Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  When I remembered the shell of a dog that had arrived less than a week before, and what Amy had done to bring him to life, I was distraught. How could we just let him die now?

  “Where’s my dog?” the man asked in a gruff voice when he spotted me near the intake tent.

  “One of the volunteers is walking him right now,” I replied, looking over his shoulder to where I could see Amy crouched on the ground next to Albert, her arms wrapped around his neck. This time I didn’t have to imagine what she was whispering in his ear. I knew she was saying good-bye.

  “Well, get him. I have things to do,” he replied impatiently. I had to ask one more time. “Are you sure you want your dog back?” I asked. “I expect he’s not going to live much longer.”

  “Yeah. I want him back,” the man said as he turned to survey the property. It took him only a second to spot his dog, still cradled in Amy’s arms. “There he is,” he said as he started toward the far end of the property.

  That was when I reached my hand into my pocket.

  “Wait!” I shouted, causing the man to stop and turn back toward me. “How about if I buy that dog from you?” I offered, and then held my breath, waiting for his answer, the fifty-dollar bill scrunched in my hand.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Before I knew it, the man’s hand was palm-up in front of him. His reply was exactly what I wanted to hear. “Sure. I’ll sell him.”

  And so Albert went to live with Amy and her family. He was successfully treated for the heartworm, and when I saw Albert about a month after the floods, it was hard to believe he was the same dog. Albert had been dead inside, but now with his shining eyes and happy prance, he was simply overflowing with life and love. He had been rescued in spirit as well as in body.

  Terri Crisp and Samantha Glen

  Lucky to Be Alive

  Maria, a gentle, soft-spoken woman of seventy, had always managed to view the world with a child’s sense of wonderment. She greeted the dawn of each new day with the brightness of the sun itself and found joy in the smallest of things: a dove perched on her birdfeeder, the fresh morning dew, the sweet scent of jasmine in her garden.

  A widow, Maria lived alone in a run-down neighborhood in Deerfield Beach, Florida. One day while out tending the small garden in front of her modest home, Maria had been injured in a drive-by shooting. The bullet had pierced through her skin with a ferocious bite and lodged itself in the old woman’s right thigh. Crying out in agony, she had dropped to the sidewalk. When the mailman found her unconscious nearly an hour later, her injured leg had been bleeding profusely. She’d made it to the hospital just in time and later, the doctor had told Maria she was lucky to be alive.

  Returning home, Maria didn’t feel so lucky. Before the shooting, the elderly woman had always been grateful that she was healthy for her age. Now just getting the daily mail required a Herculean effort. In addition, her medical bills were mounting alarmingly, straining her meager income. And although she had watched the neighborhood deteriorate, somehow things had seemed safe in the daylight—but not anymore. For the first time in her life, Maria felt frightened, alone and vulnerable.

  “I feel defeated,” she had told her friend Vera. “I’m just an old woman with nothing to do and nowhere to go.”

  When Vera came to pick up Maria for her checkup at the medical center, she hardly recognized her old friend. Maria’s soft brown eyes held a haunting sadness and her face was gaunt and haggard. All the curtains were drawn and her hands shook with fear as she hobbled out onto the front porch, a cane stabilizing her injured leg.

  They were a little early for Maria’s appointment, so to try to cheer up Maria, Vera took a longer, more scenic route. They were stopped at a red light when Maria suddenly shrieked. “Look at that cat! It’s trying to run across the street!”

  Vera looked up to see a small black-and-white cat bounding out into the middle of traffic. Both women screamed as they saw one car, then another, and finally a third, hit the cat. The cat lay motionless, its small body flung into the grass. Cars slowed, but no one stopped to help.

  “We must save that poor creature,” said Maria. Vera pulled over, got out of the car and went to the hurt animal. Miraculously, it was still alive, but badly injured.

  “Take my jacket and wrap the kitty in it,” said Maria. Vera carefully put the cat on the seat between them. It looked up at Maria and gave her a plaintive, barely audible meow.

  “Everything will be all right, my little friend,” Maria said tearfully.

  Finding an animal clinic, they went inside and told the receptionist what had happened.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we cannot accept stray animals.”

  It was the same at the next clinic. Finally, at the third clinic, a kind veterinarian, Dr. Susan Shanahan, agreed to help and quickly started working on the cat.

  “This little guy is lucky to be alive,” she told Maria and Vera. “If you hadn’t been there for him, he never would have made it.”

  The vet took Maria aside. “The cat’s injuries are very serious,” she said. “He has severe head trauma, crushed paws and a cracked collarbone. He’ll need a lot of expensive medical attention. Today’s bill alone will cost at least $400.”

  Maria gasped. But taking her worn cloth wallet out of her handbag, she gave the doctor all the money she had after paying her bills—$50.

  “It’s all I have right now, but I promise I will pay you the rest over time. Please don’t put that kitty to sleep,” she pleaded. “I’ll take him home. We need each other.”

  Sensing how important this was, Dr. Shanahan kneeled and took Maria’s hands in hers. “I could get into trouble with my boss for doing this,” she said gently. “You see, I really shouldn’t have helped the cat in the first place, but, don’t worry . . . I will personally pay for this.”

  While the cat was at the clinic, Maria went to check on him every day. She spoke softly to him and gently stroked his chin with her little finger. As the days passed, the cat began to purr and the sparkle returned to Maria’s eyes.

  The day arrived for the cat to come home. As excited as a little girl on Christmas morning, Maria smiled brightly as she walked into the clinic to pick him up.

  “What have you decided to name the cat?” asked Dr. Shanahan.

  Cradling the cat in her arms, Maria answered happily, “I’m going to call him Lucky, because together we have found a new life.”

  Christine E. Belleris

  Dog of War

  Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.

  from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar

  In Vietnam, we all made choices with which we now must live. How many bullets do you carry versus how much water? When the rescue chopper says “only three” and there are four of you left, do you leave a guy or “lock and load” on the Huey driver, hijacking the craft? Worst of all, when it’s dark and nobody can help you, do you let some fatally injured kid die slowly or just get it over with?

  Not all my decisions were ones I regret. And not all my memories are the kind that jerk my breath away at three in the morning and leave me waiting with clenched fists for the first blessed light of dawn. In the darkness of that time, there was one bright spot: a big German shepherd named Beau.

  Beau was a scout dog attached to my infantry unit. His job was to sniff out Viet Cong tunnels, ammo caches and booby traps. Like many of us, he was a soldier on the outside and a puppy in his heart.

  When we had to wait for our next move, which was often, Beau was a great source of entertainment. His handler would tie a thin monofilament line across a path, then dare someone to step over it. Beau’s job was not to let anyone trigger a booby trap. He’d been taught it was better to attack one GI than have a mine pop into the air and detonate at the level of everybody’s head.

  I would spend a minute petting Beau and sharing my C-rations with him. Then I’d start walking toward the string. Beau was never won over by my offers of food. As I approached the trip wire, he’d race to get bet
ween me and it, then flatten his radar station ears and roll out an awesome set of glowing white, bone-crushing teeth. His eyes looked straight into mine as his huge torso sank into a crouch, preparing to spring. We dealt with pretty scary stuff, but when Beau told you to stop, no one had the guts to take a step.

  After nearly getting shredded by the big guy, I’d go back to my food. Immediately we were pals again.

  One steamy, miserable day, my unit was moving through an area of light jungle and tall trees. I was about fourth from point; Beau and his handler were behind me. Gunshots, their sharpness blunted by the smothering heat and humidity, exploded overhead. We hit the vine-covered jungle floor. Beau crouched between me and his handler. “In the trees,” someone hissed. As I looked, there were more shots, louder this time. Beau flinched but gave no other sign of injury. I emptied three twenty-round clips in the direction of the noise. My frantic and scruffy peers did likewise. In a moment, it was over.

  I looked at Beau. He seemed okay. We made him roll over, then stand up. It was then I caught that line of slick, dark blue-red we all knew too well. A bullet had pierced his foreleg. It appeared to be a clean hole, bleeding only slightly. I patted him and he wagged his tail. His sad, intelligent eyes expressed, “It’s okay, Joe. I’m not important. I’m just here to protect you.”

  A chopper took the dog and his handler away. I patted him and wondered if they would send the big guy home. What a naive kid I was. Some weeks later they were back. Beau had learned even more ways to con me out of my dinner.

  Mid-summer, 1967. We were a thousand meters from a huge field outside a tiny hamlet called Sui Tres. In that field was an American artillery unit. Around them were 2,500 Viet Cong. Our job was to shoot our way through and secure the Howitzer guys.

  We slept on the jungle floor, lying with our heads on our helmets. Just before dawn we heard the unsteady rumble of machine-gun and heavy-weapons fire erupt from the direction of Sui Tres. Time to face the enemy.

  I put on my helmet and reached for the rest of my gear. Beau wandered over to see if we had time for breakfast. The dark jungle was filled with the normal din of muttered curses and rustling equipment. Overhead, Russian-made rockets were about to burst in the treetops around us. The approaching rockets sounded like escaping steam, followed by what seemed like a long moment of silence. Then deafening, lung-crushing thunder.

  Dust filled the air. I was face down on the ground, not knowing how I got there. People were screaming for medics. My helmet was split open by shrapnel and would no longer fit on my head. Beau’s long black tail wagged near me in the confusion. He was crouched by his handler, waiting for orders. But it was no use; the young soldier had given his last command.

  I pulled Beau gently away and stroked the fur on his back. Sticky liquid covered my hand and ran down the side of his body. A tiny piece of shrapnel had penetrated his back just below the spine. Again he seemed not to notice, and tried to pull away to be with his handler. “He didn’t make it,” I said, kneeling and holding him against my chest. “He just didn’t make it.”

  Each GI is issued a large cloth bandage in an olive-drab pouch attached to his web gear. The rule is to use your buddy’s bandage for him and save yours for yourself. Beau didn’t have a bandage, so I wrapped him with mine.

  They took the dog away with the other wounded. I never saw Beau again.

  September 18, 1967. After eleven months and twenty-nine days in Vietnam, I was going home. Malaria had reduced me from 165 pounds to 130 pounds. I looked and felt like a corpse in combat boots. My heart was filled with death—the smell, the look, the wrenching finality of it.

  I was standing in line to get my eyes checked. We all had clipboards with forms to fill out. The guy in front of me asked if he could use my pen. He’d been a dog handler, he said. Now he was going home to his family’s farm in Iowa. “It’s a beautiful place,” he said. “I never thought I’d live to see it again.”

  I told him about the scout dog I’d befriended and what had happened to him and his handler. The soldier’s next words took my breath away.

  “You mean Beau!” he exclaimed, suddenly animated and smiling.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “They gave him to me after my dog got killed.”

  For a moment I was happy. Then two miserable thoughts popped into my brain. First, I’d have to ask him what had happened to Beau. Second, this handler was on his way home, leaving that loyal mutt to stay here till his luck ran out.

  “So,” I said, looking at the toe of my jungle boot as I crushed out an imaginary cigarette, “what happened to that dog?”

  The young soldier lowered his voice the way people do when they have bad news. “He’s gone.”

  I was so sick of death I wanted to throw up. I wanted to just sit down on the floor and cry. I guess this guy noticed my clenched fists and the wetness in my eyes. He lowered his voice and looked around nervously.

  “He’s not dead, man,” he said. “He’s gone. I got my company commander to fill out a death certificate for him and I sent him back to my parents’ house. He’s been there for two weeks. Beau is back in Iowa.”

  What that skinny farm kid and his commanding officer did certainly didn’t mean much compared with the global impact made by the war in Vietnam, but for me, it represents what was really in all our hearts. Of all the decisions made in ’Nam, that’s the one I can live with best.

  Joe Kirkup

  The Deer and the Nursing Home

  The deer had been struck and killed by a car. A passing motorist on the narrow mountain road saw a slight movement and stopped. Huddled beside the dead deer was a fawn with the umbilical cord still attached. “I don’t suppose you have a chance,” the motorist told the tiny creature as he tied off the cord, “but at least I’ll take you where it’s warm.”

  The nearest place was the powerhouse of New Jersey’s Glen Gardner Center for Geriatrics, a state institution. Maintenance men there quickly produced rags to make a bed behind the boiler for the fawn. Then they took a rubber glove, pricked pinholes in a finger, diluted some milk and offered it to the fawn, who drank eagerly.

  With the men taking turns feeding the fawn, the little deer’s wobbly legs and curiosity soon grew strong enough to bring it out from its bed behind the boiler. On their breaks, the men petted and played with the baby. “If it’s a female, we’ll call her Jane Doe,” they laughed. But it was a male, so they taught him to answer to “Frankie,” short for Frank Buck.

  Frankie became especially attached to one of the men, an electrician named Jean. On nice days, Frankie stepped outside with his new friend, enjoying the fresh air and scratches behind the ears. Sometimes other deer came out of the woods to graze. When Frankie caught their scent, his head came up.

  “You’d better tie him or we’ll lose him,” someone commented.

  Jean shook his head. “He’ll know when it’s time to go,” he said.

  Frankie began following Jean on his rounds, and the slight, white-haired man followed by the delicate golden fawn soon became a familiar sight.

  One day a resident, noticing Frankie waiting by a door for Jean, invited the deer in. Glen Gardner housed old people who had been in state mental hospitals and needed special care. When Frankie was discovered inside, the staff rushed to put him outside. But when they saw how eagerly one resident after another reached out to touch him, they let him stay. When Frankie appeared, smiles spread and people who seldom spoke asked the deer’s name.

  Discovering a line in front of the payroll clerk’s window one day, Frankie companionably joined it. When his turn came, the clerk peered out at him. “Well, Frankie,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind giving you a paycheck. You’re our best social worker!”

  The deer had the run of Glen Gardner until late fall, when the superintendent noticed he was growing antlers. Fearful he might accidentally injure a resident, the supervisor decreed banishment. Frankie continued to frequent the grounds, but as the months passed he explored farther afield.
When he was a year old, the evening came when he didn’t return to the powerhouse; now he was on his own.

  Still, every morning he was there to greet Jean, exploring the pocket for the treat Jean always brought, and in the afternoon he would reappear. Residents who had refused to go outside before would join him on the front lawn to scratch his ears. George, a solitary resident with a speech defect who didn’t seem to care if people understood him or not, taught Frankie to respond to his voice, and they often walked together.

  When Frankie was two years old—a sleek creature with six-point antlers and a shiny coat—he failed to show up one April morning. Nor did he answer anyone’s calls. It was late the next day before Jean and George found him lying on a sheltered patch of ground. His right front leg was shattered, jagged splinters of bone jutted through the skin.

  “Oh, you old donkey,” Jean whispered. “What happened?” The deer’s eyes were clouded with pain, but he knew Jean’s voice and tried to lick his hand.

  “There’s no way to set a break like that without an operation,” said the veterinarian who examined Frankie. They would have to haul Frankie out of the woods on an improvised litter and drive him to Round Valley Veterinary Hospital, five miles away.

  On the day of Frankie’s surgery, the surgeon, Dr. Gregory Zolton, told Jean, “You’ll have to stay with me while I operate. I’ll need help.” Jean’s stomach did a flip-flop, but he swallowed hard and nodded. During the two-hour procedure, Dr. Zolton took bone from Frankie’s shoulder to make a graft between the broken bones and then screwed a steel plate across it.

  “He said a leg that wasn’t strong enough to run on wasn’t any good to a deer,” recalls Jean.

  After the surgery, they took Frankie to an unused horse stable on Glen Gardner’s grounds, and Jean sat in the straw beside the recovering deer. He stroked Frankie’s head and held him whenever the deer tried to struggle to his feet. Finally, as the sun was coming up, Jean took his own stiff bones home, cleaned up and went to work.