Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  I took the following day off from work and spent that time petting Phoebe. I felt numb during the trip to the vet. As the vet prepared to put Phoebe down, I whispered all the thanks I had into my dog’s ears. I told her how much joy she had given me. She sighed in relief just moments before her head became a weight on my lap. As a look of peace came over her, an emptiness swelled inside me.

  Every day brought new reminders of Phoebe’s absence. Whether it was a hidden bone or a paw print on the kitchen floor, it left me helpless with grief and in need of comfort. I tried to focus on how peaceful she had looked, but I still agonized over whether I had made the right decision.

  I found solace when I started making a collage of photos of Phoebe. To complete my project, I picked up the photos from the last roll of film that I had taken of her. When I opened the envelope, the picture on top of the stack made the corners of my mouth twitch. It was a terrific shot of a white-faced beagle with her head tipped back, ears hanging to the sides in perfect symmetry. It was my Phoebe, asking me to smile.

  Beth McCrea

  Legacy of Love

  The best thing about being a veterinarian is helping welcome new puppies and kittens to a family. The absolute hardest thing is helping someone say good-bye to a family member. Because pets’ biological clocks tick faster than ours, few pets live past their teens. Over a career, a veterinarian can be involved with tens of thousands of pets dying. It has no parallel in any other profession—second place is not even close.

  In order to cope with the high number of deaths and the difficulties in dealing with grieving clients, veterinarians sometimes find their hearts hardened to death, their souls callused against yet another tearful good-bye. Although surveys show that the public appreciates the visible care, compassion and concern that veterinarians express, the fact remains that, as a veterinarian, you can become numb to saying good-bye to a pet or helping ease its passage. Until it’s your pet.

  I was a senior in veterinary school when we got a spunky, salt-and-pepper miniature schnauzer. My wife, Teresa, named him Bodé (pronounced bo-day) after a favorite college professor of hers. Bodé became our first child. We called Bodé our son, and ourselves his mom and dad, another example of our generation’s philosophy that “pets are family.”

  We spoiled Bodé rotten. He ate with us in the kitchen, munched on the best pet foods, rode with us in the car (yapping his way around town like a canine siren), sat with us on the couch to watch TV at night, slept in our bed and went on vacation with us. He wore handmade sweaters, received the hot-oil treatment at the groomer’s and got the very best medical care available. We did anything and everything to pamper our beloved first child.

  Sadly, because of a very weak immune system, Bodé had medical problems—a lot of them. First, he got a severe case of pancreatitis and went blind. Then, he developed incurable, greasy seborrhea that left his skin oily and smelly. Over time, his teeth went bad, which caused his breath to smell horrible; he lost his hearing and he limped on a bad hip joint. Despite his bad breath, smelly skin and the need to be lifted on and off the bed, he never missed a single night sleeping in our bed.

  On December 10, 1985, our “second” child was born: our first daughter, a beautiful two-legged, blond-haired girl named Mikkel. When we brought Mikkel home, we, like a lot of first-time parents, were worried about what would happen between Bodé and our baby. Would Bodé be jealous of the lost attention and try to bite Mikkel?

  As Teresa sat with Mikkel on the couch, the two sets of grandparents and I watching intently, Bodé walked over to check out this wrinkled, weird-looking alien with a baby-bird-like tuft of hair on her head. Bodé opened his mouth and made a sudden movement toward Mikkel. I sprang to my feet. But Bodé wasn’t going to bite the baby! Instead, he started licking her, giving Mikkel a canine version of a sponge bath. Forget worries about disease transmission, we were delighted a powerful affection-connection had been born.

  Almost exactly a year later, close to Mikkel’s first birthday, Bodé was stricken with a fatal condition called autoimmune hemolytic anemia. Simply put, Bodé’s red blood cells were being destroyed by the thousands as his immune system attacked the very thing that kept life-sustaining oxygen flowing to every cell in his body.

  Refusing to accept the finality of this diagnosis and with a dogged determination to save Bodé, I ran tests, called specialists at various veterinary schools, consulted with other veterinarians with whom I worked, pored over textbooks, ran more tests. Sadly, all roads led to a dead end.

  I remember delivering the news to Teresa. She sobbed as she held Bodé in her arms, gently rocking his body, which was becoming increasingly lifeless due to the lack of oxygen. She couldn’t imagine life without Bodé. Neither could I.

  She looked to me for guidance in making the right decision, and suddenly it hit me. I wasn’t counseling another client about options; I wasn’t preparing for the passing of another precious pet; I wasn’t gearing up for my standard lectures on what happens when a pet is euthanized or what the options are for memorial services and remains. This wasn’t another pet; this was our child, the greatest dog in the world.

  Although the weight of that realization crushed my soul, it also succeeded in breaking through the heavy callus around my heart, a barrier built up from participating in thousands of pet passings. I began to cry—releasing not only the tears of a grieving family member, but also tears that had been subdued and submerged as I’d struggled for years with the sadness of saying good-bye to hundreds, thousands of my clients’ and friends’ family members and beloved pets. My heart was reawakening even as my four-legged child was slipping away.

  Finally, Teresa said to me, “You know Bodé won’t get better and is in a lot of pain. We love him so much; you know what we need to do.” Then she handed me Bodé’s warm, limp body.

  Overcome with grief, she couldn’t go with me to my veterinary clinic, so I gathered up his favorite toys and held him in my lap as I drove to the clinic. “Your journey is almost over, my boy,” I said to Bodé as I stroked the full length of his body. We’ll miss you, we’ll miss you, we’ll miss you, echoed my aching heart.

  Sobbing, almost unable to see or catch my breath, I walked in the back door of the hospital and told my veterinary-practice partner that it was time. He put an experienced, caring hand on my shoulder and nodded his head in agreement.

  As my partner prepared the injection that would end Bodé’s suffering, I cradled Bodé’s head and looked deep into his eyes. I told him how much love, laughter and loyalty he had blessed us with. I whispered to him that where he was going, his body would be new again: He would have sparkling white, razor-sharp teeth, eagle-eyes able to spot the most distant bird, ears that could detect the treat drawer being opened from across the ranch, glistening Howly-wood hair, four good wheels able to not just keep up, but lead the way on our frequent horseback rides in the mountains and sweet smelling breath for sleeping nose to nose at nights.

  As the solution left the syringe and entered Bodé’s body, his stub-of-a-tail hesitated, then stopped. It was over for our first child, only six years old. His body was still there but his essence had left him.

  That night Teresa and I sat in the yard at home holding Mikkel and reflecting on what special gifts Bodé had brought to our lives. We decided to return him to the soil at the family farm. We knew he was gone physically, but in memory he would be with us forever.

  Bodé’s passing brought me a new understanding of the grieving process. When we lose a pet, it breaks our hearts—but when our hearts mend, they expand somehow to accept another four-legged family member, a process to be repeated many times during a pet lover’s lifetime. So the pain of loss—however great—is just one step in the journey of making our hearts capable of experiencing more and more love.

  There was one more important part to Bodé’s legacy: The callus around my soul never came back. From that day forward, I lost the numbness to other people’s pain at losing their pet. This was Bodé�
��s most precious gift to me: He gave me back my heart.

  Marty Becker, D.V.M.

  Tears for Sheila

  It was a regular, busy afternoon at the vet clinic where I worked as a vet tech. The morning surgeries, spays and some dental cleanings were finished, and we were now taking care of afternoon appointments. Some puppy shots here, suture removal there, itchy skin in room three. I moved along to the sound of dogs barking, doors shutting and the wobbly centrifuge finishing a cycle.

  As I drew up a rabies vaccination for a beagle puppy, one of the receptionists came out of an exam room and handed me a file, saying in a low voice, “It’s a Labrador in for euthanasia. The owner wants it done in his vehicle, because the dog is large and it’ll be hard for him to carry her out afterward.”

  “Sheila, nine years old, cancer found in June, inoperable,” I murmured to myself as I flipped through the file before setting it down. And here it was October. The Lab had lived four months longer than I would have expected. Usually cancer takes its toll very quickly.

  I finished with the little beagle’s shot, soothed the puppy and the nervous owner a bit, and then slipped to the back of the clinic to find the technician who had been there the longest. I knew she would have some information on the Labrador.

  “Doc told him in June that Sheila had cancer. She had a lump on the back of her neck that he brought in to have Doc check, and it turned out to be carcinoma,” she told me as she drew up the pale-pink fluid for the euthanasia and handed it to me. “She wasn’t suffering and he wasn’t ready to put her to sleep then, but now he’s had four months to prepare.”

  I gathered up the syringe and some alcohol swabs and went to find the doctor. I explained to him that we would be performing the euthanasia outside, and we walked outside the clinic together.

  Sheila’s owner, a burly man named Mike, had parked his pickup under some shade trees on the far side of the parking lot. As we approached, I saw that Sheila was in the back, lying behind the cab, her head resting on her front paws. At one time, she had been a beautiful chocolate Lab. Now the cancer had dulled her magnificent coat to a dusty brown. Her sad brown eyes were half-closed, and she sighed deeply as we walked up to her. Sheila had been to the vet many times, and I’m sure she expected that some sort of painful test or needle sting was coming.

  As I prepared the syringe for the doctor, Mike called softly to her, “Come on, Sheila. Come here, girl.”

  My eyes welled up with tears as I saw her struggle to rise. That Sheila was in a lot of pain was obvious. When she finally managed to climb to her feet, I saw the cancerous lump. It stuck out grossly from the back of Sheila’s neck, larger than a grapefruit.

  “Come on, Sheila,” the man called softly again. With nothing but trust and love in her tired brown eyes, Sheila hobbled over to the three of us at the tailgate of the pickup. As Mike lowered the tailgate, he said softly, “It’s been real hard for her these past three days. Her neck is bothering her pretty badly, and she can’t eat or sleep. I guess I knew it was her time.” He gently cupped the big dog’s face in his hands and slowly stroked the graying brown muzzle.

  Doc quietly asked Mike if he was ready.

  “Yes. Go ahead,” came the whispered reply.

  At Doc’s imperceptible nod, I carefully picked up Sheila’s front leg and applied light pressure. Sheila’s eyes never left Mike’s face, even as Doc deftly slid the needle into her vein. After only a few cubic centimeters of the fluid had been injected, I helped Sheila lay down as the drug began to take effect. With one final glance at her dear friend’s face, Sheila’s sweet brown eyes closed for the last time. The last of the injection in her bloodstream, Sheila slipped away, Mike’s hand on her grizzled head.

  Slipping the needle out of Sheila’s leg, Doc handed it to me and pulled his stethoscope from around his neck. After listening intently for several minutes, Doc turned to Mike and uttered just one sentence: “She went very peacefully.”

  The man simply nodded, his head down. I could see the tears streaming down his face.

  I gathered up the items we had used as Doc walked back into the office. I lingered for a moment, wanting to say something, anything, to comfort the grieving man. I wanted to say, “Sheila was beautiful. She was so brave and strong to have fought this cancer for so long. I could see how much she loved you. I could see it in her eyes, the way she trusted you.”

  In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to say any of that. Putting a hand on his shoulder, I whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He didn’t move or respond, and his eyes never left Sheila. There was nothing I could have said that he didn’t already know—how wonderful Sheila was in life, and how dignified she was in death.

  As I walked into the building, I stole one last glance at him. The sun glinted off the tears pouring down his face as he sat on the tailgate of the truck, his hand methodically stroking Sheila’s still body.

  I let the door close softly behind me, wiped my own eyes and slowly made my way to the front of the clinic. My heart ached for quite a while as I went about my tasks. I’ve been through many such scenes, but it never gets any easier. There’s no question: love hurts. Still, I felt grateful— and honored—to have been in its presence.

  Laurie MacKillip

  Harry and George

  Every year, starting on the day after Christmas, my sister and I looked forward to the fifteenth of June. That was the day our parents loaded up the car, and we moved to a ramshackle cottage on the bay for the rest of the summer. It was a child’s idea of heaven on earth—late nights fishing on the wharf; barefoot days in bathing suits, sunning on boats; meals on a big, screened porch under lazy ceiling fans. Every summer seemed better than the last— until the summer we lost George.

  George and his brother Harry were golden retrievers, and you never saw one without the other, whether they were crashing through tall saw grass or chasing bait-stealing herons off neighboring wharves. When they did get separated, Harry would bark until George found him. We all loved those dogs as if they were our own, but they really belonged to an old salt known to everyone as “the captain.”

  One afternoon during this particular summer, Harry and George lay down for a nap under some hydrangea bushes. After an hour or so Harry woke up, but George didn’t. All the children, most of the mothers and even a few of the fathers could be seen sniffling and wiping away the tears when they heard Harry barking for his brother. The captain was almost as pitiful as Harry. Finally, Harry gave up barking altogether. Unfortunately when he quit barking, he also stopped eating. He wouldn’t touch dog food, ignored his favorite doggy treats, even turned his nose up at a cheeseburger.

  My sister and I were so worried that on the fifth night of Harry’s fast, as we ate our supper of fried speckled trout, corn steaming on the cob and fresh tomatoes, I asked Mama what to do. She said to pray for an angel to help Harry.

  That night I lay in bed under the slumber-inducing, back-and-forth breeze of an oscillating fan and pondered Harry’s plight. I was pretty sure that angels dealt only with people and had certainly never heard of them involving themselves in dogs’ problems. But just in case, I prayed myself to sleep: Please, God, send an angel to help Harry.

  The next morning after breakfast Mama gave me a sausage with instructions to take it to Harry. I found him and the captain sitting morosely on the end of their wharf. I waved the sausage under Harry’s nose, but he didn’t blink. There’s never an angel around when you need one, I thought. Harry got up and started toward the house. His huge head was so low it almost dragged on the wharf boards, and I could tell he was weak from not eating. The captain, watching Harry make his slow progress to the house, shook his old head and sighed.

  A sudden splash in the water made us turn to see what kind of fish it was. It wasn’t a fish, but the smiling face of a dolphin that broke the dark water, and even the captain had to smile back at her. She made a little dolphin squeak. A deep growl made me look up toward the house. Harry was on the deck,
his ears all perked up. The dolphin rolled and splashed—as all dolphins do—then did something you often see trained dolphins do, but rarely get to see a wild bay dolphin do. Whoosh! Up she went like a rocket, silver and shining against the deep blue of the summer sky. The captain and I were clapping and cheering, we were so overcome at the sight. The next thing I knew, Harry came flying down the wharf barking his big, golden head off. When he was finally quiet, the dolphin looked the dog straight in the eye, said something in dolphin and swam away.

  In all the excitement, I had dropped Mama’s sausage. I watched in delight as Harry gobbled it up. The captain and I took him back to the house and fed him a giant bowl of dog food, then loaded him up with doggy treats.

  The next morning Harry was waiting, and sure enough, the dolphin came by. She blew air out of the top of her shining, gray head and smiled her dolphin smile. Harry began to bark like he had the day before and got a quick dolphin reply. Then off she went again, a smiling silver rocket.

  Although I heard that the dolphin returned to visit Harry all through that summer, I never saw her again. But it hardly matters, since it was her very first visit that set Harry on the mend. When I told my sister the story, she decided that this qualified the dolphin as a pet and decided to name her Fishy. But I knew better: I called her Angel.

  Margaret P. Cunningham

  Gentle Giant

  Several years ago, after losing our Doberman mix, Turnpike, to colic, I stood on my front porch and publicly announced that I was now officially not looking for a St. Bernard—in hopes that one would magically materialize. This had been my standard MO: If I wasn’t looking for something, it would always appear.