Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  To be honest, I felt somewhat relieved because I didn’t know what I would have done with her. I visited with my parents, and as I was leaving, I told them to call me if the kitty came around their place and I would come pick her up. I kidded my father, saying, “Of course, you could keep her if you wanted,” to which he replied, “Not on your life!” I supposed that Dad wasn’t that interested in having pets, particularly cats.

  That night there was a call on my answering machine from my father. The kitty had actually shown up on their front doorstep! He said he had her in the house and she was okay, but could I come pick her up the next day? My heart sank. What am I going to do with this cat? I thought. I didn’t have the heart to take her to the pound, and I was sure that my roommate wasn’t feeling up for a hospital trip to treat a cat-induced asthma attack. I couldn’t see a solution.

  I called my father the next day and told him I would come over and pick up the kitty. To my great surprise, he said not to rush. He had gone out and bought a cat box (oh, no!), cat food and a little dish. I was amazed and thanked him for his generosity. He proceeded to tell me what a character the kitten was and how late the previous night she had been zooming back and forth across the floor. I listened, open-mouthed. The topper came when he said that “Kitty” came up and lay on his chest when he was lying down. I asked, “You let her do that?”

  “Oh yes. I pet her and I can feel her motor running,” he replied lovingly. “So take your time, dear, finding a home for her. I can keep her until you do.”

  I was floored. My dad, Seymour, Mister “Keep-Those-Dogs-Outside,” had a kitty purring on his chest. In his bed, no less!

  As the weeks went on, Dad got weaker. His cancer had reappeared. Yet whenever I called Dad, I heard more and more about how cute Kitty was, how she zoomed around, how loud her motor was, how she followed him everywhere. When I was at the house, my father would call for her, have her come up on his lap, pet her, talk to her and say how much he loved her.

  “Dad, aren’t you allergic to cats?” I asked once, as he was putting his handkerchief away after one of his infamous loud honks. He just shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly.

  As he got sicker, and could barely move without terrible pain, one of his few joys was to have Kitty lay on his chest. He would pet her and say, “Listen, her motor is running. That’s a good Kitty, good Kitty.” We all watched in awe at Dad’s unabashed affection for this little feline.

  Kitty worked her magic on both Dad and me. Charming a reluctant pet-owner, the little cat became one of my father’s single greatest comforts in his final days. And me? Kitty opened my eyes to the wonder and mystery of how life unfolds. She taught me to listen to my heart, even when my head is saying no. I didn’t realize on that unusual night that I was simply a messenger. An unknowing courier delivering a most beautiful and needed friend.

  Lynn A. Kerman

  “The patient in 12-C needs comforting.”

  Peter Steiner ©1990 from The New Yorker Collection. All Rights Reserved.

  The Golden Years

  My best friend, Cocoa, and I live in a senior-citizen apartment complex in a lovely small town. Cocoa is a ten-year-old poodle and I am a sixty-nine-year-old lady, so you can see we both qualify as senior citizens.

  Years ago, I promised myself that when I retired I would get a chocolate poodle to share my golden years. From the very first, Cocoa has always been exceptionally well-behaved. I never have to tell him anything more than once. He was housebroken in three days and has never done anything naughty. He is extremely neat— when taking his toys from his box to play, he always puts them back when he is finished. I have been accused of being obsessively neat, and sometimes I wonder if he mimics me or if he was born that way, too.

  He is a wonderful companion. When I throw a ball for him, he picks it up in his mouth and throws it back to me. We sometimes play a game I played as a child—but never with a dog. He puts his paw on my hand, I cover it with my other hand, he puts his paw on top, and I slide my hand out from underneath the pile and lay it on top, and so on. He does many amusing things that make me laugh, and when that happens, he is so delighted he just keeps it up. I enjoy his company immensely.

  But almost two years ago, Cocoa did something that defies comprehension. Was it a miracle or a coincidence? It is certainly a mystery.

  One afternoon, Cocoa started acting strangely. I was sitting on the floor playing with him, when he started pawing and sniffing at the right side of my chest. He had never done anything like this ever before, and I told him, “No.” With Cocoa, one “no” is usually sufficient, but not that day. He stopped briefly, then suddenly ran toward me from the other side of the room, throwing his entire weight—eighteen pounds—at the right side of my chest. He crashed into me and I yelped in pain. It hurt more than I thought it should have.

  Soon after this, I felt a lump. I went to my doctors, and after X rays, tests and lab work were done, they told me I had cancer.

  When cancer starts, for an unknown reason, a wall of calcium builds. Then the lump or cancer attaches itself to this wall. When Cocoa jumped on me, the force of the impact broke the lump away from the calcium wall. This made it possible for me to notice the lump. Before that, I couldn’t see it or feel it, so there was no way for me to know it was there.

  I had a complete mastectomy and the cancer has not spread to any other part of my body. The doctors told me if the cancer had gone undetected even six more months, it would have been too late.

  Was Cocoa aware of just what he was doing? I’ll never really know. What I do know is that I’m glad I made a promise to spend my golden years with this wonderful chocolate brown poodle—for Cocoa not only shares his life with me; he has made sure that I will be around to share my life with him!

  Yvonne A. Martell

  Swimming with Dolphins

  Two-and-a-half years after I had two massive strokes, the doctors and therapists told me, “This is as good as you’re going to get.” This happens to most stroke survivors at some point. The patients come to believe this, and so do the people around them. When they told me this, I was only forty-four years old, a hemiplegic, without the use of my left arm and leg. But I told myself I was lucky to be alive, and my husband, children, parents and I began to emotionally adjust to the fact that the rest of my life would be spent with this limited style of functioning. They’d all been great at helping me with therapy, and I was thankful for their wonderful emotional support.

  I resisted the doctor’s words, but in a way this diagnosis let me off the hook. I knew very well what I was and was not capable of doing. My life was comfortable. Not adventurous, not joyful, but comfortable.

  So I was not at all prepared when my parents moved to Florida, and excitedly told me they’d gotten back in touch with our old neighbors from twenty-five years before.

  “The Borgusses have founded a dolphin research and education facility in Key Largo,” my mother said, “and Lloyd Borguss has invited you to come and swim with the dolphins!”

  Yes, I knew such things made picturesque documentaries, but this was totally out of my comfort zone. In fact, when I realized my parents were serious about wanting me to accept, I was scared silly. There was no way!

  “What are you frightened about, Rusty?” Lloyd Borguss asked me over the phone. “This is salt water. You can’t sink. We work with quadriplegics. You’re only hemi-plegic.” (First time I’d heard it described as “only.”) He explained his belief that stroke survivors have to challenge themselves with new experiences in order to move beyond their apparent boundaries. He finally talked me into visiting, and my parents decided to come along.

  I don’t have to go in the water if I don’t want to, I told myself.

  I spent an afternoon at Dolphins Plus and watched those highly-developed mammals interact with the visitors who came to study and swim with them. I saw dolphins and therapists working together with disabled children and I was impressed. But couldn’t I stay impressed from the sidel
ines in my wheelchair?

  No! The message came from Lloyd, from my parents and—all of a sudden—from myself as well. I had to get beyond these limits I’d accepted. No more excuses. I said yes to the three sessions offered and vowed to try my best.

  The next morning, I used my wheelchair to get myself to a trampoline-like platform just above the water surface. Two staff people lifted me down to the mat. They put fins on both my feet—no more rest for the “bad” one. Then they supported me on both sides as the platform moved on its huge lift into the water. When we were partially submerged but still on the platform, they fitted a mask and snorkel to my face, and held me carefully as we all floated together off the platform. Lloyd was right—I didn’t sink after all.

  My first session was spent mostly getting used to the water and getting acquainted with my therapist, Christy. The mask was uncomfortable, so I wore it only a short time. Floating on my back instead, I lay back and put my ears under the water. I could hear the dolphins beneath me. Christy explained that they were “scanning” my body with their sonar, a fast, clicking noise like showers of buckshot on a hollow block.

  Suddenly, as I lay motionless, a dolphin brushed up against me. It knocked me off balance and I completely tensed up. I was terrified of drowning.

  “Let’s set a goal of spending more time on your stomach,” Christy said. “That way you can look through the mask at the dolphins as you swim.”

  But just being so helpless in the water felt overwhelming. Frankly, I couldn’t handle any goals except getting out!

  “Try one more thing before your session’s over,” Christy suggested. “Grasp these floating barbells and hold on to them at arm’s length. Then you can swim with fins, without having to use your arms.”

  I was encouraged to grasp the barbells with both hands. I protested that my left hand was useless, but when I looked, I realized that my fingers, which Christy had carefully placed around the bar, were indeed grasping it. For the first time since my strokes, my paralyzed arm had become part of my body’s overall effort. My arm had a purpose again!

  The first session lasted a half-hour. I expected to be exhausted, but I wasn’t. After lunch and a rest, I was more than ready for another try with my new acquaintances.

  My confidence level was definitely higher that afternoon as I slipped into the water for my second session. Christy found me a better-fitting snorkel and mask, and this time I was able to float on my stomach, arms outstretched, both hands balancing my body with my flotation barbells, for longer and longer periods of time.

  Being with the dolphins motivated me. Now that I could see them, I liked having them near me. I was amazed at how gentle these big creatures could be. Most striking was the total acceptance I felt emanating from them. They never came on too strong nor did they seem afraid of me. They somehow unerringly matched their energy with my own, as if they could sense my feelings. I found their attention invigorating and especially enjoyed interacting with one named Fonzie. All the dolphins were playful, twisting and spiraling effortlessly through the water. But there were times I swore I saw laughter sparkling in Fonzie’s eyes. I found myself laughing, too.

  My playmates took me so far out of myself that I felt completely comfortable in the water. Toward the end of the session, I asked my mother, who was watching us, whether my left leg was obeying my “commands” to move. She gestured excitedly for me to look for myself. I turned and found that my leg was moving side to side. It was still a limited motion, but it meant my brain and my leg were communicating again. I was elated.

  As the session ended, I swear that Fonzie was grinning— sharing in the responsibility for my success.

  When I got back to my motel room, I found myself feeling so “up,” so energized, that I couldn’t stay still. The old me would have stayed comfortably safe in my room, but now I wanted to get outside, to feel the breeze. To my own surprise, once I was outside I still felt restless. I wanted more than a breeze, I wanted to go down to the bay.

  I headed my wheelchair for the water. My brain and my leg are communicating! I kept telling myself. If I could swim, it seemed there was little I couldn’t try.

  Do you really believe that? I asked myself. The answer was an unexpected, unequivocal yes!

  Before I could come to my senses, I stopped and pulled myself up out of my wheelchair. The bay was a good 100 yards away, down an uneven gravel road. I grabbed my quad-cane—and began walking.

  My parents, walking the same way a little later, found my wheelchair abandoned along the road. Scared to death, they hurried ahead, terrified in what condition they might find me.

  Imagine their surprise when they found me walking, my head held high, delighting in the beauty around me. They brought the wheelchair back empty, as I walked back to my room. That was the first time since the strokes that I’d walked so far. I felt like I’d won the Boston Marathon!

  The third session with the dolphins was even better than the second. I discovered growing movement in my affected leg and I was able to control the spasms in my limbs, which had been a problem in past sessions. Perhaps the highlight of the session was when Fonzie raced with Christy and me while Christy pulled me around the pool. “See? I knew you could do it!” she exulted.

  Nor did I feel any fear as several of the dolphins brushed gracefully against me. Christy explained that that was their way of making sure I felt welcome. I couldn’t believe I had ever been frightened of these magnificent creatures. Their acceptance and playful spirit reopened the place in my heart that looks forward with joy to all life can offer. I felt truly renewed.

  My three sessions completed, I returned home to my family. I was energized and enthusiastic, and had a greater confidence in myself and my physical capabilities. I had new control over the limbs we’d all given up on.

  There was no medical explanation for my improvement, but it was real. What’s more, the improvement went far beyond my physical body. The dolphins’ total acceptance of me helped me to better accept and love myself, just the way I am. And the act of overcoming my fear and pushing past my limitations had a profound impact on how I approach every aspect of my life.

  Since then, I have bought a specially equipped bicycle that I ride regularly. I’ve also signed up for horseback riding and registered for a special sailing program designed for people with disabilities.

  I’m determined not to set any more limits for myself. Whenever I’m tempted to give in to fear, or simply stay in my comfort zone, I picture the grinning Fonzie, pushing me along, beyond the limits of my doctors’ prognosis. They said, “This is as good as you’ll ever get.” I’m glad the dolphins knew better.

  Roberta (Rusty) VanSickle

  There’s a Squirrel in My Coffee!

  A person has two legs and one sense of humor, and if you’re faced with the choice, it’s better to lose a leg.

  Charles Lindner

  Our house near Jacksonville, Florida, is a veritable zoo. My wife and I wanted our seven-year-old twins to develop the same love for nature and animals that we had when we were children. We have tortoises and turtles, snakes, iguanas, frogs, rabbits and a four-pound attack-Yorkie named Scooter. We even had a wayward baby armadillo for a spell. But when Rocky came to stay, our household—and our lives—changed dramatically.

  A career Navy pilot, I was at home recovering from a rare, invisible form of a deadly skin cancer that had required some drastic surgery, and I definitely needed a humor injection in my daily routine. Rocky was just what the doctor ordered. The doctor, however, turned out to be a veterinarian, not an oncologist!

  Dr. John Rossi is the local animal doctor. When someone showed up at his vet clinic with a tiny baby flying squirrel that had fallen from his nest, John and his wife, Roxanne, reasoned that if a baby flying squirrel couldn’t help a recovering cancer patient, nothing could.

  Rocky became an immediate fixture in our home. When Rocky first arrived, he resembled a little ball of dust—like the ones you find in the guest bedroom closet d
uring spring cleaning. He was no bigger than a walnut and he weighed less. His eyes had recently opened and he drank formula and water from a tiny toy baby bottle. He barely moved and his fur was kind of oily, like a “greaser” from the 1950s. His bulging black eyes looked like aviator goggles, and my twins, having just seen an old cartoon rerun of Rocky and Bullwinkle, immediately named him Rocky.

  He grew quickly and was soon the size of a fresh bar of soap: his adult size. Rocky’s fur turned a silky smooth brown as he learned to clean himself regularly, and his eyes grew even more bulgy. His loose skin and his flat rudder-like tail turned him into a rodent Frisbee during his daily flying lessons, which I conducted by gently tossing him from our bathroom onto our bed. Rocky didn’t require much training because gliding came so naturally for him.

  Flying squirrel movements are extremely fast and are very vertically oriented. In the wild, they rapidly run up and down tree trunks. In the same way, Rocky ran up and down our bodies, moving like a high-scoring furred pinball in a flesh-and-blood pinball machine.

  Moving at what seemed the speed of light, he was all over the inside and outside of our clothing as we tried to catch him with our bare hands. The tickling, particularly when he dived into the armpits—one of his favorite haunts—was incredible. This activity has become a daily ritual in our household, wonderfully uplifting our spirits. My doctors are amazed at how quickly my scars have healed. If laughter is the best medicine, then Rocky has delivered it by the truckload.

  One morning, I was enjoying my morning coffee like most people do, except that I had a newspaper in front of me and a squirrel on top of me. Rocky was sitting on my head surveying his squirreldom, probably wondering if he had nibbled off the large chunk of my left ear that had been removed during cancer surgery. Suddenly, I sneezed. It was a big sneeze—one that occurred as I was bringing my cup of coffee, now lukewarm, to my lips. Afterwards, as I reopened my eyes while continuing to bring my coffee to my mouth, I saw two of the most enormous, bulging eyes that I had ever come face-to-face with in my life, a furred hyperthyroidic monster if I’d ever seen one.