by Colleen Sell
A CUP OF COMFORT for Dog Lovers
Stories that celebrate love, loyalty, and companionship
Edited by Colleen Sell
Copyright © 2007, 2001 by F+W Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
A Cup of Comfort® is a registered trademark of F+W Publications, Inc.
Published by Adams Media, an F+W Publications Company 57 Littlefield Street, Avon, MA 02322 U.S.A. www.adamsmedia.com and www.cupofcomfort.com
ISBN 10: 1-59869-269-0
ISBN 13: 978-1-59869-269-3 (paperback)
ISBN 13: 978-1-60550-379-0 (EPUB)
Printed in the United States of America.
J I H G F E D C B A
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A cup of comfort for dog lovers / edited by Colleen Sell.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59869-269-3 (pbk.)
ISBN-13: 978-1-60550-379-0 (EPUB)
ISBN-10: 1-59869-269-0 (pbk.)
1. Dogs — Anecdotes. 2. Dog owners — Anecdotes. 3. Human-animal relationships — Anecdotes. I. Sell, Colleen.
SF426.2.C85 2007
636.7 — dc22 2007017702
This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information with regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional advice. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.
— From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Adams Media was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.
This book is available at quantity discounts for bulk purchases. For information, please call 1-800-289-0963.
For Brianna, my little dog lover, whose doggie dreams will one day come true.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction • Colleen Sell
Bloodlines and Heartstrings • Lyndell King
Sisters • Tanya Sousa
A Gift Returned • Amy Walton
Converting Ray • Samantha Ducloux Waltz
Free Willy • Lori M. Myers
Comrades • Hope Irvin Marston
A Leave from Absence • Lad Moore
Butkus on Guard • Beth Rothstein Ambler
A Heeling Heart • Emily Alexander Strong
Green Roof, Red Car, Dog on Roof • Gail Sattler
Puzzle • Ellen D. Hosafros
Trouble on the Hoof • Carolyn Blankenship
For the Love of a Dog • Dennis Jamison
Ditto, Darling • Ginny Greene
The Anti-Alpha Male • Loy Michael Cerf
Some Kind of Wonderful • Karin Fuller
The Major • Priscilla Carr
Blind Trust • Laurie Alice Skonicki-Eakes
The Escape Artist • Sharyn L. Bolton
My Saving Grace • Sue Lamoree
The Rent Collector • Marcia Rudoff
Where the Need Is Greatest • Tish Davidson
The Cost of a Dog • Cathy C. Hall
Born to Be Wild • Amy Rose Davis
Sandy Dreams • Lisa Ricard Claro
Hope in a Dumpster • Sue Dallman-Carrizales
Doggie Do-Si-Do • Susan Luzader
Dogs Who Do Things • Marion Roach
Beauty in the Beast • Brenda Kezar
Sweeter Than Ice Cream • Dallas Woodburn
The Tail of a Chesapeake • Allison Maher
The Gift That Keeps Giving • Kathleen Gerard
If He Only Had a Brain • Marsha Mott Jordan
Bellatrix • Marla Doherty
My Black-and-White Wonder • Julie Clark Robinson
The Human Whisperer • Julie Matherly
Sonata for Bach • Robert Rohloff
Clod of My Heart • Beth Rothstein Ambler
Strange Bedfellows • Marilyn A. Gelman
Who's the Boss? • Ava Pennington
The Ultimate Designer Dog • Linda Douglas
Cosmic Changes • Gretchen Stahlman
Ginger, Come Home • Susan Mayer Davis
The Sweet Days of Autumn • Christy Caballero
Big Ole' Mix-Up Dog • Kristine Downs
Dogs Eat Bread? • Candace Carrabus
Away, Sam • Kathryn Godsiff
Contributors
Tell Your Story in the Next Cup of Comfort®
About the Editor
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks go to:
The authors whose stories grace these pages and to the 2,500 or so other writers whose stories I thoroughly enjoyed but could not publish in this book;
You, dear readers, for allowing us to share these stories with you;
The stellar team at Adams Media, particularly Meredith O'Hayre, Laura Daly, Paula Munier, Gary Krebs, Beth Gissinger, Tracie Telling Barzdukas, and Jennifer Oliveira.
My husband, Nikk, for supporting me in my work, for being my light and my laughter, and for bringing Woody into my life.
Introduction
“He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, and his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion.”
Unknown
Upon turning eighteen recently, my eldest grandson used his birthday money to buy two items that, as a minor, he’d been forbidden: a tattoo and a dog. The tattoo surprised me. Scott, an honor student and athlete, doesn't strike me as the tattoo type (whatever that is). The dog, though, had been a long time coming. Scott has longed for a dog since he was a toddler. From the age of five, he even knew which dog he wanted: a Siberian husky. Only a husky would do … until his 18th birthday, when he met, fell for, and bought an English bulldog. That surprised me a little too. Nash's price tag flat-out floored me. The pup cost more than my daughter's (Scott's mom's) first car!
Nash was worth every cent. Scott adores him, and so does Scott's adorable girlfriend, Amanda. Scott's mother, Jennifer, on the other hand, was not so enamored. A drooling, loose-skinned, slack-jawed, sixty-pound puppy is an acquired taste, even for some dog lovers. Jennifer is not a dog lover.
Then one day, Nash plopped down next to Jen on the sofa, singling her out from the other six people in the room, including Scott and his crazy-for-dogs, ten-year-old sister, Brianna. Heaving a big love sigh, Nash then rested his head on Jen's knee, where it remained for the rest of the movie. A few days later, he rested his big slobbery jaw on Jen's shoulder as she was driving.
“That was it,” Jen told me later, “I was a goner. Couldn't help it. He's so sweet.”
I wasn't quite the pushover. Though I loved dogs as a young child, I became fearful of them after a stray German shepherd attacked me while I played in our backyard. Our tiny terrier mix, Tally, came to my defense before the shepherd could seriously hurt me. Tally jumped up, sunk her teeth into the big dog's neck, and wouldn't let go. I ran into the house for help. When my mom, armed with a shovel, and I reached Tally, she was lying on the grass, bleeding, and the shepherd was gone. The stray apparently had distemper, and Tally succumbed to it several weeks later. I was heartbroken, but from then on, I was leery of dogs.
&n
bsp; As the mother of three kids and the wife of a “dog person” who felt that kids and dogs go hand-in-paw, I welcomed … well, allowed … several dogs into our family. But I didn't really love them.
When my kids were all grown and gone, I relished the freedom of being pet-less. No fish. No birds. No lizards. No dogs. Then I fell in love with, you guessed it, a dog lover. When we met, Nikk was dog-less, still mourning the loss of his beloved pit bull, Baron (short for The Red Baron, after the Peanuts character Woodstock's alter ego). Apparently, our romance helped heal his heart, because before long he wanted another dog.
I protested: “Look, I'm just not a dog person.”
“Well, I am,” he insisted. “He'll be an outside dog,” he said. “I'll train him and take care of him,” he promised. “All you'll have to do is love him.” He grinned.
“Don't hold your breath,” I said.
Not long after, Nikk came home with a six-week-old border collie/Australian shepherd mix — with a beautiful, silky coat and the most intelligent and expressive eyes I've ever seen in an animal. Nikk considered naming him Linus, another Peanuts character. (Before Baron, there'd been Snoopy.) But to honor me, the writer, he named our new pup Woodstock (“Woody”), after the character who typed his masterpieces atop Snoopy's doghouse.
True to his word, as he always is, Nikk took full responsibility for Woody's care and trained him to be an obedient, quiet farm dog. He comes inside the house only if invited — when the weather is bad or when he's under the weather. Even then, he has to be coaxed, and he always stays in the laundry room — without being commanded to “stay.” He is quite the gentleman.
Very smart. Extremely athletic. Highly skilled. Affectionate. Devoted.
Goodness, I'm bragging about my dog. Yes, my dog. Somewhere along the way, Woody became mine, too, and true to his breed, guarding me became his most important “job.” For nine years, he has been my walking buddy and fierce protector. To think of life without him brings tears to my eyes, so I push those thoughts aside and think, instead, of all the “Woody stories” that brighten our days.
I used to wonder how dog lovers could sit around talking about their pets the way other people tell stories about their kids and grandkids and the good old days. Having truly loved a dog, I no longer wonder. Oh, the stories I could tell about my Woody!
How he jumped a ten-foot fence to reach me after I'd done a face plant while hoeing my vegetable garden, a no-dog zone he'd never before breached. I woke up to Woody licking my ear, nudging my arm with his paw, and whining pitifully.
How he chased away a big brown bear that had rumbled across our path during a walk.
How he wailed outside my bedroom window as I wailed on my bed inside, the day I received the devastating news of my son's neurobiological disorder and the grim prognosis it entailed. The sound of his sympathetic howls snapped me out of my keening and made me smile.
He makes me smile often and enriches my life in countless ways. I've got so many Woody stories to tell, I could fill a whole book with them.
But this book isn't about my dog. A Cup of Comfort® for Dog Lovers is filled with heartwarming stories about the canine companions of other dog lovers. I hope you'll enjoy these stories as much as I enjoy my dog, Woodstock.
˜Colleen Sell
Bloodlines and Heartstrings
There's no denying the beauty of purebred dogs — the perfection of lines, the even coloring, the uniformity of features. Lovely. I also strongly believe in obedience training, whether that consists of formal classes or extensive home training, to teach pets social manners and to make them easier to live with. It's a tenet of good pet ownership. But sometimes bloodlines and training take a backseat to good, old, scruffy mongrel love. Such is the case with our much-adored pound puppy, Frinkle.
Frinkle? Um, yeah. The name conjures up images of a prissy toy poodle or a yapping bichon frise, doesn't it? However, Stinky Frinky, as I like to call her in criticism of the perfumes she rolls in, is our huge-as-a-bear rottweiler-cross. Maybe it will help if I explain she was named by our four-year-old son, Liam, who has Asperger's syndrome.
Liam is our special child, in the same way Frinky is special. Sometimes it takes the eyes of love to see unusual value. Asperger's, like other forms of autism, reduces a child's ability to relate to others. Though his Asperger's is fairly mild, it was enough to make him incredibly lonely and isolated as a young child, which is why we'd decided to visit the pound for some permanent pet therapy. Who says money can't buy love?
“A small dog,” I insisted, as we wandered through the cages of forlorn canine faces. “Something my son can handle and nurse in his lap.”
Liam and his dad nodded and stared at the overfull cages of unwanted beasts. I'm sure if Liam had been allowed, he would've taken all the dogs home. They looked like they needed someone to care. Then he laid eyes on Frinkle and stopped walking. With a soft yip, she galloped over to stick her velvety muzzle through the bars, her tail wagging in circles so quickly it was a wonder she didn't take off. Liam's eyes grew as round as two full moons.
“I want this one,” he yelled, stroking her floppy ears and being licked like the world's last lollypop.
I glanced at the Godzilla-sized paws, the broad head that spoke of her rottweiler blood, and the wonky back leg that looked suspiciously like an expensive vet-care-requiring hip dysplasia.
“Honey, you want a small dog that will fit in your lap,” I reiterated.
“She's small,” he argued.
Compared to what? Mount Everest? Okay, so the puppy would fit in his lap at the moment, but she was barely eight weeks old. Anyone could see this creature would shoot up faster than Jack's magic beans and be fe-fi-fo-fumming around my kitchen in no time. I'd be the no-gold goose for agreeing to this purchase, and we'd have to extend our mortgage to feed her. Besides, didn't rottweilers have a bad reputation for turning on their owners? I think they were once used for hunting bears. That's not what the mother of a young child wants roaming freely with her unpredictable offspring.
I firmed my lip and shook my head no. End of discussion, right? Um, no. That was logic talking. Try explaining those reasons to any four-year-old, much less one with Asperger's. The inevitable happened. My son squatted by the cage to hug Frinkle through the bars. She whimpered in an I-was-made-for-you puppy voice. I stared at the two lovers locked in their fast embrace and caved faster than a spelunker. It likely saved us all time, effort, and tears, anyway, because Liam was determined not to look at any other dog and would have worn me down eventually. Love never gives up, the Bible says. So true. Especially when it's driven by a preschooler's tenacity.
From the moment we brought the over-pawed puppy home, she was my son's dog. She followed him around, sniffing his heels, stealing any sandwiches he waved too low, and resting her brown eyes on him with such adoration that we expected her to melt into a large chocolate pool at his small, dirty feet. Anywhere he went, she followed. Anything he did, so would she. It was like rearing conjoined twins. Never did I see the slightest sign of aggression from her. She had to be the sweetest-natured dog on God's green earth.
But despite her dedication to Liam and hours of frustrated lessons from both of us, her leash technique left much to be desired — much. Like Pooh Bear's Tigger, Frinky loves to bounce. Leash, no leash, it's all the same to her. When you weigh as much as she does, one bounce does the trick. Everything attached to you bounces too, and keeps bouncing like a series of seismic shocks. Taking her for a walk is hazardous to dentures. Even half an hour after her spaying operation, the vet couldn't stop her from almost leaping out of her stitches in the recovery cage. He said he'd never seen a dog do that before.
Then he saw Liam bouncing with excitement to see his dog when we came to pick her up. He smiled at me and said, “She's his, isn't she?” No denying that, no matter whose name was on the ownership papers.
So where do purebred dogs come into this story, you ask? Well, one day when Frinky was about three years old, my son
read in the newspaper that a new vet surgery center was setting up in our area, and as part of their opening celebration they were having a “top dog” competition, open to all hounds in the community.
Liam tapped his finger on the ad as he slurped his glass of milk at the kitchen table. “I'm going to enter Frinkle,” he said confidently.
I almost choked on my tea. I squinted at our shaggy mutt and her clumsy disproportioned body. Though she ate everything not nailed down and was the size of a small airliner, she never quite grew into her paws. Sure, we loved her, but form? Grace? Style? Those were mere words in the dictionary and not appropriate here. The tutu-wearing hippos of Fantasia sprang to mind. Frinky noticed me looking and wagged her tail. It thumped the floor. China rattled in the cupboards.
Liam's eyes were bright. He didn't have a doubt in his body. “She's sure to win,” he said with an enormous grin.
Oh, brother! I looked at Frinkle again. Win? Only if she ate the competition. I tried my best, but nothing would dissuade or distract Liam from his purpose.
The day came. There we stood, holding the end of a lead with a huge bouncing dog on the other end. We tried to wend our way through the crowds of beautifully coifed, pure-bred, perfectly behaved beasts. Outclassed? You bet. The noses around me might have been cool and wet and stuck up in the air, but mine was red hot and wrinkled with embarrassment as I tried to whistle and pretend I wasn't being dragged up to the registration desk by a canine yo-yo. If I could have sunken into the grass I would have.