Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  The Woman Who Took Chickens

  Under Her Wing

  Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.

  Samuel Ullman

  Minnie Blumfield never lost her enthusiasm. She believed that with age came courage, vision and a true appreciation of life—all life. That’s why, at the age of eighty-six, Minnie became the sole caretaker of a flock of chickens abandoned alongside one of Southern California’s busiest freeways after a poultry truck mishap. For reasons known only to the bureaucracy of the day, the chickens were never rescued. Instead, they simply took up residence in the roadside brush, becoming known to locals as the Hollywood Freeway Chickens.

  Like many seniors, Minnie lived alone and survived on a meager pension. But to her, life was precious and not to be callously surrendered or ignored—not even the lives of slaughter-bound livestock. Minnie simply saw creatures in need and without hesitation, stepped into action. For nine years, while others sped past unaware and unconcerned, Minnie made two pilgrimages a day to provide food and water for the abandoned chickens, using what little money she had available. As the years passed, she worried about the day when she would no longer be able to care for her adopted flock. Who would look after these poor helpless creatures if she could no longer make her journey?

  At ninety-five, just when the cruelties of time began to ravage Minnie’s body, a heroine appeared. Jodie Mann, a young actress and a founding member of the organization Actors and Others for Animals, was Minnie’s neighbor. Jodie had observed Minnie on her sojourns and noticed that the older woman also fed many of the homeless cats in the neighborhood. Jodie approached Minnie to see if her neighbor could identify the owner of a stray dog that Jodie had recently rescued. A quick and lasting friendship resulted. Learning of Minnie’s concern for the fate of her flock, Jodie vowed to “fight City Hall” and find the chickens a new home.

  Jodie located a ranch where the chickens would be able to live out their natural lives, and organized a rescue party to capture the birds. This was a daunting task that tested Jodie’s patience and determination and Minnie’s will to live. As the chickens settled into their new home, Minnie was forced to relocate to a convalescent hospital after a series of debilitating strokes.

  Jodie maintained a close and loving relationship with Minnie, visiting her often. She found a good home for Minnie’s cat, Blacky, and made sure that the stray cats that had come to depend on the older woman’s kindness were still provided with care.

  Later, as president of Actors and Others for Animals, I was honored to present Minnie Blumfield—then ninety-six years old—with our organization’s inaugural Humanitarian Award. Inspired by and aptly named for Minnie, the award is a delicate bronze statue of a graceful, straw-hatted woman with robust chickens standing sentry at her feet, and a dozing cat nestled safely in her arms. To all of us in attendance that day, the bizarre plight of the cast-off chickens, superimposed with Minnie’s undaunted spirit, was awe-inspiring. Many were moved to tears by the soft heart of this frail but determined woman, who with tears streaming down her own paralyzed face, managed to whisper, “Thank you.”

  Minnie is gone now, but her concern for her fellow creatures lives on in the award that bears her name and likeness. Her courage and selfless example continue to be a source of inspiration and strength for me, for Jodie and for everyone within our organization, as we continue our work of caring for all living creatures who share our planet, our homes and our hearts.

  Earl Holliman

  President, Actors and Others for Animals

  Miracles Do Happen

  Where there is great love there are always miracles.

  Willa Cather

  As a shiny new veterinarian in my mid-twenties, I was sure of everything. The world was black and white with very little gray. In my mind, veterinary medicine was precise and structured, with little room for anything but the rules of science. An experience I had just a few years out of school loosened several stones in that wall of inflexibility.

  Two of the most pleasant clients in my small, mountain town practice were an older retired couple. Two kinder, more gentle people could not be found. Their devotion to each other and their pets was luminous. Whenever and wherever they were seen in our little town, their dogs were constant companions. It was assumed that these lovable and loyal dogs were the children they never had. And there was a clear but unobtrusive awareness of this couple’s very profound religious faith.

  One cold winter morning, they arrived at our clinic with their oldest dog, Fritz. Their big old canine friend could not bear the pain of placing any weight on his hind legs. The great old dog avoided movement as much as possible. When he did feel compelled to move, he pulled himself along with his front legs like a seal, his shrunken, atrophied hind legs dragging outstretched behind him. No amount of encouragement or assistance enabled Fritz to stand or walk on his afflicted rear legs. His owners, with the best of intentions, had been attempting a variety of home treatments for most of the winter, but now his condition had deteriorated to this point. The look in his eyes was of remarkable intelligence and gentleness, but also of great pain.

  My partner and I hospitalized the lovable old dog for a few hours so that we could thoroughly examine him, obtain X rays and complete other tests. Sadly, we concluded that a lifetime of living with hip dysplasia had taken its full toll on Fritz. His advanced age, atrophied muscles and painful, disfigured joints left no hope that any type of medical or surgical treatment could allow the old couple’s dog to enjoy a happy, painless life. We concluded that his only salvation from excruciating pain was to be humanely euthanized.

  Later that day, as cold winter darkness fell on our little mountain town, the old couple returned to the clinic to hear our verdict about their beloved pet. As I stood before them in the exam room, I felt a chill pass over me as if I were out in that winter evening. Clearly they knew what I was going to say because they were already softly crying before I began talking. With great hesitation, I explained their old friend Fritz’s dire condition. Finally, I struggled to tell them that the kindest act would be to “put him to sleep” so he would suffer no more.

  Through their tears, they nodded in agreement. Then the husband asked, “Can we wait to decide about putting him to sleep until the morning?” I agreed that would be fine. He said, “We want to go home and pray tonight. The Lord will help us decide.” They told their old friend good night and left him to rest at the clinic overnight. As they left, I sympathetically thought to myself that no amount of praying could help their old dog.

  The next morning I came in early to treat our hospitalized cases. The elderly couple’s big old crippled dog was just as he had been the evening before—a look of pain on his face, unable to stand, but still showing that kind, intelligent expression. Within an hour the old couple came into the clinic. “We have prayed all night. Can we see Fritz? We will know what the Lord wants when we see him.”

  I led them through the clinic to the ward where Fritz lay. As I opened the door and peered into the ward, I was numbed by the sight of Fritz eagerly standing in his cage, wagging his tail and bearing an obvious expression of enthusiastic joy at the sound of his owners. He bore not one indication of any pain or dysfunction.

  The reunion of Fritz and the old couple was a blur of canine and human cries of joy, kisses and tears. Fritz bounded youthfully out to the car as the couple rejoiced. In their wake, they left a bewildered young veterinarian who was beginning to see that life is not black and white, but includes rather a great deal of gray. I realized that day that miracles do happen.

  Paul H. King, D.V.M.

  ©Lynn Johnston Productions Inc./Dist. by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

  Darlene

  The first duty of love is to listen.

  Paul Tillich

  For three years, my dog, Pokey, and I worked side-by-side as volunteers in the Prescription Pet Program at The Children’s Hospital in Denver. I often referred to Pokey as a “terro
r” instead of a terrier because in those younger days, she was a perpetual motion machine. The only time she was different was during our hospital visits, and then she seemed to find some inner force that made her behave. Every time that Pokey and I visited patients, we saw little miracles, but one day something special happened that changed my perspective on how deeply Pokey could give.

  On this day the volunteer office asked us to see a patient on the fourth floor—the oncology ward. So, along the way on our rounds, we made a special point to stop in at Darlene’s room.

  Darlene was sixteen years old, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a ready smile. I asked, “Would you like to visit with Pokey?” and she accepted. I immediately knew that something unusual was going on. You see, my ball-of-fire terrier-mix climbed onto the bed and quickly went to the girl’s side to tuck in under her arm. Pokey laid her head on the girl’s shoulder, with her little dog face pointed up toward Darlene’s.

  As Darlene looked down into those liquid brown eyes, she whispered to Pokey. This was definitely a change from the usual patient contact, where doggie tricks were the order of the day. Still, these two were obviously doing some serious work here, so I sat back and watched the television. After about thirty minutes, Darlene spoke up. “Thanks so much for visiting. I know you have other patients to see, so I’d better let you go. You’ll never know how much this meant to me.” And she flashed us a brilliant smile.

  Three weeks later, I got a phone call from Ann, our supervisor in the volunteer office, with whom I had shared this story. She said, “I just wanted to let you know that Pokey’s friend, Darlene, is in heaven.”

  Darlene, that brave and beautiful sixteen-year-old child, had received terrible news the day that we visited her. Her cancer had relapsed for a third time. In her treatment protocol, there were no more options. She was destined to die—very soon.

  Darlene had to have been afraid. Still, she couldn’t trust her family, friends, doctors or caregivers with her fears. There wasn’t a human alive who she could talk to—but she could share herself with this little dog! She knew that Pokey wouldn’t tell anyone her secrets . . . wouldn’t ridicule her dreams that would never come true.

  We’ll never truly know what Darlene said that day or just how much good Pokey accomplished with her thirty minutes of loving silence. But Darlene instinctively knew what all dog lovers have known through the ages: No friend can be as trusting, loyal and loving as a dog.

  Sara (Robinson) Mark, D.V.M.

  The Little Dog That Nobody Wanted

  If a dog’s prayers were answered, bones would rain from the sky.

  Old Proverb

  When Dad found Tippy—or rather, Tippy found Dad— it was a hot day in my southern Missouri hometown, in the summer of 1979.

  For most of his life, Dad had never cared too much for pets, but the sight of that skinny, mange-infested pup seemed to open a door in his heart. Then that little lost pup slipped ever so meekly through the door.

  That morning, Dad had been visiting with customers in the electronics shop where he had landed a part-time job after retirement. Suddenly a terrified, yelping stray puppy bolted through the door.

  “I’ve lived many a year,” Dad said that evening as he stepped into the house, “but I’ve never seen anything so pitiful as this.” In his arms he cradled a cardboard box, and inside the box was a tiny wayfarer from an unimaginable hell.

  Dad couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. “I just couldn’t put her back out on the streets. Look at her . . . we’ve got to do something to help her. She was just crying and crying and so scared,” Dad said as Mom took the box from his arms. “Look at those open sores. Who could be so cruel as to let her get in this condition?”

  Mom peered down into the box and was repulsed by what she saw. “Oh, she’s too far gone,” she told my dad, shaking her head in disbelief. “Let’s just have the vet put her out of her misery.”

  No bigger than a teakettle, the wretched little terrier was being consumed by disease and starvation. Lifeless marble eyes bulged sadly atop a thin pointed nose; bony long legs curled around each other like limp spaghetti on a plate.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” the vet told Dad the next day. “There’s really nothing I can do to help her now. She’s too far gone.”

  But Dad insisted.

  “Well, okay—if you want to try, here are some pills and some medicated cream to rub on her mange sores. But don’t get your hopes up. I doubt if she makes it through the weekend.”

  Dad wrapped the sick, homeless pup back into the old bath towel and carried her to the car. That afternoon, he carried her gently out under the maple trees in the backyard and began the medication treatments.

  “Every day your father totes that poor, miserable little creature out under the trees and massages the ointment into her skin,” Mom said. “Those oozing sores cover her entire body. He can’t even tell what color she’s supposed to be—all her hair has been eaten away by the mange and infection.”

  “I won’t keep her if she gets better,” he promised Mom. “I’ll find a good home for her if the medicine works.” Mom was not too happy about helping a dirty, uncomely runt with no fur and spaghetti legs.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to worry,” Mom sighed. “But don’t feel bad when the medicine doesn’t work. At least you tried.”

  Nevertheless, every day, out in the shade of the big maple trees, Dad faithfully doctored the pup with no hair and bony legs, the little lost dog that nobody wanted.

  For the first few days after the stray pup entered Dad’s life, there was slim hope for her survival. Disease and starvation had taken the little dog down a cruel path. It seemed only a miracle could help.

  For seemingly endless days, Mom watched through the kitchen window as Dad continued to cart the little dog in the box out under the maple trees, where he doctored the wounds of neglect.

  No one remembers exactly how long it took to see a glint of hope in my dad’s countenance—and in the marble eyes of that pup. But slowly, with timidity and reserve, the pup began to trust my dad, and the first waggle of her skinny tail brought intense joy to my father.

  Mom never wanted any part of that rescue effort, for she was not interested in bringing a dog into the house and their lives. But when she saw her husband’s face the first time that pup showed an ounce of playfulness, she knew that Dad was struck with more than compassion.

  Dad came from a rugged hill family who farmed the rocky ridges of the Ozark Mountains. He knew little joy as a child and worked hard at manual jobs as an adult. Reaching down to rescue that weak, mangy pup seemed to mend his wounded spirit, especially when he succeeded at beating the odds by nursing Tippy back to health.

  “Just look at her!” Mom smiled. “You’ve really done it! She’s growing her hair back and she’s starting to play a little bit. No one thought she’d even live another day, but you stood by her and believed that she could make it.”

  As the pup continued healing, she began showing her true colors—except they weren’t the prettiest of colors in the prettiest of patterns. A white patch here and there, a crowd of hazy black spots around the snout and chest, mottled white blotches against a black torso. And because of the white tip on her tail, she was given a common name for a common dog: Tippy.

  “Now, honey, I’ve tried to find her a good home but nobody needs a little dog right now,” Dad lamented. “I’ve asked around everywhere. I promise, I’ve tried real hard.” Mom knew he was trying about as hard as a man choosing between a lawn mower and a good hammock on a hot summer afternoon.

  “Well, I don’t know who would want her,” Mom said. “Even with her hair grown in and all those sores gone, she’s still kind of ugly and gangly.”

  A few weeks later, after unsuccessfully trying to trade her off on someone, Dad said, “Now, I know she’s not a cute little dog, but I guess she’ll have to do. Nobody else wants her.”

  There. He’d said it. And Mom knew the little lost dog that nobody wa
nted had curled up to stay.

  She would have to sleep out in the laundry room, not in the house, Mom scolded. Dad and Tippy complied with the rules, and their singular friendship sprouted and blossomed in comforting ways—for they came to need each other during Dad’s worst of times.

  “That pup saw your dad through all his pain and cancer for the next three years,” Mom recalled. “Sometimes I think God sent that little dog to be with your dad in the end.”

  After Dad died, Mom went out to the laundry room one day and gazed down at the quiet little creature curled up obediently in her cardboard box bed.

  “Hmmm . . . okay, Tippy,” she said softly. “Maybe it won’t hurt having you come inside the house just once in awhile. It’s awfully lonesome in there.” At that moment, Mom felt connected to the homely little dog, as if Dad’s hands were still reaching down to help them both in time of need.

  In the following months, Tippy and Mom became soul mates of sorts. The cardboard-box bed was brought in from the laundry room to Mom’s bedroom, where it stayed for the next fourteen years.

  “As long as I had that little dog,” Mom said, “it was like a part of your dad was still here. She brought life back into the house.”

  Eventually, the rigors of time and age took their toll on Mom’s little friend; blindness and painful joints set in. With overwhelming sadness and regret, Mom asked my brother to help take Tippy for her final trip to the vet.

  “I reached down to cradle her head in my hands,” Mom said, “and she leaned her face against mine as if to say thanks for all we had done for her.”

  Tippy lived seventeen years after that fateful journey of terror through traffic, rundown warehouses, pain and suffering to find my dad. And looking back over the years, it seems to me now that the true miracle was not in the healing forces of Dad’s loving hands and kindness toward the little lost dog that nobody wanted—but in the difference they made in each other’s lives.