Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul
Page 17
By the seventh day, Jean called Dr. Zolton to say it was impossible to hold Frankie still for his antibiotic injections. The surgeon laughed. “If he’s that lively, he doesn’t need antibiotics.” But he warned that Frankie must be kept inside for eight weeks. If he ran on the leg before it knitted, it would shatter.
“Whenever anyone went to visit him, Frankie showed how eager he was to get out,” recalls Jean. “He’d stand there with his nose pressed against a crack in the door. He smelled spring coming.”
When word had come that Frankie had survived the operation, the residents’ council at Glen Gardner had called a meeting. Mary, the president, told the group, “There’s no operation without a big bill. Now, Frankie’s our deer, right?” The residents all nodded. “So we’ve got to pay his bill.” They decided to take up a collection and hold a bake sale.
The day Dr. Zolton’s bill arrived, Mary called a meeting. The others watched silently as she opened the envelope. “Oh, dear,” she murmured bleakly, “we owe $392.” They had managed to collect only $135. Not until she shifted her bifocals did she notice the handwriting, which read: “Paid in Full—Gregory Zolton, D.V.M.”
When Frankie’s confinement was over, Frankie’s friends gathered by the stable door. It was mid-June and grass was knee-deep in the meadow. The buck’s wound was beautifully healed—but would the leg hold?
Jean opened the barn door. “Come on, Frankie,” he said softly. “You can go now.” Frankie took a step and looked up at Jean.
“It’s all right,” Jean urged him. “You’re free.” Suddenly Frankie understood. He exploded into a run, flying over the field like a greyhound, his hooves barely touching the ground.
“He’s so glad to be out,” Mary said wistfully, “I don’t think we’ll ever see him again.”
At the edge of the woods, Frankie swerved. He was coming back! Near the stable he wheeled again. Six times he crossed the meadow. Then, flanks heaving, tongue lolling, he pulled up beside them. Frankie had tested his leg to its limits. It was perfect. “Good!” said George distinctly. Everyone cheered.
Soon Frankie was again waiting for Jean by the electric shop every morning. In the fall Jean put a yellow collar around Frankie’s neck to warn off hunters. The mountain was a nature preserve, with no hunting allowed, but poachers frequently sneaked in.
One day a pickup truck filled with hunters drove up to the powerhouse. When the tailgate was lowered, Frankie jumped down. The hunters had read about him and, spotting the yellow collar, figured it must be Frankie.
Every hunting season, George and the other people at Glen Gardner debate whether to lock Frankie in the stable for his own safety—and their peace of mind. But each fall, the vote always goes against it. Frankie symbolizes the philosophy of Glen Gardner, which is to provide care but not to undermine independence.
“A deer and a person, they each have their dignity,” Jean says. “You mustn’t take their choices away.”
So Frank Buck, the wonderful deer of Glen Gardner, remains free. He runs risks, of course, but life is risk, and Frankie knows he has friends he can count on.
Jo Coudert
Turkeys
Something about my mother attracts ornithologists. It all started years ago when a couple of them discovered she had a rare species of woodpecker coming to her bird feeder. They came in the house and sat around the window, exclaiming and taking pictures with big fancy cameras. But long after the red cockaded woodpeckers had gone to roost, the ornithologists were still there. There always seemed to be three or four of them wandering around our place and staying for supper.
In those days, during the 1950s, the big concern of ornithologists in our area was the wild turkey. They were rare, and the pure-strain wild turkeys had begun to interbreed with farmers’ domestic stock. The species was being degraded. It was extinction by dilution, and to the ornithologists it was just as tragic as the more dramatic demise of the passenger pigeon or the Carolina parakeet.
One ornithologist had devised a formula to compute the ratio of domestic to pure-strain wild turkey in an individual bird by comparing the angle of flight at takeoff and the rate of acceleration. And in those sad days, the turkeys were flying low and slow.
It was during that time, the spring when I was six years old, that I caught the measles. I had a high fever, and my mother was worried about me. She kept the house quiet and dark and crept around silently, trying different methods of cooling me down.
Even the ornithologists stayed away—but not out of fear of the measles or respect for a household with sickness. The fact was, they had discovered a wild turkey nest. According to the formula, the hen was pure-strain wild— not a taint of the sluggish domestic bird in her blood—and the ornithologists were camping in the woods, protecting her nest from predators and taking pictures.
One night our phone rang. It was one of the ornithologists. “Does your little girl still have measles?” he asked.
“Yes,” said my mother. “She’s very sick. Her temperature is 102.”
“I’ll be right over,” said the ornithologist.
In five minutes a whole carload of them arrived. They marched solemnly into the house, carrying a cardboard box. “A hundred and two, did you say? Where is she?” they asked my mother.
They crept into my room and set the box down on the bed. I was barely conscious, and when I opened my eyes, their worried faces hovering over me seemed to float out of the darkness like giant, glowing eggs. They snatched the covers off me and felt me all over. They consulted in whispers.
“Feels just right, I’d say.”
“A hundred two—can’t miss if we tuck them up close and she lies still.”
I closed my eyes then, and after a while the ornithologists drifted away, their pale faces bobbing up and down on the black wave of fever.
The next morning I was better. For the first time in days I could think. The memory of the ornithologists with their whispered voices was like a dream from another life. But when I pulled down the covers, there staring up at me with googly eyes and wide mouths were sixteen fuzzy baby turkeys, and the cracked chips and caps of sixteen brown speckled eggs.
I was a sensible child. I gently stretched myself out. The eggshells crackled, and the turkey babies fluttered and cheeped and snuggled against me. I laid my aching head back on the pillow and closed my eyes. “The ornithologists,” I whispered. “The ornithologists have been here.”
It seems the turkey hen had been so disturbed by the elaborate protective measures that had been undertaken on her behalf that she had abandoned her nest on the night the eggs were due to hatch. It was a cold night. The ornithologists, not having an incubator on hand, used their heads and came up with the next best thing.
The baby turkeys and I gained our strength together. When I was finally able to get out of bed and feebly creep around the house, the turkeys peeped and cheeped around my ankles, scrambling to keep up with me and tripping over their own big spraddle-toed feet. When I went outside for the first time, the turkeys tumbled after me down the steps and scratched around in the yard while I sat in the sun.
Finally, in late summer, the day came when they were ready to fly for the first time as adult birds. The ornithologists gathered. I ran down the hill, and the turkeys ran too. Then, one by one, they took off. They flew high and fast. The ornithologists made Vs with their thumbs and forefingers, measuring angles. They consulted their stopwatches and paced off distances. They scribbled in their tiny notebooks. Finally they looked at each other. They sighed. They smiled. They jumped up and down and hugged each other. “One hundred percent pure wild turkey!” they said.
Nearly forty years have passed since then. Now there’s a vaccine for measles. And the woods where I live are full of pure wild turkeys. I like to think they are all descendants of those sixteen birds I saved from the vigilance of the ornithologists.
Bailey White
Tiny and the Oak Tree
. . . a family cat is not replaceable like a worn-
out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes his own cat, and none is repeated. I am four-cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded, but not replaced one another.
Irving Townsend
He was scary-looking. Standing about six-foot, six-inches tall, he had shoulders the width of my dining room table. His hair hung to his shoulders, a full beard obscured half of his face; his massive arms and chest were covered with tattoos. He was wearing greasy blue jeans and a jean jacket with the sleeves cut out. Chains clanked on his motorcycle boots and on the key ring hanging from his wide leather belt. He held out a hand the size of a pie plate, in which lay a tiny, misshapen kitten.
“What’swrong with Tiny, Doc?” he asked in a gruff voice.
My exam revealed a birth defect. Tiny’s spine had never grown together, and he was paralyzed in his back legs. No amount of surgery, medicine or prayer was going to fix him. I felt helpless.
The only thing I could tell this big, hairy giant was that his little friend was going to die. I was ashamed of my prejudice but I felt a little nervous anticipating the biker’s reaction. Being the bearer of bad news is never pleasant, but with a rough-looking character like the man in front of me, I didn’t know what to expect.
I tried to be as tactful as possible, explaining Tiny’s problem and what we could expect, which was a slow, lingering death. I braced myself for his response.
But the big fella only looked at me with eyes that I could barely see through the hair on his face and said sadly, “I guess we gotta do him, huh, Doc?”
I agreed that, yes, the best way to help Tiny was to give him the injection that would end his poor, pain-filled life. So with his owner holding Tiny, we ended the little kitten’s pain.
When it was over, I was surprised to see this macho guy the size of an oak tree just standing there holding Tiny, with tears running down his beard. He never apologized for crying, but he managed a choked “Thanks, Doc,” as he carried his little friend’s body home to bury him.
Although ending a patient’s life is never pleasant, my staff and I all agreed that we were glad we could stop the sick kitten’s pain. Weeks passed, and the incident faded.
Then one day the oak-sized biker appeared in the clinic again. It looked ominously like we were about to repeat the earlier scenario. The huge man was wearing the same clothes and carrying another kitten in his pie-plate hand. But I was enormously relieved upon examining “Tiny Two” to find he was absolutely, perfectly, wonderfully normal and healthy.
I started Tiny Two’s vaccinations, tested him for worms and discussed his care, diet and future needs with his deceptively tough-looking owner. By now, it was obvious that Mr. Oak Tree had a heart that matched his size.
I wonder now how many other Hell’s Angel types are really closet marshmallows. In fact, whenever I see a pack of scary-looking bikers roaring past me on the road, I crane my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of some tiny little kitten poking its head up out of a sleek chrome sidecar— or maybe even peeking out from inside the front of a black leather jacket.
Dennis K. McIntosh, D.V.M.
The Captain
Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.
Chief Seattle
In the middle of Iowa, on acreage just on the outskirts of a little town, sits an old farmhouse. Inside the house there are lots of couches and soft comfortable chairs, hand-built perches and scratching posts, kitty doors that lead to outside pens with grass and trees and lots of sunny spots to stretch out in. Every day volunteers come to groom and pet and feed freshly cooked food to the many cats who have this farmhouse all to themselves. There is also a small staff who keep the cats’ house sparkling clean.
There are dogs there, too. Out back behind the house, near the garden and the orchard, are large dog kennels with insulated and heated doghouses in them. Volunteers come to walk and feed and “love up” the rescued dogs who are brought there when their time is up at the city pound.
As you can tell, the Noah’s Ark Animal Foundation runs an unusual kind of no-kill sanctuary. Yet it is a state-licensed animal shelter, officially run as a non-profit charitable organization for over a decade.
For many years I dreamed of running a shelter for lost, stray and abandoned animals. But I wanted the shelter to be comfortable and home-like. Plus, I wanted to feed the animals healthy high-quality food and treat any ailments with natural remedies. Noah’s Ark has been that dream-come-true for me. It has been wonderful to watch as the often malnourished animals who come to the shelter start blossoming with health. Their shining coats and bright eyes make all the hard work worthwhile.
Their personalities blossom, too. Some of the cats assume the role of official greeter, strolling out to inspect anyone who comes to visit.
Freddy, a large and beautiful gray Persian, was one of these greeters at Noah’s Ark. In fact, I called Freddy “the Captain.” He was not a cuddly cat, being far too macho for that, but he was a friendly sort and no one came to the shelter who was not subject to the Captain’s inspection, and perhaps a rub or two against the leg. Freddy had been at the shelter six or seven years and had become a personal favorite of mine.
One Saturday morning, I received a frantic call from one of the volunteers who had gone to feed the cats that morning. Something terrible had happened—I had to come over right away.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I arrived at the shelter. During the night, someone had broken into the locked shelter and gone on a killing spree, using blunt instruments to murder and maim over twenty-five cats.
The shock was devastating, and I was almost numb as I called the police and other volunteers to come and help me care for the injured, gather up the dead and attempt to put the shelter back into some semblance of order. As the word quickly spread, a local church sent a crew of ten men to help out, including two of the ministers. It was the compassionate and conscientious labor of all these volunteers that got me through the worst moments of that morning.
After about an hour, I had a panicked thought. What about the dogs? Running out to the kennels to check, I was immensely relieved to find them all unharmed. Two of the dogs in our care, Duke and Dolly, are Rhodesian ridgeback–mastiff mixes, enormous and powerful-looking dogs with the hearts of puppies—when it comes to people they know and love. For once I was glad they looked so formidable, even though it’s probably why they haven’t found homes yet, for I was sure that was why no stranger had been foolish enough to take them on.
When I returned to the house, volunteers were placing the cats that had died in a cart for burial. I felt the tears come to my eyes as I recognized so many of my little friends. Then I saw the gray body, partially covered by a towel.
“Not Freddy,” I moaned. “Please don’t let it be Freddy.” But the Captain was nowhere to be found, and I had to face the fact that Freddy was gone.
I felt physically sick when I thought that it was probably his friendly, trusting nature that had killed him— walking right up to people who had evil intentions toward this sweet and innocent animal.
The outpouring of concern and sympathy from supporters in our community was amazing. And after the local paper reported the incident, the national news services picked up the story, and soon calls and letters flooded in from all over the country. People even drove from neighboring states to adopt the survivors of the attack.
It was a painful time for me. I felt the grief of losing so many beings I had come to love, and I was bewildered by the senselessness of the whole thing. Three young men from the local high school were convicted of the crime.
The incident caused a tremendous uproar in our little town. The violence that ravaged the shelter was the subject of intense debate. A small but vocal minority felt the victims were “just cats,” so what was the big deal? But the majority of people, outraged animal lovers, demanded justice.
A few days later, as I was stepping out of the house, I saw a large gray Persian coming slowly toward me. I scared us both by yelling “Freddy!” at the top of my lungs. It couldn’t be—but it was. He was wobbly and shaken, no longer the suave and debonair greeter of old, but he was alive! I scooped him up into my arms and held him to my chest, my tears falling on his head as I hugged and stroked him. Freddy had come back.
In the chaos of that terrible morning, I had confused Freddy with another gray Persian, lying dead, half-hidden by a towel, on the burial cart. Freddy had been one of the lucky ones to make it outside and escape the others’ appalling fate.
Miraculously, it took only a few weeks for Freddy to come around. Eventually, he even resumed his duties as official greeter.
In my grief after the incident, I had felt like giving up— I just hadn’t had the heart to continue. It was the gray cat’s courage and willingness to trust again that helped mend my own shattered spirit. Ultimately, my love for Freddy and others like him made me decide to continue Noah’s Ark’s life-saving rescue work in spite of what had happened.
Today, if you visit our shelter, you will be greeted by a large and confident gray cat walking proudly forward to meet you. His green eyes miss nothing as he inspects you from head to toe. If you pass muster, then you may feel his large bulk pressing affectionately against your shins. For the Captain, I am happy to report, it’s business as usual.
David E. Sykes