Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  We had gotten Rocky four years earlier, just before my first son, Robert, was born. We all loved him dearly, especially little Robert.

  My heart ached as I drove home. I already missed Rocky. Robert greeted me as I got out of the car. When he asked me where our dog was, I explained that Rocky was in heaven now. I told him Rocky had been so sick, but now he would be happy and be able to run and play all the time. My little four-year-old paused, then looking at me with his clear blue eyes and an innocent smile on his face, he pointed to the sky and said, “He’s up there, right, Dad?” I managed to nod yes, and walked into the house. My wife took one look at my face and started weeping softly herself. Then she asked me where Robert was, and I went back out to the yard to find him.

  In the yard, Robert was running back and forth, tossing a large stick into the air, waiting for it to return to the ground and then picking it up and throwing it higher and higher each time. When I asked what he was doing, he simply turned and smiled.

  “I’m playing with Rocky, Dad . . .”

  S. C. Edwards

  “So you’re little Bobbie; well, Rex here has been going

  on and on about you for the last 50 years.”

  Reprinted by permission of Charles Barsotti.

  The Lone Duck

  Early every morning I’d stand gazing out the window at my husband, Gene, as he left for his walk in his gray running suit. I always felt as though my love for him ran down the driveway and padded along beside him. We’d been married four years. He walked rapidly. Sometimes it looked as though he were trying to hurry away from something or someone. Silly me, I’d think, friendly Gene would never try to avoid anyone. Why, then, did I stand at the window each day and watch him with a gnawing apprehension? Was I reading something into his body language that simply wasn’t there? My husband has often told me I have an overactive imagination.

  When we first met I thought I might be imagining that we were falling in love. But it wasn’t my imagination at all. It was love! Gene was fifty-five when we became acquainted, and I was fifty. We’d both lost our mates of twenty-five years. I’d been a widow for four years when we married and had struggled through my own horrendous process of grieving. For some people, grief takes longer to heal than it does for others.

  Gene’s wife, Phyllis, had been dead only six monthswhen we married. Sometimes when Gene came in from walking, he looked . . . pained, sad. But he’d give me a quick smile. I’d search his handsome face, wondering what might be beneath the sometimes not believable smile.

  After walking, Gene liked to tell me about a pair of ducks on the pond located five houses down from ours. “The ducks know me, honey, and they talk to me,” Gene said one day. “I’ve been feeding the mcracked corn. Even when I don’t have corn, they come out of the water to greet me. I want you to come and see them.” So I went. At the sound of his voice, they came quacking from way across the lake. He bent down to them as they waddled out of the water. And each day after that I’d ask, “What did the ducks say today?” as Gene came in from his walks. Once he told me, “They said, ‘Don’t you dare leave the bank before we get there. See how fast we are swimming to you!’”

  One crisp fall day I heard Gene calling my name over and over as he came in. Something was drastically wrong. I ran from the back of the house to the living room. He sat in his recliner, bent over, his head in his hands. He was crying. He didn’t make any effort to hide his tears. That’s one of the things I love about my husband. He doesn’t run into the bathroom or pretend he has sinus trouble when he cries. I knelt before him, waiting.

  “He’s dead!”

  Who? I wondered. Who is dead? A neighbor? Talk to me, Gene.

  Finally, he looked directly into my eyes and spoke softly, haltingly. “One of the ducks . . . is dead.” I looked into a face filled with fresh grief unleashed without restraint. “He’s lying there in a pile of feathers. The mate is swimming around in circles by the bank, hollering.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do, so I waited. After a few moments Gene stood up and said, “I must bury the duck. The survivor doesn’t understand why her mate can’t get up.”

  I stood up, too, and watched him walk to the garage. He picked up a shovel. Suddenly our garage seemed like another world. A world I wasn’t certain I should enter. Without my shoes and without any knowledge of how to comfort my husband, I followed him, feeling almost like an intruder. I touched his shoulder so gently he could have easily ignored it. “Would it be okay if I go along?” Why am I whispering?

  “Yes, I want you to go,” he said immediately.

  Lord, I don’t know how to help him, or even why I’m going. Please help me. I ran to get my shoes and threw on a jacket. Together we set out for the grim task.

  We heard the survivor’s screams before we reached the water. As Gene dug silently in the red Georgia clay, I sat close to him on the ground, my arms encircling my knees. Rather than look at Gene or the dead duck, I stared at the stunning reflection of the bright red-and-yellow trees in the clear lake. I tried very hard to concentrate on the beauty of fall—but the duck’s panicky calls disturbed any attempts at serenity. The lone duck swam near where Gene dug. “Quack! Quack! Quack!” she wailed. I guess she thought that Gene could somehow make everything okay again. This was the spot where Gene visited with the ducks on the bank. The duck continued to honk.

  I felt like saying, “Look, Duck, it’s over. You must accept death and pain. I know because I’ve lived through it. All this hollering isn’t going to help.” But the duck had never “talked” to me, so I remained quiet, still uncertain of my role in this unusual drama. Then I saw that Gene had brought a plastic sack. We made brief eye contact and he nodded. I gently lifted the still-warm body of the duck and slipped it into the sack.

  Gene kept his eyes on the grave as he dug and started talking to the surviving duck, softly, without ever looking up. She appeared to listen intently as she treaded water inches away. “I know it hurts, Girl. I understand. Really, I do. Life isn’t fair. I’m so sorry, Girl.”

  “Quack. Quack. Quack. Quack. Quack . . .”

  I tightened my arms about my knees and looked up at the incredibly blue sky, thinking, You have to stand it, Duck. You have no choice when you are . . . left. Something akin to agony stirred within me briefly, and tears suddenly stung my eyes.

  To be left—the horror of being left! Gene placed an enormous rock on the grave and we stood looking down at it for what seemed like a long time.

  As we turned and walked away, the lone duck shrieked at us. Then she swam slowly, without purpose, back across the lake. I turned to look at her and was immediately sorry. I’d never seen her swimming across the lake alone before. The picture stuck in my mind. She thinks she has no real reason to live.

  The next morning Gene went walking before I was awake. I was sitting on the sofa when the doorbell rang. An attractive, energetic woman dressed in walking clothes stood there. “Hi. I’m Mary Jo Bailey. I live down the street. Is your husband at home?”

  “No. But please come in. Gene’s walking.”

  Mary Jo got right to the point as we sat down. “I walk too. I discovered the dead duck just before your husband found him. I was back in my house and I saw from the window. I could tell that your husband was deeply upset from the way he walked—fast, but sad.”

  Yes, I knew that walk well.

  “Anyway,” Mary Jo continued, “I have a friend with forty pet ducks, and tomorrow I’m going to get three.” She had an idea that Gene might want to be there when she released them in the lake.

  “I’m sure he would,” I said.

  The next morning Mary Jo came by in her Jeep and we drove to the lake. Gene lifted the large wire cage and set it down gently on the green bank beside the water. The male mallard inside was especially handsome, with lots of green. The two other ducks looked like the lone survivor, except they were much larger. The grieving duck was nowhere in sight, but we heard her lonesome wails. Gene cupped his hands to his mou
th and called, “Here, Girl!”

  She came quacking desperately, leaving a large, graceful V trail in the water. It still shocked me to see her alone. She heard the excited quacks of the new arrivals and swam so fast that she looked somewhat like a speeded-up movie. Her calls changed unmistakably to ones of possible hope. “Quack? Quack? Quack?”

  She approached the bank excitedly as Gene released the three eager ducks. They blended together and quickly went through some kind of get-acquainted ceremony: touching their bills together lightly, again and again, almost as though they were kissing.

  The larger, new ducks swam in big circles back and forth in front of Mary Jo, Gene and me, as though to communicate: “Yes. This will work nicely.” They, being more mature, were sophisticated enough to glide over the water silently. However, the younger duck kept quacking loudly: “Oh, happy day! I was so terrified! I thought I’d be alone forever in this big lake.” Amazingly, I was learning to understand duck talk!

  Mary Jo drove off, waving. Gene and I waved back, and then Gene reached out and pulled me to him. Tight and close. In fact, I’d never felt quite so close to him, or so needed.

  “Let’s go home,” he said. We walked past the grave with the large stone marker and up the hill with our arms around each other.

  Marion Bond West

  With These Hands

  With my bare hands, I finished mounding the dirt over Pepsi’s grave. Then I sat back, reflecting on the past and absorbing all that had happened.

  As I stared at my dirt-stained hands, tears instantly welled in my eyes. These were the same hands that, as a veterinarian, had pulled Pepsi, a little miniature schnauzer, wiggling from his mother. Born the runt and only half-alive, I had literally breathed life into the dog that was destined to become my father’s closest friend on earth. I didn’t know then just how close.

  Pepsi was my gift to Dad. My father always had big dogs on our farm in southern Idaho, but instantly, Pepsi and Dad formed an inseparable bond. For ten years, they shared the same food, the same chair, the same bed, the same everything. Wherever Dad was, Pepsi was. In town, on the farm or on the run . . . they were always side-by-side. My mom accepted that Dad and the little dog had a marriage of sorts.

  Now Pepsi was gone. And less than three months earlier, we had buried my dad.

  Dad had been depressed for a number of years. And one afternoon, just days after his eightieth birthday, Dad decided to take his own life in the basement of our old farmhouse. We were all shocked and devastated.

  Family and friends gathered at the house that evening to comfort my mother and me. Later, after the police and all the others had left, I finally noticed Pepsi’s frantic barking and let him into the house. I realized then that the little dog had been barking for hours. He had been the only one home that day when Dad decided to end his life. Like a lightning bolt, Pepsi immediately ran down to the basement.

  Earlier that evening, I had promised myself that I would never go back into that basement again. It was just too painful. But now, filled with fear and dread, I found myself heading down the basement stairs in hot pursuit of Pepsi.

  When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I found Pepsi standing rigid as a statue, staring at the spot where Dad had lain dying just hours before. He was trembling and agitated. I picked him up gently and started back up the stairs. Once we reached the top, Pepsi went from rigid to limp in my arms and emitted an anguished moan. I placed him tenderly in Dad’s bed, and he immediately closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  When I told my mom what had happened, she was amazed. In the ten years Pepsi had lived in that house, the little dog had never once been in the basement. Mom reminded me that Pepsi was scared to death of stairs and always had to be carried up even the lowest and broadest of steps.

  Why, then, had Pepsi charged down those narrow, steep basement steps? Had Dad cried out for help earlier that day? Had he called good-bye to his beloved companion? Or had Pepsi simply sensed that Dad was in trouble? What had called out to him so strongly that Pepsi was compelled to go down to the basement, despite his fears?

  The next morning when Pepsi awoke, he searched for my father. Distraught, the little dog continued looking for Dad for weeks.

  Pepsi never recovered from my father’s death. He became withdrawn and progressively weaker. Dozens of tests and a second opinion confirmed the diagnosis I knew to be true—Pepsi was dying of a broken heart. Now, despite my years of training, I felt helpless to prevent the death of my father’s cherished dog.

  Sitting by Pepsi’s freshly mounded grave, suddenly things became clear. Over the years, I’d marveled at the acute senses dogs possess. Their hearing, sight and smell are all superior to humans. Sadly, their life span is short in comparison, and I had counseled and comforted thousands of people grieving over the loss of their adored pets.

  Never before, though, had I considered how it was for pets to say good-bye to their human companions. Having watched Pepsi’s unflagging devotion to Dad and the dog’s rapid decline after Dad’s death, I realized that our pets’ sense of loss was at least equal to our own.

  I am grateful for the love Pepsi lavished on my father. And for his gift to me—a deeper compassion and understanding of pets, which has made me a better veterinarian. Pepsi’s search for Dad is over now; together again, my father and his loyal little dog have finally found peace.

  Marty Becker, D.V.M.

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

  Soul to Soul

  I work at the Colorado State University Veterinary Teaching Hospital as a counselor in The Changes Program. We help people deal with the experience of losing a pet, whether through illness, accident or euthanasia.

  One time, I had a client named Bonnie, a woman in her mid-fifties. Bonnie had driven an hour and a half from Laramie, Wyoming, to see if the doctors at the hospital could do anything to help her fourteen-year-old black standard poodle, Cassandra, affectionately called Cassie. The dog had been lethargic for a week or so and seemed to be confused at times. The local veterinarian had not been able to diagnose any underlying medical problem, so Bonnie had decided to head to CSU for a second opinion.

  Unfortunately, Bonnie hadn’t gotten the answer she had hoped for. She had been told earlier that morning by neurologist Dr. Jane Bush that Cassie had a brain tumor that could take Cassie’s life at any time.

  Bonnie was devastated to learn that her companion animal was so ill. She had been given detailed information about all the treatment options that were available to her. They all would only buy Cassie a few weeks. There was, they emphasized, no hope for a cure.

  That was when Bonnie was introduced to me. The Changes Program often helps people while they wrestle with the difficult decision of whether to euthanize a pet or let nature take its course.

  Bonnie had graying, light-brown wavy hair that she pulled back into a large barrette. The day I met her she was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a white blouse with pink stripes. She had sparkling light blue eyes that immediately drew my attention, and there was a calmness about her that told me she was a person who thought things through, a woman who did not make hasty decisions. She seemed familiar and down to earth, like the kind of people I grew up with in Nebraska.

  I began by telling her I realized how tough it was to be in her situation. Then I explained that the doctor had asked me to become involved in her case because there were many difficult decisions she needed to make. When I finished, she commented quite matter-of-factly, “I know about grief and I know that sometimes we need help to get through it.”

  For twenty years, Bonnie had been married to a man who mistreated her. He was abusive and neglectful in all ways possible. He was an alcoholic, so it was often impossible to predict what would happen from one day to the next. Bonnie had tried many, many times to leave him, but she just couldn’t do it. Finally, when she turned forty-five years old, she found the courage to walk away. She and Cassie, who was four years old at the time, mo
ved to Laramie, Wyoming, to heal the old hurts and begin a new life. Cassie loved her and needed her and, for Bonnie, the feeling was mutual. There were many rough times ahead, but Bonnie and Cassie got through them together.

  Six years later, Bonnie met Hank, a man who loved her in a way that she had never been loved. They met through her church and soon learned they had a great deal in common. They were married one year later. Their marriage was ripe with discussion, affection, simple routines and happiness. Bonnie was living the life for which she had always hoped.

  One morning, Hank was preparing to leave for work at his tree-trimming service. As always, he and Bonnie embraced one another in the doorway of their home and acknowledged out loud how blessed they were to have each other. It was not unusual for them to say these things. They both were very aware of the “specialness” of the other.

  Bonnie worked at home that day rather than going into her office, where she held a position as an office assistant. Late in the afternoon, her phone rang. When she picked it up, she heard the voice of the team leader who headed the search-and-rescue service for which Bonnie was a volunteer. Bonnie was often one of the first volunteers called when someone was in trouble.

  That day, Margie told her a man had been electrocuted on a power line just two blocks from Bonnie’s house. Bonnie dropped everything, flew out of her house and jumped into her truck.

  When Bonnie arrived at the house, she saw an image that would be engraved in her mind for the rest of her life. Her beloved Hank hung lifelessly from the branches of a tall cottonwood tree.

  All of the training that Bonnie had received about safely helping someone who has been electrocuted left her. She wasn’t concerned about her own safety. She had to do everything she could to save Hank. She just had to get him down. She grabbed the ladder stowed in her truck, threw it up against the house and began climbing. Bonnie crawled onto the top of the roof and pulled Hank’s body out of the tree toward her. Miraculously, even though she touched his body, which was touching the power line, she was not electrocuted herself. She pulled Hank onto the brown shingles of the roof and cradled his head in the crook of her arm. She wailed as she looked at his ashen face. His eyes stared out into the bright blue Wyoming sky. He was dead. Gone. He could not be brought back to life. She knew to the core of her being that the life they shared was over.