A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  “We want to enter my dog, Frinkle,” Liam said as soon as his turn came to talk to the woman jotting down entrants.

  “Sorry,” the sweet-smiling receptionist said into his eager face, “but only adults can enter the dogs.”

  “Oh.” His face fell. My heart twisted. Frinkle spun her head to look at me, goad me, shame me into giving her a chance. So I did. I signed her up. I figured I was already so embarrassed at the leap-and-drag display through the crowd that having her run amok in the obstacle course couldn't make it any worse.

  We took our position as part of the crowd at the side of the track and stood watching a series of stunning dogs. They jumped through hoops, walked across beams, and slithered under tarps. No way would Frinky do any of that. She'd never even seen half of this equipment before, much less done an obstacle course. The only thing I knew she'd excel at was eating the bowl of dog food they were promoting. They'd be lucky if she left the placemat it rested on.

  Our turn came. The judge called our name. The people around us parted. I was Moses, and my face was the Red Sea — or should that be a sea of red? Oi. My heart pulsed in my neck. I stepped forward. Why had I agreed to this? Humiliation has never been my thing. I would probably insult these pedigree pooches and their owners just by being there. I wanted to turn tail and run. Only my lack of a tail and the look of absolute confidence on my son's face kept me from following my base instincts.

  Then I had a brain wave. I edged up to the judge and whispered in his ear, while Frinky bounced excitedly beside me and nearly jarred my arm off.

  “This is my son's dog, and I know that, for insurance purposes, you need an adult to show her, but would you object to him being involved by running with her?”

  The judge looked at my unruly dog, then at my hyperactive boy, then at me. His face crinkled with compassion. “Guess so,” he said with a smile. “This is supposed to be a family day, after all.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and walked back to the starting line. I patted my son on the back and brought him forward with me. “Did you see what the other dogs did?” I asked him.

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Think you can do the same?”

  More nodding.

  The starting horn hooted. Liam was off, legs chugging as fast as I'd ever seen him run. I released Frinky's leash. She bounded after Liam, shadowing his every move. Where he climbed, she followed. Where he wriggled, so did she. When they got to the food dish, she needed no demonstration. She sucked up the mound of special dog food in a single gulp. The crowd went silent. I think they were in shock. When Frinky and my son came galloping over the finish line in record time, having not missed a single obstacle in the course, a collective cheer went up! Frinky leapt for joy! Her boy leapt too! Me? I was too teary and choked up to say anything. When it came time to accept Frinky's trophy, Liam didn't hesitate to step forward and to say thank you. My throat was constricted with emotion.

  In the car on the way home, Liam and Frinky cuddled up and looked at their trophy. I swear that dog was smiling. Of course, it might have been because she was anticipating the huge bag of promotional dog food that she'd won as a prize.

  Some nine years later, I'm happy to say that both dog and boy are doing well. Liam has quite a few friends these days, having learned ways of working with his challenges. But none of his friends could ever replace the puppy who loved him through the hard years, the dog who would follow him to the end of the earth and who did for love what breeding and teaching never could.

  ˜ Lyndell King

  Sisters

  I don't know if Mom instinctively chose a puppy that was like her, or if the puppy chose her for the same reasons, or if it was all a coincidence. What I do know is that the tiny mixed-breed puppy Mom named Simba looked much like a lion cub, with reddish-gold fur and a black face, and had pride and personality to match. She was a formidable lady, benevolent but alpha, exactly like my rock of a mother.

  My family had moved from a Massachusetts suburb to the wild Vermont countryside, settling on a long-defunct farm complete with old wooden wagons and spiked metal tines hidden in tall field grasses, a decaying barn full of mysteries, and woods full of once lively logging trails. There were endless opportunities to run and explore. I stayed outside for hours on end, my mother knowing I was in good hands with Simba.

  Although we found Simba at a shelter, there was no question in her mind that she was a queen, and at four years old, I was already clear who was the wiser of the two of us. There was something almost magical to me about the dog's confidence, and I can recall thinking of her as an older sister. By the time I was five and she was just over a year old, I was following her about and learning valuable lessons under her guidance. I trusted her wisdom, because no one had taught me not to. No one had said, “She's only a dog.” No one filled my head with ideas of animals being any less than me or of animals lacking intelligence and running through life as near robots, functioning on rude instinct alone. I saw only the wise sister's confident dog grin and Simba looking back at me to make sure I wasn't lost. I knew if she told me something, it was true.

  Dogs can't speak like we can, but I understood what Simba communicated to me. She put her nose to the ground and moved with purpose, telling me there was an interesting animal ahead and I must be quiet. Sometimes it was a woodchuck we'd spy in a field. Other times she'd lead me to partridges and flush them, leaving eggs by a tree base to investigate. Once, Simba inadvertently led me to a skunk, and by the way she had barked from a distance, I knew it wasn't anything I wanted to be close to. By watching her and learning from her, I became a crafty hunter in my own right, observing and approaching snakes, frogs, and birds with stealth until I could grab them with as quick a move as Simba's snapping jaws. I'd let my prey go after looking at it a while, though, while Simba sometimes killed hers. That was the one point we didn't agree on. Still, whenever I caught something, she'd sit back and look at me with a wide dog smile and squinted eyes, as if I'd learned my lesson well and she was satisfied. I lived for that look.

  She gave me sharp stares if I did something she wanted me to stop, and she refused to go where there was danger. On the second winter at the farm, snow pelted our rural north country and built up in record levels. It was days before I could look out and see more than a few feet ahead of me, but when the sun finally came out again, the world was a wondrous vanilla-milkshake-coated land. Simba said this stuff was marvelous to play in, and she asked me outside by jumping and snapping at the snow and then play-bowing before me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Since I always listened to Simba's good ideas, my human sister, Karin, and I raced out together. Bundled against the cold, holding sleds, and laughing wildly, we plummeted down fresh drifts as Simba ran alongside, grabbing our boots and pulling them off. It made me furious, in a way, when I was left with stocking feet in the snow while Simba raced away, tail waving and thoroughly pleased with her catch, but I never thought of punishing her. She held rank, after all.

  Later, after retrieving our boots, Karin and I decided to spend some time exploring the barn. There seemed to always be a new discovery in there — stalls and mangers where horses once fed, bits of metal that had unknown purposes, leather straps, piles of hay, dark corners and places you feared to walk because the boards creaked and groaned even under small feet. We had explored the barn many times, with Simba leading the way and telling us where we should step and where we shouldn't. Mom always said, “If Simba won't go there, then don't go.” Simba wisely picked the best paths and enjoyed the forays as much as we did, even though she had to be the responsible one at all times.

  This snowy day was different. With Karin and I encrusted with balls of ice and with Simba's leg feathers similarly encumbered, we approached the barn doors only to have Simba erupt in a flurry of angry barking. We stopped dead in our tracks and turned to see Simba facing the doors, hackles raised and practically frothing at the mouth with fury. When we moved to open the door, Simba snarled and snapped at the
door, and we both stepped back from whatever was agitating her so.

  Our parents were on the house roof, shoveling snow piled at least two feet deep. “There must be an animal or something in there!” Our mother called down to us, “Stay out!” She didn't have to say another word. We knew better than to disobey both Mom's and Simba's directives.

  The moment we turned from the barn doors, Simba stopped barking, but she continued to pace and to behave like she was worried. I didn't know what awful creature could be inside the barn, but I knew it was nothing I cared to face. I wondered aloud whether there were mountain lions here.

  “Maybe it's a rabid raccoon,” my father suggested.

  Karin and I carefully climbed the ladder to be closer to our parents on the roof of the house. The only sound was their shovels phloofing into the snow, scraping along shingles, and then the snow floating and landing almost silently on a growing pile in front of the house.

  The view was incredible, and I'd almost forgotten about Simba pacing at the foot of the ladder when a thundering crack pierced the air and then rumbled, vibrating through my chest. Our heads snapped up just as the sound faded, and we watched in awe as the roof of the barn collapsed, the sound proceeding the fall, caving in almost slow motion, with some of the walls following, until what was once a majestic old building was nothing but a crumpled heap of old lumber and a milk house standing alone.

  No one said a word for the longest time — at least, that's how I remember it. None of us had any idea the barn would collapse, but Simba had known. If we hadn't listened to what she told us, Karin and I would have been inside at the very moment the beams gave out, with no chance of getting out in time. I can't recall what we did for Simba that night, but I'm sure we recognized her good deed. You see, my parents were never the kind of people who thought animals were less than we are. Simba was part of our family. She was my wise sister, and I'm thankful with my very life that I didn't grow up with the notion that she was anything else.

  ˜ Tanya Sousa

  A Gift Returned

  Don't worry, Mom. You'll never have to do a thing for this dog.”

  Those were the exact words that came out of my fourteen-year-old son's mouth as he toted his twenty-four-pound Dalmatian puppy down the hall. Bringing the pup home that evening marked the culmination of years of Jamie's begging and writing letters to me, pleading for a dog. I had always resisted, as I was never much of a dog person, and I was also a young widow raising two sons. The last thing I needed was a dog, but I finally gave in one Christmas and presented Jamie with a three-month-old spotted puppy, which he himself had chosen and named Chaz. As my son carried his furry gift to his room that first night, he vowed he would take full responsibility for the new member of our family.

  For several months, Jamie didtake very good care of his Christmas present, proudly taking his dog on walks around the neighborhood and making sure he always had food and fresh water. He was elated to return home from school each afternoon, giving his new buddy a big hug upon entering our house. I frequently picked Jamie up from school, and I would occasionally take Chaz with me. As Jamie approached the car, he and Chaz would break into two very different grins at the sight of one another.

  Initially, I felt pretty good about the gift I had bestowed upon my elder son. During those critical early months of training, however, the dog had some “accidents” in the house, causing me to question whether I had made a huge mistake. Seemingly overnight, my clean, dander-free home was transformed into a kennel of sorts, with the faint whiff of canine chow emanating from the laundry room and a fine coating of white hair glazing my hardwood floors. The dog was cute, but he certainly hadn't won my heart … completely. Thankfully, Jamie crated his pup, trained him to take care of his needs outdoors, and showered him with loving hugs. My duties were limited to paying for the food and veterinary expenses.

  As school and sports began to require more of Jamie's time, he spent less and less time with his dog. Like most Dalmatians, Chaz would get into things if he didn't have his daily walk, so I started taking him for afternoon jaunts. I had always been a solitary walker, and the companionship of the growing creature proved a bit of a challenge for me. I discovered that squirrels and rabbits were highly desired objects, and I can't count the times I had to let go of the leash and chase the dog through the neighborhood.

  Being a dog owner was no fun for me, and after paying a few thousand dollars for a fence and an obedience trainer, I was certain that buying the dog had been a major mistake. My son was happy with his dog, but he was no longer living up to his promise of taking care of him. I, however, was quite miserable. I had spent some serious dollars on Chaz, and my home had turned into a petting zoo, with a dog, two cats, and a ferret. Was I crazy?

  I considered giving the dog away. I knew Jamie's heart would be broken, but he had not kept his word. Chaz was lucky if he received an occasional pat from his master, and I was frustrated, dreading the years of living with the dog. When talking with friends, I heard myself uttering the words “that stupid dog” on an increasingly frequent basis. Something had to change.

  As I sat on my screened porch pondering the situation one morning, I arose to let Chaz inside. Not paying attention, I accidentally shut the door on his tail, resulting in a loud yelp from the victim, whose chopped tail splattered blood on the carpet and all over the walls of my foyer, dining room, and hall. An hour later, he was in surgery, having part of his tail removed. As I paced the floor of the veterinarian's clinic, guilt flooded me. This dog had constantly shown me affection, but I had resisted it, and now I had inadvertently lopped off his tail. When I thought about the joy he had brought to both my sons and the ways he happily bounced around when he saw me, something in my heart changed.

  That incident sparked a turning point. Over the next couple of months, Chaz and I began to bond rather well. I cuddled with him a lot and took him to the veterinarian twice a week to soak his tail. Due to continued infection, we decided to have the tail amputated. Every time our tail-less, brown-eyed pooch looked helplessly at me, I realized I was becoming quite enamored with him. At the same time, I became less frustrated with Jamie for relinquishing his duties. I started to fall in love with the spotted bundle of playfulness.

  Shortly after the tail catastrophe, Chaz began sleeping at the foot of my bed. Our daily walks became more enjoyable for me, and I was always happy to return home in the afternoons to see that smiling face at the dining room window, eagerly awaiting my entrance. He was becoming for me a welcomed friend and family member, and he was gradually becoming my dog.

  During my son's high school years, his dog and I continued to grow closer. At various times, Jamie took him for runs in the neighborhood and would give him a pat on the head, but that was the extent of his involvement. I knew he recognized I was becoming the dog's master when he presented me with a photograph of Chaz in a heart-shaped frame that reads “My One and Only.”

  When Jamie went to college ten hours from home, he apparently missed his dog a lot. He'd email me a few times a week, always adding, “Give Chaz my love.” Upon arriving home for the winter holidays, the young army cadet would gleefully give his four-legged friend a huge hug, rolling around with him and reminding the family that this pet was the best gift he'd ever received. One evening as Chaz, Jamie, and I sat on the sofa, I asked Jamie if he planned to take his dog when he graduated from college. My son looked me in the eyes and said, “Mom, I could never do that to you. I love Chaz, but he's really your dog now.”

  Jamie is now a married military officer who has another dog. He rarely asks about Chaz these days, but I'm certain he has a special place in his heart for this animal that he wanted so badly many years ago. It was a gift I reluctantly gave to him, and the gift has been returned to me. His dog is now my constant companion, who runs to me when he's frightened, licks my face when I'm having an occasional cry, and frequently places his head on my shoulder in the middle of the night. It's difficult to think of life without him, yet I k
now pets are placed in our lives for only a limited time. In our years together, Chaz has given me the gifts of learning to find the joys in each day and of attempting to practice unconditional love.

  I sometimes think about that chilly December evening when Jamie chose Chaz from among his canine siblings. He could have opted for any of them, but Jamie told me there was just something special about the rather hyper one. I now say a daily silent prayer of thanks for the slightly overweight vessel of unconditional love that has made such a difference in the life of this single mother.

  In stepping back on his promise to take care of his Christmas present, my son ultimately returned his gift to me — and my life has forever changed.

  ˜ Amy Walton

  Converting Ray

  Want to pet Lucky?” I asked, smiling up at my new boyfriend, Ray, as I stroked my neighbor's Australian shepherd. “She's so soft.”

  “I'm not a dog person,” Ray said matter-of-factly.

  Bad news. The man of my dreams absolutely loves dogs. But Ray had such a terrific smile.

  Ray and I quickly found that we shared many interests: biking, hiking, ballroom dancing. He was gentle and sweet with his adult children and mine. Within weeks, we were spending all our free time together. When Ray tolerated my yellow Lab, Isabelle's, frequent goosing the moment he came in the door and included her in our walks and hikes without objection, I decided that he was a dog person after all. He just didn't know it. Yet.

  The day that I had to put Isabelle down because of an aggressive lung tumor, Ray held me as I cried. I knew in his heart he must be grieving too. We were talking of marriage by then and planning to buy a house together. I broached the subject of a new dog.