For the next week, if you came to my front door, here’s what happened: You heard the loud barking of two dogs going into Red Alert mode, but you did not see any immediate dogs. Instead, you heard a lot of bumping and clunking, which turned out to be the sound of a large dog limping frantically toward you but suffering a major traction loss on every fourth step because of a plastic bag, combined with the sound of a very small dog trying desperately to keep up but bonking his collar into furniture, doorways, etc. And then, finally, skidding around the corner, still barking, there appeared the dynamite duo: Bagfoot and Satellite Head.
During this week I was not the least bit worried about burglars because if anyone had tried to break into my house, I would have found him the next morning, lying on the floor. Dead from laughter.
Dave Barry
Marty Had a Little Lamb
It was lambing season. The neighbors’ phone call brought my dad and me rushing to their barn to help with a difficult delivery. We found a lamb whose mother had died while giving birth. The orphan was weak, cold, still shrouded with the placenta, and walking on impossibly tall and wobbly legs. I bundled him up in my coat and put him in the pickup truck for the short ride back to our small family farm in rural Idaho.
We drove through our barnyard, passing cows, pigs, chickens, dogs and cats, but Dad headed straight for the house. I didn’t know it yet, but that lamb was destined to become more than an ordinary sheep, just as I was destined to be more than an ordinary seven-year-old boy—I was about to become a mommy!
Cradling the lamb in my arms, I brought him into the kitchen. While Mom and I wiped the lamb down with dry towels, Dad stoked the furnace with coal so that the newborn would have warming heat to drive away the cold. As I petted his curly little head, the tiny creature tried sucking on my fingers. He was hungry! We slipped a nipple over a pop bottle full of warm milk and stuck it into his mouth. He latched on, and instantly his jaws pumped like a machine, sending the nourishing milk to his stomach.
As soon as he started eating, his tail started wagging furiously. Then suddenly his eyes popped open for the first time, and he looked me right in the eye. He gave me that miraculous moment-of-birth look that every mother knows. The look that says, unmistakably, “Hello Mommy! I’m yours, you’re mine, ain’t life fine!”
A young boy with tousled blond hair and thick black glasses doesn’t look much like a sheep. But this little lamb didn’t care in the least. The important thing was that he had a mom—me!
I named him Henry and, just like the nursery rhyme, everywhere that Marty went, the lamb was sure to go. The instant bond we shared that first day turned into the same deep kind of connection that develops between mother and child. We were always together. I’d feed, exercise and bathe Henry. I’d scold him sternly when he got out in the road. Imagine the amazement and delight of my classmates when I had a couple of dogs and a sheep run to meet me at the school bus! Every day after school, Henry and I played games together until we both fell asleep, side by side, in the tall cool grass of the pasture.
As I grew up, Henry grew older. Never once, however, did he forgot that I was his mom. Even as a full-grown ram, he nuzzled me fondly, rubbing his big woolly head against my leg whenever he saw me. Functioning as a four-legged lawn mower and wool-covered dog at the Becker farm, Henry had a happy, healthy, full life for the rest of his days.
People sometimes ask me why I became a veterinarian. The answer is: Henry. At seven years old, my love for animals was still just a spark. But it ignited into a flame at that magical moment when I became a mother to a hungry little lamb.
Marty Becker, D.V.M.
The Ice Breaker
It was the perfect setting—a beautiful log house on forty acres of land. We had a solid marriage; we even had the loyal family dog. All that was missing was kids. We had tried for many years to have children, but it just never happened. So my husband, Al, and I applied to be foster parents. We decided we should start with an older child for a number of good reasons. Since we both worked, child care might be a problem. Corby, our springer spaniel—and our only “child” thus far—might be a bit too energetic for a young child to handle. And frankly, we novices were a little nervous about taking on an infant. We sat back to wait the few months they thought it might take to get a school-age child—which was why we were floored when the agency called us within weeks, just before Christmas, and asked if we would take Kaleb, a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, for a few months. It was an emergency, and he needed a home right away.
This wasn’t what we had discussed so rationally a few weeks before. There were so many difficulties—it was such short notice, we had made holiday plans and most of all, the boy was a toddler! We went back and forth, and in the end, we just couldn’t say no.
“It’s only for a couple of months,” my husband assured me. It would all work out, we told each other, but privately I was full of doubts.
The day was set for Kaleb to arrive. The car pulled up to our house and I saw Kaleb through the car window. The reality of the situation hit me and I felt my stomach tighten. What were we doing? This child we didn’t know anything about was coming to live with us. Were we really ready to take this on? Glancing at my husband, I knew the same thoughts were going through his mind.
We went outside to greet our little guest. But before we could even reach the child, I heard a noise from behind me. Turning, I saw Corby tearing down the steps and heading straight for the little boy. In our hurry, we must not have closed the door completely. I gasped. Corby, in all her excitement, would frighten Kaleb—probably even knock him down. Oh no, I thought, what a way to start our first meeting! Kaleb will be so terrified he won’t even want to go into the house with us. This whole thing’s just not going to work out!
Corby reached Kaleb before either of us could grab her. She bounded up to the boy and immediately began licking his face in a frenzy of joy. In response, this darling little boy threw his arms around the dog’s neck and turned toward us. His face alight with ecstasy, he cried, “Can this be my dog?”
My eyes met my husband’s and we stood there, smiling at each other. In that moment, our nervousness disappeared, and we knew everything would be just fine.
Kaleb came to stay those few months. Eight-and-a-half years later, he is still with us. Yes, we adopted Kaleb. He became our son, and Corby . . . well, she couldn’t have been happier. She turned out to be Kaleb’s dog, after all.
Diane Williamson
Kids Say The Darndest Things—
About Dogs
I believe all kids should have pets. It’s an essential part of growing up. There’s a mystic kinship between a boy and his dog, a sharing of love and trust that’s unique. A boy’s dog is a pal, a companion, a comforter when tears come, and the best listener to whispered secrets. At the price of a dog tag and a bowl of food each day, a pup’s probably the biggest bargain in any kid’s life.
Children love to talk about their pets, and with characteristic freedom, they weave many a fanciful tale of improbable goings on:
There was the girl who was befuddled about the sweet mysteries of life:
“Do you have any pets?” I asked her.
“Yes—we have a dog that just laid six puppies.”
“Do you have a pet?” I asked one youngster.
“A dog.”
“Does he have a pedigree?”
“Sure, lots of them.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he bites himself all the time.”
Perhaps the answer that brought the biggest laugh from our listeners on the fateful pedigree question was this exchange:
“Do you have any pets?”
“Yes—a cat and a dog.”
“Do they have pedigrees?”
“No, we took them out.”
One Link in my own family chain loves dogs, so when he saw a magnificent Saint Bernard on the leash, he rushed up, hugged him and then began to stroke his long, bushy tail. Moments later, his mother ca
me along and was horrified to see her child clutching the tail of the tremendous animal.
“Get away from that beast!” she shouted. “He’ll bite you!”
“Oh no, Mommy,” he reassured her. “This end never bites!”
On the other hand, one little four-year-old cried bitterly when a large friendly dog bounded up to him and licked his hands and face.
“What is it, darling?” cried his mother. “Did he bite you?”
“No,” came the reply. “But he tasted me.”
Then there was little Susan, who was inclined to exaggeration. Her stories always seemed so full of adventures, and she could never be talked into admitting the complete truth. One day she was playing in the front yard when a fox terrier belonging to a neighbor darted at her playfully. With a shriek of fright, Susan fled to her mother and yelled:
“Mama, a great big lion ran down the street, jumped over the fence and almost ate me up.”
“Susan,” said her mother sternly, “aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I was sitting here at the window and saw the whole thing. Now you go in your room and get down on your knees and confess that it was just a little pet dog and you lied to your mother. Ask the Lord to forgive you for this sin.”
Susan reluctantly went to her room and shut the door. In less than a minute she opened the door and poked her head out.
“It’s all right, Mother,” she said. “I told God all about it and he says he could hardly blame me. He thought it was a lion, too, when he first saw it.”
And while we’re on the subject of children and animals, I love this quickie:
“Hurry, Mother, and come look,” said little James when he saw his first snake. “Here’s a tail wagging without any dog on it!”
Art Linkletter
DENNIS the MENACE
“That’s funny . . . my dad can tell if it’s a boy or a girl
just by lookin’ at the bottom of its feet.”
DENNIS THE MENACE® used by permission of Hank Ketcham and ©by North America Syndicate.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
One afternoon, I was in the backyard hanging the laundry when an old, tired-looking dog wandered into the yard. I could tell from his collar and well-fed belly that he had a home. But when I walked into the house, he followed me, sauntered down the hall and fell asleep in a corner. An hour later, he went to the door, and I let him out. The next day he was back. He resumed his position in the hallway and slept for an hour.
This continued for several weeks. Curious, I pinned a note to his collar: “Every afternoon your dog comes to my house for a nap.”
The next day he arrived with a different note pinned to his collar: “He lives in a home with ten children—he’s trying to catch up on his sleep.”
Susan F. Roman
“He’s very good at down boy!”
Reprinted by permission of Martha F. Campbell.
The Legacy
When I was growing up, we always had boxers. One time my dad, who was a macho kind of guy, fell in love with a magnificent, black-and-tan Doberman who had just come from the show circuit. Dad had to have this beautiful animal, so he purchased him and brought him home. His name was Baron. He was a young, non-neutered male, about eleven months old. Having been raised for the show ring, Baron had no experience with children. I was five at the time, the second of four kids. Like most homes with young children, there was usually a lot of noise and activity at our house. My parents figured since Baron was relatively young, he would adapt quickly to his new life.
One day, not long after Dad brought Baron home, I came running inside the house, all bundled up from playing in the snow. Not seeing Baron sleeping on the floor, I accidentally stepped on him. Dobermans are highly reactive dogs—this is one of the reasons they make such good guard and police dogs. But in this circumstance, it spelled disaster. Baron leaped up and in his fright grabbed me by the face. His top teeth penetrated my left cheek and my upper lip, just below my nose, while his bottom teeth tore right through my chin. My parents rushed me to the emergency room, where I had immediate reconstructive surgery. When they brought me home, all stitched and bandaged, they put me straight to bed.
When Dad came up to check on me a little while later, he stopped in the doorway to my room, startled by the scene in front of him. Baron had crept into my room. The dog had nudged my elbow with his nose, and by continuing his nudging, had managed to work his head under my arm so that my arm lay across his shoulders. He rested his great black head on my sleeping chest and sat there, still as a statue. Watching and guarding, he conducted a vigil of apology and love. My father said that Baron never moved, but held the same position through the long hours of the night.
Amazingly enough, I have no physical disfigurement from my encounter with Baron. And no lasting fear of dogs, as so often happens in these cases. When I think of Baron, I hardly remember his fierceness; instead, I recall the weight of his head on my chest and the concern in his expressive eyes. I had talked about wanting to be a veterinarian even before this incident, and my love for animals actually grew stronger after experiencing Baron’s true display of sorrow. Even now, I still chuckle a little inside every time I treat a Dobie.
Baron’s story has become a family legend. My mom rescued an adult Dobie and kept him until he died. Of course, she named him Baron. My younger sister has two Dobermans and, yes, one is named Baron.
Baron was a great dog in the wrong situation. We found him a home where there were no children, and he lived the rest of his life there, happy and loved.
Jeff Werber, D.V.M.
The Truth About Annie
Taco, an orange-winged Amazon, came to us as a rescue bird. Taco had started to pluck. He tore at his back with such a vengeance that he made himself ill. The cost of treating him was beyond his owner’s financial capability, so we agreed to take him. We picked him up at the veterinarian’s office after he and his owner had said their good-byes.
The essential elements for beautiful feathers and a healthy bird are sound nutrition and a lot of love. We introduced Taco to the diet that our birds thrive on, and within just a few days he lost interest in his back and began playing with the wooden toys in his cage.
By the end of the first week, he was fully acclimated to the food, his cage and his neighbors, Gideon, a double-yellow-headed Amazon, and Tutt, a Mexican red-headed Amazon. Taco accepted the constant handling, bathing and talking going on around him without any hesitation.
Two weeks passed and Taco began acting like a normal Amazon, with one exception. He wasn’t talking. In fact, he wasn’t making any sounds. This is highly unusual for an Amazon. Most parrots will mimic what they hear in their own environment: a cat’s meow, a creaky door and, depending on the parrot, even an entire sentence. Taco didn’t whistle or squeak. He was completely silent. I decided to give him one more week and then take him back to the vet for a more thorough checkup.
Friday mornings are bath-and-cage cleaning day at our house. This particular Friday, I decided Taco was ready for his first community bath. I opened his cage and put my hand in, and he stepped onto my finger. I held him at eye level and said, “Taco, aren’t you ever going to talk?”
He cocked his head to one side, fluffed his feathers and said, “Annie died. Poor Annie. Annie is bleeding.”
The shock was immense. I think my mouth was hanging open. I know the goose bumps were visible on my arms.
Hurrying through the baths and the cleaning of the cages, I was finally able to call our vet and ask for Taco’s previous owner’s telephone number. I had to know who Annie was. Had Taco witnessed a crime? Had a member of his household died? Maybe he was talking about another animal that lived in one of his previous homes.
I called Taco’s most recent owner and told her what Taco had said. She said she had never heard him say that or anything else during the four years she had owned him. She definitely didn’t know anyone named Annie. She gave me the name and telephone number of the person from whom she had bought Taco.
After a short conversation with this owner, it was clear he had never heard Taco say a word the entire time he had owned him, either. That was one of the reasons he had sold Taco. He wanted a bird that talked, and Taco never did. He had purchased Taco from a breeder near Chico, California, but he couldn’t remember the breeder’s name. It seemed I was at a dead end.
In the meantime, Taco was becoming more vocal and was adding to his tale about Annie. His new version was, “Annie died. Annie died. Poor Annie, she is bleeding. Oh, poor Annie.”
The president of our bird club gave me some names and numbers of breeders in the area where Taco came from originally. Each phone call led to another dead end, but I wouldn’t give up. I was determined to get to the bottom of this!
My husband suggested that I call the library in Chico and check the local newspaper obituaries going back to the time that Taco might have lived there. The reference librarian was intrigued with the story that Taco was telling and was very helpful. She said she would call her brother, who worked for the police department, and ask him to check their records as well.
Two days passed and the librarian hadn’t called. Taco repeated his story so many times that our Congo grays, Jack and Jill, started saying “Poor Annie,” too.
Spurred on by the growing chorus of “Poor Annie’s,” I decided to check on the librarian’s progress. She answered on the first ring. “Have you found anything?” I asked.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “My brother went back fifteen years in their records and he couldn’t find anything either.” She took a deep breath and asked, “Are you sure the bird is saying ‘Annie’?”
I told her that at this point that was the only thing of which I was sure. I thanked her for her help and hung up.
Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul Page 29