Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll come round straight away.”

  And it was just the same as before. An almost lifeless little creature lying prone on Dick’s bed. Dick himself looked terrible—ghastly white and thinner than ever— but he still managed a smile.

  “Looks like ’e needs another of your magic injections, Mr. Herriot.”

  As I filled my syringe, my mind seethed with the thought that there was indeed some kind of magic at work here, but it wasn’t my injection.

  “I’ll drop in tomorrow, Dick,” I said. “And I hope you’ll be feeling better yourself.”

  “Oh, I’ll be awright as long as t’little feller’s better.” The old man stretched out a hand and stroked the cat’s shining fur. The arm was emaciated and the eyes in the skull-like face were desperately worried.

  I looked around the comfortless little room and hoped for another miracle.

  I wasn’t really surprised when I came back the next morning and saw Frisk darting about on the bed, pawing at a piece of string which the old man was holding up for him. The relief was great but I felt enveloped more suffo-catingly than ever in my fog of ignorance. What the hell was it? The whole thing didn’t make sense. There was no known disease with symptoms like these. I had a strong conviction that reading a whole library of veterinary books wouldn’t help me.

  Anyway, the sight of the little cat arching and purring round my hand was reward enough, and for Dick it was everything. He was relaxed and smiling.

  “You keep gettin’ him right, Mr. Herriot. I can’t thank you enough.” Then the worry flickered again in his eyes. “But is he goin’ to keep doin’ it? I’m frightened he won’t come round one of these times.”

  Well, that was the question. I was frightened too, but I had to try to be cheerful. “Maybe it’s just a passing phase, Dick. I hope we’ll have no more trouble now.” But I couldn’t promise anything and the frail man in the bed knew it.

  Mrs. Duggan was showing me out when I saw the district nurse getting out of her car at the front door.

  “Hello, Nurse,” I said. “You’ve come to have a look at Mr. Fawcett! I’m sorry he’s ill.”

  She nodded. “Yes, poor old chap. It’s a great shame.”

  “What do you mean! Is it something serious?”

  “Afraid so.” Her mouth tightened and she looked away from me. “He’s dying. It’s cancer. Getting rapidly worse.”

  “My God! Poor Dick. And a few days ago he was bringing his cat tomy surgery.He never said a word. Does he know?”

  “Oh yes, he knows, but that’s him all over, Mr. Herriot. He’s as game as a pebble. He shouldn’t have been out, really.”

  “Is he . . . is he . . . suffering?”

  She shrugged. “Getting a bit of pain now, but we’re keeping him as comfortable as we can with medication. I give him a shot when necessary and he has some stuff he can take himself if I’m not around. He’s very shaky and can’t pour from the bottle into the spoon. Mrs. Duggan would gladly do it for him, but he’s so independent.” She smiled for a moment. “He pours the mixture into a saucer and spoons it up that way.”

  “A saucer . . . ?” Somewhere in the fog a little light glimmered. “What’s in the mixture?”

  “Oh, heroin and pethidene. It’s the usual thing Dr. Allinson prescribes.”

  I seized her arm. “I’m coming back in with you, Nurse.”

  The old man was surprised when I reappeared. “What’s the matter, Mr. Herriot? Have you left summat?”

  “No, Dick, I want to ask you something. Is your medicine pleasant-tasting?”

  “Aye, it’s nice and sweet. It isn’t bad to take at all.”

  “And you put it in a saucer?”

  “That’s right. Me hand’s a bit dothery.”

  “And when you take it last thing at night there’s sometimes a bit left in the saucer?”

  “Aye, there is, why?”

  “Because you leave that saucer by your bedside, don’t you, and Frisk sleeps on your bed . . .”

  The old man lay very still as he stared at me. “You mean the little beggar licks it out?”

  “I’ll bet my boots he does.”

  Dick threw back his head and laughed. A long, joyous laugh. “And that sends ’im to sleep! No wonder! It makes me right dozy, too!”

  I laughed with him. “Anyway, we know now, Dick. You’ll put that saucer in the cupboard when you’ve taken your dose, won’t you?”

  “I will that, Mr. Herriot. And Frisk will never pass out like that again?”

  “No, never again.”

  “Eee, that’s grand!” He sat up in bed, lifted the little cat and held him against his face. He gave a sigh of utter content and smiled at me.

  “Mr. Herriot,” he said, “I’ve got nowt to worry about now.”

  Out in the street, as I bade Mrs. Duggan good-bye for the second time, I looked back at the little house.

  “ ‘Nowt to worry about,’ eh? That’s rather wonderful, coming from him.”

  “Oh aye, and he means it, too. He’s not bothered about himself.”

  I didn’t see Dick again for two weeks. I was visiting a friend in Darrowby’s little cottage hospital when I saw the old man in a bed in a corner of the ward.

  I went over and sat down by his side. His face was desperately thin, but serene.

  “Hello, Dick,” I said.

  He looked at me sleepily and spoke in a whisper. “Now then, Mr. Herriot.” He closed his eyes for a few moments, then looked up again with the ghost of a smile. “I’m glad we found out what was wrong with t’little cat.”

  “So am I, Dick.”

  Again a pause. “Mrs. Duggan’s got ’im.”

  “Yes. I know. He has a good home there.”

  “Aye . . . aye . . .” The voice was fainter. “But oftens I wish I had ’im here.” The bony hand stroked the counterpane and his lips moved again. I bent closer to hear.

  “Frisk . . .” he was saying, “Frisk . . .” Then his eyes closed and I saw that he was sleeping.

  I heard the next day that Dick Fawcett had died, and it was possible that I was the last person to hear him speak. And it was strange, yet fitting, that those last words were about his cat.

  “Frisk . . . Frisk . . .”

  James Herriot, D.V.M.

  Becky and the Wolf

  His name is not wild dog anymore, but the first friend, because he will be our friend for always and always and always.

  Rudyard Kipling

  With all her big brothers and sisters off to school, our ranch became a lonely place for our three-year-old daughter, Becky. She longed for playmates. Cattle and horses were too big to cuddle and farm machinery dangerous for a child so small. We promised to buy her a puppy but in the meantime, “pretend” puppies popped up nearly every day.

  I had just finished washing the lunch dishes when the screen door slammed and Becky rushed in, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Mama!” she cried. “Come see my new doggy! I gave him water two times already. He’s so thirsty!”

  I sighed. Another of Becky’s imaginary dogs.

  “Please come, Mama.” She tugged at my jeans, her brown eyes pleading. “He’s crying—and he can’t walk!”

  “Can’t walk”? Now that was a twist. All her previous make-believe dogs could do marvelous things. One balanced a ball on the end of its nose. Another dug a hole that went all the way through the earth and fell out on a star on the other side. Still another danced on a tightrope. Why suddenly a dog that couldn’t walk?

  “All right, honey,” I said. By the time I tried to follow her, Becky had already disappeared into the mesquite. “Where are you?” I called.

  “Over here by the oak stump. Hurry, Mama!”

  I parted the thorny branches and raised my hand against the glare of the Arizona sun. A numbing chill gripped me.

  There she was, sitting on her heels, toes dug firmly in the sand, and cradled in her lap was the unmistakable head of a wolf! Beyond its head rose massive blac
k shoulders. The rest of the body lay completely hidden inside the hollow stump of a fallen oak.

  “Becky.” My mouth felt dry. “Don’t move.” I stepped closer. Pale-yellow eyes narrowed. Black lips tightened, exposing double sets of two-inch fangs. Suddenly the wolf trembled. Its teeth clacked, and a piteous whine rose from its throat.

  “It’s all right, boy,” Becky crooned. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my mama, and she loves you, too.”

  Then the unbelievable happened. As her tiny hands stroked the great shaggy head, I heard the gentle thump, thump, thumping of the wolf’s tail from deep inside the stump.

  What was wrong with the animal? I wondered. Why couldn’t he get up? I couldn’t tell. Nor did I dare to step any closer.

  I glanced at the empty water bowl. My memory flashed back to the five skunks that last week had torn the burlap from a leaking pipe in a frenzied effort to reach water during the final agonies of rabies. Of course! Rabies! Warning signs had been posted all over the county, and hadn’t Becky said, “He’s so thirsty”?

  I had to get Becky away. “Honey.” My throat tightened. “Put his head down and come to Mama. We’ll go find help.”

  Reluctantly, Becky got up and kissed the wolf on the nose before she walked slowly into my outstretched arms. Sad yellow eyes followed her. Then the wolf’s head sank to the ground.

  With Becky safe in my arms, I ran to the barns where Brian, one of our cowhands, was saddling up to check heifers in the north pasture.

  “Brian! Come quickly. Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near the wash! I think it has rabies!”

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy,” he said as I hurried back to the house, anxious to put Becky down for her nap. I didn’t want her to see Brian come out of the bunkhouse. I knew he’d have a gun.

  “But I want to give my doggy his water,” she cried. I kissed her and gave her some stuffed animals to play with. “Honey, let Mom and Brian take care of him for now,” I said.

  Moments later, I reached the oak stump. Brian stood looking down at the beast. “It’s a Mexican lobo, all right,” he said, “and a big one!” The wolf whined. Then we both caught the smell of gangrene.

  “Whew! It’s not rabies,” Brian said. “But he’s sure hurt real bad. Don’t you think it’s best I put him out of his misery?”

  The word “yes” was on my lips, when Becky emerged from the bushes. “Is Brian going to make him well, Mama?” She hauled the animal’s head onto her lap once more, and buried her face in the coarse, dark fur. This time I wasn’t the only one who heard the thumping of the lobo’s tail.

  That afternoon my husband, Bill, and our veterinarian came to see the wolf. Observing the trust the animal had in our child, Doc said to me, “Suppose you let Becky and me tend to this fella together.” Minutes later, as child and vet reassured the stricken beast, the hypodermic found its mark. The yellow eyes closed.

  “He’s asleep now,” said the vet. “Give me a hand here, Bill.” They hauled the massive body out of the stump. The animal must have been over five feet long and well over one-hundred pounds. The hip and leg had been mutilated by bullets. Doc did what he had to in order to clean the wound and then gave the patient a dose of penicillin. Next day he returned and inserted a metal rod to replace the missing bone.

  “Well, it looks like you’ve got yourselves a Mexican lobo,” Doc said. “He looks to be about three years old, and even as pups, they don’t tame real easy. I’m amazed at the way this big fella took to your little gal. But often there’s something that goes on between children and animals that we grownups don’t understand.”

  Becky named the wolf Ralph and carried food and water to the stump every day. Ralph’s recovery was not easy. For three months he dragged his injured hindquarters by clawing the earth with his front paws. From the way he lowered his eyelids when we massaged the atrophied limbs, we knew he endured excruciating pain, but not once did he ever try to bite the hands of those who cared for him.

  Four months to the day, Ralph finally stood unaided. His huge frame shook as long-unused muscles were activated. Bill and I patted and praised him. But it was Becky to whom he turned for a gentle word, a kiss or a smile. He responded to these gestures of love by swinging his bushy tail like a pendulum.

  As his strength grew, Ralph followed Becky all over the ranch. Together they roamed the desert pastures, the golden-haired child often stooping low, sharing with the great lame wolf whispered secrets of nature’s wonders. When evening came, he returned like a silent shadow to his hollow stump that had surely become his special place. As time went on, although he lived primarily in the brush, the habits of this timid creature endeared him more and more to all of us.

  His reaction to people other than our family was yet another story. Strangers terrified him, yet his affection for and protectiveness of Becky brought him out of the desert and fields at the sight of every unknown pickup or car. Occasionally he’d approach, lips taut, exposing a nervous smile full of chattering teeth. More often he’d simply pace and finally skulk off to his tree stump, perhaps to worry alone.

  Becky’s first day of school was sad for Ralph. After the bus left, he refused to return to the yard. Instead, he lay by the side of the road and waited. When Becky returned, he limped and tottered in wild, joyous circles around her. This welcoming ritual persisted throughout her school years.

  Although Ralph seemed happy on the ranch, he disappeared into the surrounding deserts and mountains for several weeks during the spring mating season, leaving us to worry about his safety. This was calving season, and fellow ranchers watched for coyotes, cougars, wild dogs and, of course, the lone wolf. But Ralph was lucky.

  During Ralph’s twelve years on our ranch, his habits remained unchanged. Always keeping his distance, he tolerated other pets and endured the activities of our busy family, but his love for Becky never wavered. Then the spring came when our neighbor told us he’d shot and killed a she-wolf and grazed her mate, who had been running with her. Sure enough, Ralph returned home with another bullet wound.

  Becky, nearly fifteen years old now, sat with Ralph’s head resting on her lap. He, too, must have been about fifteen and was gray with age. As Bill removed the bullet, my memory raced back through the years. Once again I saw a chubby three-year-old girl stroking the head of a huge black wolf and heard a small voice murmuring, “It’s all right, boy. Don’t be afraid. That’s my mama, and she loves you, too.”

  Although the wound wasn’t serious, this time Ralph didn’t get well. Precious pounds fell away. The once luxurious fur turned dull and dry, and his trips to the yard in search of Becky’s companionship ceased. All day long he rested quietly.

  But when night fell, old and stiff as he was, he disappeared into the desert and surrounding hills. By dawn his food was gone.

  The morning came when we found him dead. The yellow eyes were closed. Stretched out in front of the oak stump, he appeared but a shadow of the proud beast he once had been. A lump in my throat choked me as I watched Becky stroke his shaggy neck, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll miss him so,” she cried.

  Then as I covered him with a blanket, we were startled by a strange rustling sound from inside the stump. Becky looked inside. Two tiny yellow eyes peered back and puppy fangs glinted in the semi-darkness. Ralph’s pup!

  Had a dying instinct told him his motherless offspring would be safe here, as he had been, with those who loved him? Hot tears spilled on baby fur as Becky gathered the trembling bundle in her arms. “It’s all right, little . . . Ralphie,” she murmured. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my mom, and she loves you, too.”

  Penny Porter

  Friends

  Twenty-one years ago, my husband gave me Sam, an eight-week-old schnauzer, to help ease the loss of our daughter, who was stillborn. Sam and I developed a very special bond over the next fourteen years. It seemed nothing that happened could ever change that.

  At one point, my husband and I decided to relocate from our New York apartment to a
new home in New Jersey. After we were there awhile, our neighbor, whose cat had recently had kittens, asked us if we would like one. We were a little apprehensive about Sam’s jealousy and how he would handle his turf being invaded, but we decided to risk it and agreed to take a kitten.

  We picked a little, gray, playful ball of fur. It was like having a road runner in the house. She raced around chasing imaginary mice and squirrels and vaulted from table to chair in the blink of an eye, so we named her Lightning.

  At first, Sam and Lightning were very cautious with each other and kept their distance. But slowly, as the days went on, Lightning started following Sam—up the stairs, down the stairs, into the kitchen to watch him eat, into the living room to watch him sleep. As time passed, they became inseparable. When they slept, it was always together; when they ate, it was always next to each other. When I played with one, the other joined in. If Sam barked at something, Lightning ran to see what it was. When I took either one out of the house, the other was always waiting by the door when we returned. That was the way it was for years.

  Then, without any warning, Sam began suffering from convulsions and was diagnosed as having a weak heart. I had no other choice but to have him put down. The pain of making that decision, however, was nothing compared with what I experienced when I had to leave Sam at the vet and walk into our house alone. This time, there was no Sam for Lightning to greet and no way to explain why she would never see her friend again.

  In the days that followed, Lightning seemed heartbroken. She could not tell me in words that she was suffering, but I could see the pain and disappointment in her eyes whenever anyone opened the front door, or the hope whenever she heard a dog bark.

  The weeks wore on and the cat’s sorrow seemed to be lifting. One day as I walked into our living room, I happened to glance down on the floor next to our sofa where we had a sculptured replica of Sam that we had bought a few years before. Lying next to the statue, one arm wrapped around the statue’s neck, was Lightning, contentedly sleeping with her best friend.

  Karen Del Tufo