The vet came in to administer the anesthetic. I massaged Boomer’s head one last time and stepped out of the room, leaving my daughter to shoulder the burden. I was glad she had the strength to be there with Boomer in those final moments, to ease his passage. I was proud of her.
On the ride home I thought about how much happiness Boomer had brought to our family. I also thought about what Bobbie Lippman said about losing her dog, Czar, in the final paragraphs of her story. The line I remembered was “. . .unless we expose ourselves to the painful lows in life, how can we ever experience the happy highs?”
The tears came when I reflected on what a gift Boomer had been to us. I finally understood that Boomer had been my dog all along. I’d just failed to realize it.
~Timothy Martin
When It’s Time to Say Goodbye
There are things that we don’t want to happen but have to accept, things we don’t want to know but have to learn, and those we can’t live without but have to let go.
~Author Unknown
People with old or ailing animals often ask, “How do you know when it’s time to let them go?” I once heard a veterinarian answer, “You just know.”
The other morning our dog, Czar, let me know it was time. There was no mistaking the look in those big, brown eyes. Eyes that said, “I’m old and there is no longer any quality or dignity to my life. It’s time.”
After a long walk on the beach, trying to prolong the decision, I came home knowing there was no choice.
To make it easier for Czar, our veterinarian agreed to come on his lunch hour. I spent the morning sitting next to the old dog as he lay on his blanket, his head in my lap.
My thoughts drifted back to the day Czar came into my life. He was owned by people who perhaps shouldn’t have had a dog as big as a Russian Wolfhound — or Borzoi — which is the official name of this breed.
Czar was never allowed in the house and I was told he spent much of the time standing outside, looking mournfully at the humans through the window. One day, the family maid said, “I’m sick and tired of washing nose prints off the glass. Either that dog goes or I do.” Apparently good maids are harder to find than a good dog, and Czar was soon on his way to the animal shelter.
It was love at first sight when this tall hound and I discovered each other. He stood up on his hind legs, planted his front paws on my shoulders and greeted me with a big kiss.
When I was a little girl, we always had dogs, but usually of the small mixed-breed sort. I distinctly remember a series of vodka advertisements showing a pair of tall, elegant, snow-white Russian Wolfhounds. I dreamed of someday owning one, but honestly believed only the wealthy could afford such a beautiful animal. Finding a dog like Czar at the shelter was indeed a dream come true for me.
After several months of adjusting to each other, I put Czar through a ten-week dog obedience course. When you spend a great deal of time training an animal, you seem to bond with him ever more closely. On “Commencement Night” several friends came to watch, bringing “doggy” gifts for the new graduate. Czar gave the exercises his enthusiastic all and received the first place trophy.
Not long after that, my brother, Daniel, came for a visit, and after unpacking sat down in the living room. Five minutes later Czar carefully carried in a sweater from the guest room, depositing it in my brother’s lap. Daniel is still wondering if perhaps Czar was trying to say, “You look cold, here’s your sweater,” or maybe, “I think you’ve stayed long enough. You can go home now.”
I took Czar everywhere with me. One day while sitting on a grassy bank watching a tennis tournament, a small boy circled, and then finally approached. He stared at Czar for quite some time, then finally asked, “What do you s’pose a dog like that costs anyhow?”
“Oh,” I answered absently, “probably about $500.”
“Well,” said the boy, “you certainly got your money’s worth!”
While spending the final hours with Czar, I thought of this thing called grief and remembered the time when I stopped by the vet’s office to pick up some medicine for a sick cat. The only others in the waiting room were an elderly man and woman, who were standing by some plastic plants in the corner, their backs to me. I sat there, watching, with curiosity. Just then the vet came out and said to them, “I’m very sorry. I was hoping surgery would help, but your Laddie was just too old. He didn’t make it.”
I will never forget the sight of that elderly couple, walking slowly toward their car, shoulders bent in grief.
In the old man’s hand was a frayed, red dog collar.
When I started thinking about all my long walks on the beach with Czar — and how there would be no more — my tears fell down onto his muzzle, his tail wagged feebly, and he looked up at me as if to say, “Please don’t cry. Just remember all the good years we’ve had together.”
I sat with Czar, thinking about what animals bring to us. Some are trouble, especially in the early days of training them to fit into our lifestyles. But eventually they almost always give back total loyalty and love.
The last hours with this grand old dog went by too fast. Soon Dr. Brown arrived and moments later it was done . . . with the exception of tears and a deep gratitude for the quiet dignity of euthanasia.
There are people who avoid having pets because it hurts too much to lose them. But unless we expose ourselves to the painful lows in life, how can we ever experience the happy highs?
Before the day was over, friends dropped by. Some came just to hug. Some brought bunches of flowers. And today another note arrived from the local animal shelter saying a donation had been made in Czar’s name so that other animals might live. (If you care about someone who has lost a pet, this is a wonderful idea.)
Czar had a long, good life and gave so much. The least I could give to him was a kind and gentle death.
~Bobbie Jensen Lippman
It Wasn’t My Fault
The worth of a book is to be measured by what you can carry away from it.
~James Bryce
I can clearly remember those last few days of middle school when I was absolutely miserable. Recalling what happened that day at school still sends shivers through my body.
At the age of thirteen, I met a guy named Brandon. He was actually friends with my best friend Jonalynn, which is probably the reason why we saw each other every day. Overall he was quite charming. I had a huge crush on him.
One day I was sitting at an empty lunch table waiting to meet a teacher. I had my headphones on and I was listening to a track by Taylor Swift. I felt someone grab my waist and then touch a part of my body that should not be felt without permission. That’s when I heard a very familiar voice . . . Brandon.
I knew that I should go tell an adult about this. But for some reason, I couldn’t find the strength. I was scared.
For the next couple of days, I constantly blamed myself for what happened. After all, it was me who had a huge crush on him. I was the girl who constantly walked by his locker. I felt suffocated because I decided that I couldn’t tell this to my strict parents. I had no friends to confide in.
At school, whenever I saw him, I felt alarmed. I wouldn’t dare make eye contact with him. In order to go to classes I would take longer routes so I wouldn’t pass him. Basically, I was isolating myself from everyone.
One day when I was walking by the lunchroom, I was surprised to see him sitting at my normal lunch table. As I passed by him, he called my name and said, “Yo Maisha, come here so I can feel you.” Instead of standing up for myself, I panicked and walked away. There was only a month of school left but I couldn’t find the courage to talk to anyone. And I started wondering if I had given him the wrong idea all those times I talked to him.
A couple of days later, I was cleaning my bookshelf when I came across Chicken Soup for the Girl’s Soul. My sixteen-year-old cousin had given it to me and told me to treat it like the Bible. As I skimmed through the book, I came across a story by Hattie Frost called “It’s N
ever Your Fault.” I read the story over and over again; I analyzed every single word and was surprised to see how many similarities there were between the storyteller and me.
Hattie had written “it’s never the victim’s fault” and that rang in my ears. I decided that I had to talk to someone and I decided to call the cousin who gave me the book. She told me that she was proud of me for telling someone what happened. She said she gave me the book so I would be prepared for something like this. I have kept this book ever since.
~Maisha C., age 15
It’s Never Your Fault
Yesterday I dared to struggle, today I dare to win.
~Bernadette Devlin
I sat there with my body trembling from head to toe, wondering what was happening to me and what would happen next. I knew that what was occurring was not right, but I didn’t know how to stop it. I wanted with all my might to push his dark soul away from me, but being about three feet tall and only weighing around forty-five pounds, I didn’t have the physical capability.
I was four, and my parents were busy with work and social lives, so they began looking for babysitters near our house who could watch my sister and me at night. They found two guys who lived down the street who were more than willing to be our babysitters. Although they looked a little scary when I first saw them, my parents assured me that everything would be okay and that I should be on my best behavior. I still had a feeling of insecurity running through my veins. I didn’t know why, but I thought the men weren’t good people.
After they were there for a couple of hours, I needed to go to the bathroom, so I went upstairs and shut the door. Shortly after, the door opened and in came the older of the two. I thought at first that maybe he just thought I needed some help since I was so young, but then he just stayed there and watched me. As I was getting up to leave, he started feeling me in places that aren’t meant to be seen by other people. I didn’t do anything to stop it. I was so small, and he was so big. Eventually he stopped, probably so my sister wouldn’t become suspicious. He told me not to tell anyone what had happened and that it was to be kept a secret.
Having an older sister, I knew what secrets were and I knew that they were meant to be kept, so I never said a word to anyone. Each time he came over to babysit, the same pattern would occur, and I began to feel really uncomfortable and violated; but he was starting to get more threatening and I was beginning to fear losing my life if I told, so I remained quiet.
In elementary school, visitors from child abuse organizations would come and talk to us. That’s when I learned that what was happening to me was called sexual molestation and that it’s never the victim’s fault. Up to that point, I had been blaming it on myself. They also said that it is very important to tell someone as soon as it happens to you and that telling is the most important thing to do. I really wanted to say something after hearing this, but I still didn’t have the courage. I feared that he might come after me if the cops came after him.
The summer before sixth grade, I was walking back to my house after swim team practice. Normally, I walked back with my best friend, but she was staying at the pool all day, so I walked back on my own. As I headed up the long hill, a car started passing by very slowly, and the guys in the car were watching me. I could only make out one person — my former babysitter — and I started to run. I ran in between houses and went through back yards. I did everything possible to avoid getting into that car. After a half hour of that car chasing me, I made it into my house. I told my sister what had happened, and she called my mom at work, but she said that we should just lock the doors and watch for the car. I never saw that car again.
My junior year, I was on my high school’s dance team. We had just finished performing our half-time routine and were in the process of heading back to the bleachers, where we had our bags, when someone who looked kind of familiar spit at me from over the fence and cursed at me. I wasn’t sure at the time where I knew the face from, but I got extremely scared. A senior member on the team overheard what had happened and took me to the coaches. She explained to them what had happened, and my coach was about ready to jump over the fence and punch the guy’s lights out, but I knew that wouldn’t solve anything. That would only make me seem weak and would show that I let his hostility get to me. I wanted to be stronger than that and not give in, so I asked my coach if we could just forget about what happened and just enjoy the rest of the game.
Although I wanted to forget what had happened, I couldn’t. I started having panic attacks and nightmares with flashbacks from that football game. I lost my appetite and became really depressed. After a couple of months of not being able to eat much at all, my family and friends became very worried and wanted to help in any way that they could. However, I wasn’t ready to admit the fact that I had a problem.
One night, after a dance practice, I got these intense pains in my side, and my mom rushed me to the hospital. I was given many tests, but they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I wasn’t too sure myself. Finally, they took me back for a question-and-answer session, and a psychologist started asking me a ton of questions and had me respond to them. He asked me if I had ever had sexual contact. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that because I never had any willingly, but it did happen, so I told him the whole story. He was shocked to hear me say it so quickly and was glad that I did — and so was I. He asked why it had taken me so many years to tell, and I answered that I had been worried that I would be hunted down if I ever told. He found that quite understandable and contacted some social workers and legal offices to see if anything could be done about the sexual molester. Since I had waited so long and didn’t have a witness, there really wasn’t anything that could be done except that I should start seeing a psychologist regularly and that would help all the physical pain my body had been enduring.
I’m telling this story not to get sympathy, but because it was an important lesson that I learned. If something happens to you that you suspect isn’t right, tell someone right away. It will only help. Your life will become more tranquil. I used to have nightmares any time my eyes would shut, but after telling someone, I can now sleep peacefully. My only regret is not having told earlier.
~Hattie Frost, age 18
Motivation
The important thing is to strive towards a goal which is not immediately visible. That goal is not the concern of the mind, but of the spirit.
~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Flight to Arras
Matters of the Mind and Heart
What the teacher is, is more important than what he teaches.
~Karl Menninger
I looked out at a sea of anxious, expectant faces, thirty to be exact, and wondered if I was up to the test. It was my first day back teaching high school Biology in sixteen years. The classroom was large, filled with equipment: microscopes, test tubes, video projectors and computers. Lab tables served as desks. I had the curriculum, grade book, textbooks, lab supplies, sharpened pencils and plans. I had all the “things” I needed to teach but then there were the faces: thirty this hour, thirty the next hour, thirty the hour after that until 150 would pass through my door every day.
I knew I could teach them Biology. The question was: could I reach them? Could I find a way in a school of 2,000 teenagers to convince each of those faces they were unique, wonderful and worth the effort? I knew teenagers — you have to win their hearts before you can win their minds. I had to find a way to reach into the souls of the students behind those faces and make them believe they were capable. Chicken Soup for the Soul became my gateway.
On Friday of the first week of school I casually sat on the lab table in front of the room and chatted with the students. “Today we are going to take a few minutes to do something apart from Biology that I hope will give us a chance to know each other better,” I began. “Because we spend so much time working hard, I think it’s important that we also spend some time sharing with each other.
“So we are going to start writing wh
at I call Mind Matters, because what you have on your mind matters to me. Every Friday at the beginning of class, I will read you a story from the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Then you’ll have five minutes to write a short note and tell me how you feel about the story or the topic it represents. You don’t have to write about the story. You can tell me about anything else that is on your mind but the story will give you a good place to start.”
The thirty faces watched me skeptically.
“If you write a Mind Matter, sign it, and turn it in, you’ll get one extra credit point. I won’t share what you write with anyone else unless you tell me you plan to harm yourself or that someone has harmed you. I will always read your Mind Matter. I will always write back and then return the Mind Matter to you alone.”
Now the thirty faces looked intrigued.
The school I taught in was located about twenty-five miles outside Washington, D.C. It was a pressure cooker community of upwardly mobile parents and high expectations. At first the students were skeptical about writing Mind Matters. But the concept of taking ten minutes off task, and earning extra credit in addition, was very appealing. It didn’t take them long to warm to the idea.
I always started the year with the story “Follow Your Dream” by Jack Canfield. This story consistently had a huge impact on the students. They were appalled by the idea a teacher would reject a student’s dream outright. Some of them were astounded the student would take an “F” rather than rewrite his paper for the sake of his GPA, while others considered him a hero because he believed in himself and stood up to his teacher. Most were amazed by the twist at the end when the teacher visited the student on his dream ranch years later and apologized for not believing in him.
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition Page 14