Pets, I discovered long ago, always seem to know what a person is feeling. After Allen’s death there was a wonderful outpouring of love and sympathy from our family and friends, all the people we had worked with over the years, plus hundreds of people we had never met but who had come to know how special he was through watching him on television. My mother was incredible in her support, knowing just when to move in, and when to stand back and give me the little space I needed. But still, whenever anybody was around, even those who were the closest, I felt obligated to keep up appearances and try not to show my grief. I suppose that was from not wanting to make them feel even sadder worrying about me. Such games we humans play! Of course I was grieving! My life had been torn apart! And while I was able to put on a great show of strength for my friends and family, I could not pull the same act with Timothy and Sooner. They knew me too well; they could read me loud and clear.
Sensing that Allen’s death had left me badly wounded, Timothy and Sooner snuggled in to help. Not that I was so willing to cooperate, at least at first. But can anyone say no to a little black pest who keeps throwing his favorite toy at you, or to a seventy-pound “leaner” who is adamant that dinner is already thirty minutes late?
I had continued to work right up until three days before Allen’s death, beginning and ending each day at the hospital. All at once the pattern changed, and the purpose was gone. I had no interest in “lights, camera, makeup,” or much of anything else, for that matter. It was, therefore, up to Sooner and Timothy to take over organizing my day. Their needs became my needs. They gave my life definition—a reason to get up in the morning, a firm grasp on today when so much of me wanted to turn back the clock to yesterday. Timothy and Sooner got me through that first week, the first month, the first year—all those terrible “firsts.”
Looking at my life I see many segments: childhood, an early marriage, ten years of being a single career girl, then my life with Allen. Move in a little closer and there are segments within segments: Allen well, Allen ill, and then, life without Allen. I have discovered that while I can never forget such a loss, I have, with time, pulled my life together. I am working full tilt, exploring new activities, taking new challenges.
I suppose, in the final analysis, I have invested a lot of time and love in animals over the years. But I have reaped such a great return on each investment. For through the many stages of my life, my feeling for animals has been an unwavering constant . . . a dependable reservoir of comfort and love.
Betty White
Little Lost Dog
Through the living room window I watched our fifteen-year-old son, Jay, trudge down the walk toward school. I was afraid that he might again head out into the snow-blanketed fields to hunt for his missing beagle, Cricket. But he didn’t. He turned, waved, and then walked on, shoulders sagging.
Ten days had passed since that Sunday morning when Cricket did not return from his usual romp in the fields. Jay had spent that afternoon searching the countryside for his dog. At times during those first anxious days, one or another of us would rush to the door thinking we’d heard a whimper.
By now my husband, Bill, and I were sure Cricket had been taken by a hunter or struck by a car. But Jay refused to give up. The previous evening, as I stepped outside to fill our bird feeder, I heard my son’s plaintive calls drifting over the fields near us. At last he came in, tears in his blue eyes, and said, “I know you think I’m silly, Mom, but I’ve been asking God about Cricket and I keep getting the feeling that Cricket’s out there somewhere.”
Although we all attended church regularly, Bill and I often wondered where Jay got his strong faith. Perhaps the blow of losing a much-loved older brother in an auto accident when Jay was six turned him to the Lord for help.
I wanted to hold Jay close and tell him that he could easily get another dog. But I remembered too well the day four years before when we brought him his wriggling black-white-and-brown puppy.
The two of them soon became inseparable and, although Cricket was supposed to sleep in the garage, it wasn’t long before I’d find him peacefully snuggled on the foot of Jay’s bed.
However, that night I did tell Jay that I felt there was such a thing as carrying hope too far. Temperatures were very low, and I felt sure no lost animal could have survived.
“Mom,” he said, “I know it seems impossible. But Jesus said that a sparrow doesn’t fall without God knowing it. That must be true of dogs, too, don’t you think?”
What could I do but hug him?
The next day, after sending him off to school, I drove to my real estate office, where I forgot all about missing dogs in the hustle of typing up listings.
At two o’clock, the telephone rang. It was Jay. “They let us out early, Mom—a teachers’ meeting. I thought I’d hunt for Cricket.”
My heart twisted. “Jay,” I said, trying to soften the irritation in my voice, “please don’t put yourself through that anymore. The radio here says it’s below freezing, and you know there’s no chance of—”
“But Mom,” he pleaded, “I have this feeling. I’ve got to try.”
“All right,” I conceded.
After our phone call, he took off through the field where he and Cricket used to go. He walked about a half-mile east and then heard some dogs barking in the distance. They sounded like penned-up beagles. So he headed in that direction. But then, for a reason he couldn’t determine, he found himself walking away from the barking.
Soon Jay came to some railroad tracks. He heard a train coming and stopped to watch it roar by. Wondering if the tracks would be hot after a train went over them, he climbed up the embankment and felt them. They were cold as ice.
Now he didn’t know what to do. He pitched a few rocks and finally decided to walk back down the tracks toward where he had heard the dogs barking earlier. As he stepped down the ties, the wind gusted and some hunters’ shotguns echoed in the distance.
Then everything became quiet. Something made Jay stop dead still and listen. From a tangled fence row nearby came a faint whimper.
Jay tumbled down the embankment, his heart pounding. At the fence row he pushed some growth apart to find a pitifully weak Cricket, dangling by his left hind foot, caught in the rusty strands of the old fence. His front paws barely touched the ground. The snow around him was eaten away. It had saved him fromdying of thirst. Although his left hind paw would later require surgery, Cricket would survive.
My son carried him home and phoned me ecstatically. Stunned, I rushed to the house. There in the kitchen was a very thin Cricket lapping food from his dish with a deliriously happy fifteen-year-old kneeling next to him.
Finishing, Cricket looked up at Jay. In the little dog’s adoring eyes I saw the innocent faith that had sustained him through those arduous days, the trust that his master would come.
I looked at my son who, despite all logic, went out with that same innocent faith and, with heart and soul open to his Master, was guided to Cricket’s side.
Donna Chaney
“He’s about five feet six, has big brown eyes and curly
blond hair, and answers to the name of Master.”
Al Ross ©1990 from The New Yorker Collection. All rights reserved.
2
PETS AS
TEACHERS
The power lies in the wisdom
and understanding of one’s role
in the Great Mystery, and in honoring
every living thing as a teacher.
Jamie Sands and David Carson
The Gift of Subira
Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
Theodore Roosevelt
Forty miles north of Los Angeles, there is a wildlife preserve called Shambala. With a raw beauty reminiscent of Africa, gigantic brown-rock outcroppings lay randomly dispersed throughout the sprawling land of the preserve. Shambala—Sanskrit for “a meeting place of peace and harmony for all beings, animal and human”—is a sanctuary for lions and other bi
g cats. Nestled in the awesome grandeur of California’s Soledad Canyon, it is, quite simply, breathtaking.
One day a small group of young people were at Shambala on a field trip from a local rehabilitation center. A lovely woman, the actress Tippi Hedren, who is the founder of Shambala, stood in front of the cheetah enclosure. “Her name is Subira,” Tippi said, beaming. “She’s a three-year-old cheetah, not even at the height of her game. Magnificent, isn’t she?”
As though it were a well-rehearsed script, Subira turned her head to the audience and gazed into the crowd. The black lines running from her eyes to her mouth were so distinctive that they appeared to have been freshly painted on for the day’s exhibition. And the closely set black spots on a tawny-colored backdrop of thick fur were so dazzling that everyone felt compelled to comment. “Oooooh, look at her, she’s so beautiful!” they said in unison. I thought so, too.
Tippi, a friend of mine, had invited me to visit her that day; I was sitting in the front row of chairs assembled for the visiting group. All of us continued to stare in awe— except for a teenage boy in the back row. He groaned in what seemed boredom and discontent. When several members of the group turned in his direction, he brushed the front of his T-shirt as though to remove dust particles, and, in a macho gesture calculated to impress us, rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt, further exposing his well-developed muscles.
Tippi continued, ignoring the boy’s interruption. “The cheetah is the fastest land animal on earth,” she told the small crowd. “Aren’t you, honey?” she asked in a playful velvety tone, looking over her shoulder at the exquisite animal lying atop a large, long, low branch of a massive oak tree.
Abruptly, as though disgusted by any affection, the boy in the back row mocked, “Big deal. A big, skinny cat with a bunch of spots that runs fast. So what! Next! Bring out the stupid tigers or whatever so we can get this over with!” Embarrassed, the other members of the group turned and looked at the boy in disapproval.
Tippi also looked at the boy, but she made no response. But the cheetah did. Looking in the teenager’s direction, the cheetah instantly began chirping.
Using this cue, Tippi informed the group, “Cheetahs make distinctive noises. A happy sound is a distinct chirp, like the one you are hearing now. Her hungry sound is a throaty vibration, and her way of saying ‘watch out’ is a noise that sounds like a high, two-pitched hum. But as you can hear by all this chirping, she’s pretty happy. In fact, I think she likes you,” she said, looking directly at the boy.
“Yeah, yeah, sure! She just loves me,” the boy mimicked sarcastically. Again, Tippi ignored the ill-mannered remark. I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to make this boy so angry and full of spite.
Tippi now turned the question-and-answer segment over to a young assistant. Then she motioned to me for us to leave. Walking away, we turned back to observe the group and now saw the belligerent young man with the smart mouth from a new vantage point. The boy, with his muscular torso and tight T-shirt, sat tensely in a wheelchair. One empty pant leg, folded under, hung next to his remaining leg and tennis shoe.
Seventeen-year-old Cory had dreamed of playing major league baseball someday. That was his one and only goal. He lived and breathed baseball and dreamed of the day when he would have a following, fans who knew he was “the man.” No one doubted Cory’s ability, certainly not the lead university scout for baseball talent in the state. The scout had recruited Cory, confirming a promising future. That was before the car accident. Now, it seemed nothing could replace the joy that was dashed when the boy lost his leg.
Cory lost more than a leg in the tragic accident; he also lost his hope. And his spirit. It left him not only physically disabled but emotionally crippled. Unable to dream of a goal other than being a major league baseball player, he was bitter and jaded, and felt just plain useless. Hopeless. Now he sat in a wheelchair, a chip on his shoulder, angry at the world. He was here today on yet another “boring field trip” from the rehab program.
Cory was one of the rehabilitation center’s most difficult patients: Unable to summon the courage to dream new plans for the future, he gave up on not only himself but others. “Get off my back,” he had told the rehab director. “You can’t help me. No one can.”
Tippi and I continued to stand close by as the group’s guide continued, “Cheetahs never feed on carrion; they eat fresh meat—though in captivity, they do like people food!”
Carrion? The word somehow interested the boy—or perhaps it just sounded perverse. The unpleasant young man called out, “What’s that mean?”
“Cadaver, corpse, remains,” the young assistant responded.
“The cheetah doesn’t eat road kill,” the boy smirked loudly. The boy’s harsh sound seemed to please the cheetah and she began purring loudly. The audience, enchanted by Subira’s happy noise, oohed and aahed.
Enjoying the positive response—and always willing to flaunt—Subira decided to give the audience a show of her skills. As if to say, “Just see how fast these spots can fly,” Subira instantly began blazing a trail of speed around the enclosure. “Oh,” sighed the crowd, “she’s so beautiful.”
“She only has three legs!” someone gasped.
“No!” the girl in the front row exclaimed, while the other astonished young people looked on in silence, aghast at what they saw.
No one was more stunned than Cory. Looking bewildered at the sight of this incredible animal running at full speed, he asked the question that was in everyone’s mind. “How can she run that fast with three legs?” Amazed at the cheetah’s effortless, seemingly natural movements, the boy whispered, “Incredible. Just incredible.” He stared at the beautiful animal with the missing leg and he smiled, a spark of hope evident in his eyes.
Tippi answered from our spot behind the group. “As you have now all noticed, Subira is very special. Since no one told her she shouldn’t—or couldn’t—run as fast as a cheetah with four legs, she doesn’t know otherwise. And so, she can.” Tippi paused for a moment, and turning to Subira, continued, “We just love her. Subira is a living example, a symbol, of what Shambala is all about: recognizing the value of all living things, even if, for any reason, they are different.”
The boy was silent and listened with interest as Tippi continued. “We got Subira from a zoo in Oregon. Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her leg in the womb, so it atrophied, causing her to lose the leg soon after she was born. With only three legs, her fate seemed hopeless. They were considering putting her to sleep at that point.”
Surprised, Cory asked, “Why?”
Tippi looked directly into Cory’s face, “Because they thought, ‘What good is a three-legged cheetah?’ They didn’t think the public would want to see a deformed cheetah. And since it was felt that she wouldn’t be able to run and act like a normal cheetah, she served no purpose.”
She went on, “That’s when we heard about Subira and offered our sanctuary, where she could live as normal a life as possible.
“It was soon after she came to us that she demonstrated her own worth—a unique gift of love and spirit. Really, we don’t know what we’d do without her. In the past few years, the gift of Subira has touched people around the world, and without words she has become our most persuasive spokesman. Though discarded because she was an imperfect animal, she created her own worth. She truly is a most cherished and priceless gift.”
Abandoning all wisecracks, Cory asked softly, “Can I touch her?”
Seeing Subira run had switched on the light in Cory’s heart and mind. It completely changed his demeanor. And his willingness to participate. At the end of the tour, the leader of the visiting group asked for a volunteer to push and hold the large rolling gate open so the van could exit the ranch. To everyone’s surprise, Cory raised his hand.
As the rest of the group looked on in amazement, the boy wheeled himself over to the large gate and, struggling to maneuver it open, pulled himself up from his chair. Gripping the high wire
fence for support, he pushed it open. The expression on his face as he continued to hold the gate until the van passed through was one of great satisfaction. And determination. It was clear that Cory had received the gift of Subira.
Bettie B. Youngs, Ph.D., Ed.D.
The Dog Next Door
When I was about thirteen years old, back home in Indiana, Pennsylvania, I had a dog named Bounce. He was just a street dog of indeterminate parentage who had followed me home from school one day. Kind of Airedaleish but of an orange color, Bounce became my close companion. He’d frolic alongside me when I’d go into the woods to hunt arrowheads and snore at my feet when I’d build a model airplane. I loved that dog.
Late one summer I had been away to a Boy Scout camp at Two Lick Creek, and when I got home Bounce wasn’t there to greet me. When I asked Mother about him, she gently took me inside. “I’m so sorry, Jim, but Bounce is gone.”
“Did he run away?”
“No, son, he’s dead.”
I couldn’t believe it. “What happened?” I choked.
“He was killed.”
“How?”
Mom looked over to my father. He cleared his throat. “Well, Jim,” he said, “Bogy broke his chain, came over and killed Bounce.”
I was aghast. Bogy was the next-door neighbors’ English bulldog. Normally he was linked by a chain to a wire that stretched about 100 feet across their backyard.
Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul Page 8