing of those two impressive males as they marched their deliberate path around the neighborhood. Dad always walked with one glove on; Randy proudly carried the other one for him. After the walk, Dad would hold his hand out and Randy would return the glove to him and be rewarded with a stroke on his golden forehead. His immense, feathered plume of a tail swept grandly back and forth as his eyes radiated love.
Randy’s laundry-sized basket of toys sat next to my father’s chair, and each evening Randy would lovingly place each treasure in his mouth and repeatedly offer them to my father to be admired. By bedtime, both the toys and my father’s lap were liberally bedewed with saliva. My father called it liquid diamonds, laughingly proclaiming that Randy was giving him jewelry again.
When Randy developed arthritis and could no longer climb into the van for trips around town, my father built him a ramp and carpeted it to match the van’s interior. He installed a bed in the back with a built-in water bowl and they resumed their jaunts. Randy had special water in the refrigerator waiting for those trips. “Car water” my father called it. Pity the visitor who accidentally tried to drink any of Randy’s water; he was soon set straight by vigorous complaints from both Randy and Dad.
After my father’s stroke we took turns sitting in Dad’s chair, trying to interest Randy in his toys. But he just fixed his eyes on us, mutely demanding to know where Dad was. A dog who had always taken an avid interest in all food, his rotund form was melting from round to slender as he waited for his person to return. His fire-kissed hair carpeted the floor and sunset was in his eyes. Inconsolable and stolid in his grief, he was willing himself to death before our eyes. We kept promising Randy he could go see Dad, and he’d look at us as if to say, “When?” He missed Dad with every fiber of his being.
As the hospice allowed pet visits, we were determined that Dad and his right knee would be together again. The day Dad was moved to hospice, we coaxed a reluctant Randy away from the empty chair he guarded and loaded him into my parents’ van for the trip across town. Randy insisted on carrying my father’s glove in his mouth. After checking to see if Dad was in the van, he collapsed in the back and softly moaned. Even though I kept telling him we were going to see Dad, he just lay there and never even looked at his car water.
By the time we got to the hospice, the van’s dog bed was covered with grief-shed hair. It took all my powers of persuasion to get Randy to reluctantly leave the vehicle that smelled of his beloved master’s Old Spice aftershave for the illness-imbued odor of the hospice entryway. It was obvious he knew he was in death’s waiting room. Lagging behind, he dragged himself down the hall, head drooping and plume-like tail dragging.
As I turned the corner into the main hallway, the end of the leash froze behind me. Then a whimpering golden streak with upturned nose began dragging me rapidly up the corridor. Randy was heading for his master, his massive tail no longer dragging, but sweeping frantically from side to side. He lunged around the door and into my fathe
r’s room. I lost the leash and Randy headed immediately for the right side of the bed to rest his large head next to my father’s limp hand. He dropped the glove next to Dad’s hand and stood looking at the still form on the bed. I moved forward to take the glove and spare Randy the impossible wait for a caress that could never come again.
Suddenly, Dad’s heart monitor shrieked an alarm. My knees gave out, dropping me to a sprawl on the floor and I watched in amazement as my father’s long fingers twitched and moved, coming to rest on Randy’s head. Randy sighed deeply, happy once more.
Over the next few weeks, Randy’s daily visits held together the lingering remnants of Dad’s warm spirit. Every morning Randy would prance down the corridor carrying Dad’s glove and tenderly place it on the bed. Then resting his head next to Dad’s hand, he waited for the caress that never came again. The nurses commented that Dad rested easier with Randy beside him. In the evening, Randy would hesitantly accept the glove from us and then go home to guard it until the next day.
At the end, we gathered in a circle at Dad’s bedside and read the Prayers for the Sick. My mother’s strong faith held grief at bay, allowing only love to stay. My father’s last breath was accompanied by a deep, low moan from Randy. The family huddled together in misery and then reluctantly prepared to leave the room for the last time. Through tear-filled eyes, I saw Randy pick up Dad’s glove and carefully carry it out of the room without being asked.
As we walked down the hall, Randy’s eyes looked up and followed something only he could see as it vanished into the light. His tail wagged as he gazed, his silky golden head bobbing under an unseen caress.
Carol M. Chapman
Just Like Always
Blessed is the person who has earned the love of an old dog.
Sydney Jeanne Seward
For as long as I could remember, Ivan had always been at the door when I came home, wagging his brown tail in greeting. Tonight when I walked in after my classes, he wasn’t there.
“Ivan?”
Silence was my only answer.
Then my mother appeared from the kitchen. “Ivan is not feeling well, Lori. He’s downstairs in the family room. He’s getting old.”
“Old? Mom, he’s only eleven or twelve.”
“Fourteen,” Mom corrected. “He’s been with us a long time.”
“When did he get sick?”
“He hasn’t been himself for quite a while. He hasn’t had much of an appetite. And he sleeps a lot more.”
“But this is the first time he hasn’t been at the door to meet me just like, well . . . always.”
“He’s made an effort to be up here every night lately because he loves you so much.”
“He’s going to get better, isn’t he?”
Mom avoided my eyes. “I took him to the vet today. The doctor gave me some medicine to keep him comfortable, but nothing else can be done.”
I couldn’t breathe. A fist grabbed my heart, squeezing tightly. “You . . . you mean he’s . . . going to die?”
“While you were growing up, honey, he was growing old.”
I could have cried. But when you’re almost twenty . . . well . . .
The phone rang. “Hi.” It was my girlfriend Cathy. “What time do you want me to pick you up for the movie?”
“Ivan is sick.”
“Ivan? Who’s Ivan?”
“Ivan. My dog.”
“Oh. I haven’t heard you mention him, have I? Anyway, I’m sorry, but what time shall I pick you up?”
“Well, Cath, I . . . I don’t think I can go. I want to stay home with Ivan.”
“What? Lori, we’ve been waiting weeks for this movie to open, and now you’re not going on account of a dog?”
“Ivan isn’t just any dog, Cath. He’s my friend, once-upon-a-time playmate, and—”
“Okay, Lori, I get your drift.” I could tell by her voice how upset she was. “Are you going or not?”
“No. I’m staying home with Ivan.”
The phone went dead in my hand. Some people just didn’t understand.
As I went downstairs, I thought about what Cathy had said. “Who’s Ivan?” Had I really never mentioned him? It wasn’t that long ago that we went everywhere together. In the last few years, though, my interests had changed. Still, my love for him hadn’t. Only how would he know that if I didn’t take the time to show him? Ivan seemed happy, so I hadn’t thought that much about it.
Ivan’s tail wagged weakly as I sat down beside his bed. He tried to raise his head, but I leaned closer so hewouldn’t have to, my hand caressing his brown body. “How’s my buddy? Not too great, my friend?”
His tail flopped again, his black eyes gazing into mine. Where have you been? they seemed to say. I’ve been waiting for you.
Tears filled my eyes as I stroked his back. What had Mom said? I’d grown up while Ivan had grown old. Although I always petted him in passing, I couldn’t remember when we’d last done anything together.
I shifted my position and Ivan tried to get up. “No, no,” I whispered. “I’m not leaving you. We have a little catching up to do.” He settled down again, nuzzling my leg.
“Remember when you were a puppy, Ivan, and how on Mother’s Day you brought home a deadmouse and placed it at Mom’s feet? Remember how she screamed? You never brought her another one.” He was trying to watch me, but he was getting sleepy.
“And remember the time we all went camping and you flushed out that black-and-white kitty that turned out to be a skunk?”
His eyes were closed, but his tail wagged and his feet moved. Maybe he was remembering in his sleep.
Mom tiptoed in with a sleeping bag. “I thought you’d want to spend the night with him.”
I nodded. It was like old times—our sleeping side by side—my arm around him.
His tongue lickingmy earwokeme up the nextmorning. I hugged him and his tail waved like a feeble flag in the wind. Work didn’t seemimportant, but I knewI’d better go.
“Ivan will be waiting for you when you get home,”Mom assured me.
And he was—right at the front door.
“I found him trying to climb the stairs to get up here to meet you,” Mom said. “I don’t know how he made it as far as he did. I carried him the rest of the way.”
“It’s like the old days, buddy,” I scooped him into my arms and hugged him to my heart. I carried him downstairs and held him until he fell asleep.
He died that night in my arms. I told him over and over what an important part he’d played in my life. And in the end, we were together . . . just like always.
Lorena O’Connor
A Smile from Phoebe
Old dogs, like old shoes, are comfortable. They might be a bit out of shape and a little worn around the edges, but they fit well.
Bonnie Wilcox
About to begin my first teaching job, I moved out to Colorado completely alone, ready to reinvent myself in a new place. At the school where I was teaching, I soon met warm, friendly people with similar interests, but I found myself returning to my empty apartment each night with a keen sense that something was missing. Another teacher suggested that I get a pet—an older dog who would not need to be trained and would be ready to be a devoted companion. I scheduled a visit to a local animal shelter, eagerly picturing how wonderful life would be with a loving face to greet me every night.
The shelter was large and loud. I briskly walked up and down the aisles, stopping in front of one of the last kennels. I felt my throat squeeze tight with emotion when I saw her staring up at me from the cement floor: a beagle with a completely white face and a tail running on a motor. Her shiny eyes met mine as her head tilted back at an angle that caused her ears to hang straight out on either side. When I smiled at her, it sent her into a foot-to-foot shuffle. That was all it took. In no time the paperwork was completed and I was on my way home with an eleven-year-old beagle with no name.
Phoebe, a name I had never thought much about, seemed to fit the old girl al
l too well. My new friend nestled herself comfortably into my life. Often I would return home stressed by my work as a first-year teacher, but Phoebe knew how to change my mood instantly. She would stretch her neck backward and balance her head just so, until her ears stretched out perfectly on both sides of her white face. My little old beagle would suddenly become a plane ready for takeoff, and I would smile and forget my bad day.
In the light of the happiness that was spilling out of this eleven-year-old dog who had been bounced from home to home, my own small annoyances faded away. I resolved that it was only right for me to spoil her to the best of my ability. Phoebe was no stranger to the occasional table scrap, and her dog bed seemed to go empty when she realized mine was bigger and warmer. We were a perfect pair, each finding exactly what we needed in the other.
Our new life together was blessed in so many ways, but soon I began to notice that Phoebe was struggling to climb stairs and to run. Our visit to the vet brought news that twisted my stomach: Phoebe had severe arthritis in her spine that could not be reversed. The vet consoled me, and we discussed a plan to keep Phoebe comfortable and in as little pain as possible. On the ride home, Phoebe sat in the front of the car with me, a look of intense concern on her face as she watched me fight back the tears.
I resolved to make the best of the time Phoebe had left. We walked to her favorite park every day, and I massaged her ears whenever she pulled on my hand with her paw. I also took many pictures of her around our home and at her favorite places, though I never managed to capture her perfectly balanced “ready-for-takeoff” ears on film.
Unfortunately, none of this guaranteed me more time with her.
One fresh spring afternoon I returned from work, excited to take Phoebe to the park. We couldn’t even make it down the stairs. I called the vet, who asked me if she was still having more good days than bad. Once off the phone, I looked into Phoebe’s eyes as if to ask her. Our eyes locked and the answer was clear.
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Page 20