Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (12 page)

Some of the burros we rescued ended up staying on at Black Beauty Ranch. Before the rescue, no one had had much experience with burros, but we found that they were completely charming—intelligent, curious, playful and even humorous. They quickly became our favorite animals and even the groups of people who come to tour the Ranch today, who at first show little interest in seeing the burros, become first respectful, then affectionate, and finally begin to love them just the way we do.

From the beginning though, we had one
favorite
favorite and that was Friendly. Friendly had come up in a sling under the helicopter in the very first batch of burros we rescued in the Grand Canyon. I was in the corral when she was lifted up and over the rim and delicately dropped to the ground. I was also one of the crew that untied her. As sudden and uncomfortable and even crazy as her rescue had been, she seemed to realize that no one had really hurt her, and therefore we were not all bad. That was why, then and there, in those first moments at the corral when she stood and looked at us and had not trotted away, and then let us come closer and then even came closer herself, I had given her a name.

One evening, I went looking for Friendly in the corral to show some people just how friendly she really was. I kept walking up to burro after burro, but I couldn’t find her. I heard the cowboys sitting on the corral rail laughing at me, but as they often laughed at me, at first I thought nothing of it. But when finally their laughing veered on the uproarious side, I swung around to stare at them and there was Friendly—the whole time she had been plodding along behind me, looking for me as hard as I had been looking for her.

After Friendly finally arrived at the Ranch, we soon discovered she was pregnant, and in good time she gave birth to a burro we called Friendly Two. Soon after Two was born, I went to see the new mother. She spotted me and trotted over with her baby from a distant pasture. Almost always when I see Friendly she has a customary greeting—she pushes her head into my stomach. This time she had started to put her head there all right, but suddenly she stopped, moved back, and instead—with some pride—pushed her baby toward me. Immediately I started hugging and gushing over the baby until suddenly, she pushed her baby away, and pushed her own head hard back into my stomach. It was as if she was saying, in no uncertain fashion, that she wanted to show me her baby all right and even wanted me to hug her, but “enough was enough!”

Burros are such faithful friends. To this day Friendly One, now over twenty years old, and sometimes Friendly Two, will, when I am visiting the Ranch, clump over to the veranda at the main house at four o’clock for tea, tidbits and gossip.

One visitor to the Ranch told me recently, “I have never in my life seen so many happy animals.”

No comment has meant more to me than that.

Cleveland Amory

Prince Charming

E
very dog is a lion at home.

Italian Saying

“Hey, Mom, I can read this!” Lorne, our seven-year-old son, shoved the newspaper toward me.

With a grubby little finger under each word, he began: “For free . . .”

He paused, so I filled in: “Rescued, abused spaniel-type . . .”

“. . . male dog,” Lorne continued. “Can’t keep. Needs good home.”

“We already have a dog,” I said, patting my little Maltese.

“But he’s wimpy,” protested five-year-old Lee.

“Let’s just go see what he looks like,” begged the boys.

Twenty minutes later, we were knocking on a door in an apartment building with a large “No Pets” sign. A college student answered and told how he’d stopped to get gas when he saw a man yelling and mistreating this dog. When the student asked if he could have the unwanted animal, the man had roughly lifted the trembling dog into the student’s car and left. As I reached out to pet this cowering, pitiful dog, I felt sores from his massive tick infestation. His ribs stuck out from a dull matted liver-and-white coat, and his huge brown eyes looked at me shyly over a freckled nose. He wagged his tail halfheartedly. Talk about wimpy! One look in those sad eyes, though, and I was hooked.

I bundled him and our four delighted children into the car and hurried to the vet’s office, where we determined he was an English springer spaniel, about two years old. X-rays confirmed several broken ribs; a respiratory infection coupled with severe malnutrition, plus a skin infection, requiring several medications. As I explained to my husband that evening, our free dog was rather expensive.

Somehow, I knew he was going to be worth it.

That evening, I listened as the children held a forum on naming our new pet. Laurie, our nine-year-old, led the discussion. “He’s lived such a sad life, he needs a really good name,” she said. They tossed around several names, when three-year-old Leslie lisped: “How about Printh Charming? He’th alwayth the good guy.”

Thus we found our Prince Charming, admittedly a little ragged. We had our work cut out for us if we were going to transform this pauper of a creature into a dog worthy of his title. Like mother hens, we hovered over him, pouring medicines down his throat and watching his battered body slowly heal. As his sores disappeared, Prince put on weight, and his coat turned glossy.

Even better, he began to relax in our presence and show tentative signs of trust.

Bolstered by his new sense of security, Prince began taking daily jaunts over our four acres, exploring the fields and bringing me back souvenirs from his forays—gnarly sticks or a chunky rock. And then, Prince discovered the barn. That’s where he found his place in this world.

Prince proclaimed himself a nanny. With amusement, we watched as Prince warmed himself to the creatures of the barn—the sheep and goats—but we didn’t realize he was about to become an official midwife. At all the deliveries of each new creature, Prince was first on the spot, comforting the laboring mother and standing watch over the newborn lamb or kid. Prince nuzzled and licked the newborns as if they were his own, and when a newborn took its first wobbly steps, Prince ran around excitedly. What did the real mothers think about all this? They seemed to sense Prince’s calling, and they were unthreatened.

Prince’s gifts to us, naturally, started to take on a very maternal bent. One morning, he proudly deposited a new kitten on my stoop. “Thanks, Mr. Charming,” I said as I opened the door, “but please take this back.” A scowling mother cat from next door appeared a few minutes later to retrieve her offspring. Undaunted, Prince found me a new present: the neighbor’s pet duck. It became a daily ritual. Prince plopped the duck down, the duck gave me a “here-we-go-again” look, and the three of us waddled and trudged back across the field to my neighbor’s pond. “Oh, well,” I told myself. “It’s good exercise.” And it was awfully endearing.

I suppose that’s why, one morning, I was so surprised to hear Prince emit a long, low, menacing growl. I was watering flowers near the house, Prince by my side, when he made the noise, and I stood up to see a large, disgruntled rottweiler advancing on us. Frightened, I reached for the faucet, hoping to turn a blast of water on the rottweiler with my hose. Prince, feeling my fear, positioned his small body in front of me—did we ever call him wimpy?— meeting the dog halfway as it lunged for me. The combination of the hose and Prince gave the rottweiler pause, and he turned and ran off. Prince had taken a gash on the neck, but he recovered with only a small scar to remind us of his valor.

We still talk about that shining moment of Prince’s bravery, the pinnacle of any dog’s life, but more than that, we marvel at his selfless love and nanny instincts. Where did a dog who had been shown nothing but abuse learn to treat other creatures with such tenderness and kindness?

We’d like to think it was our doing, but I have a feeling that our beloved dog was never the pauper we took him to be. Underneath that ratty disguise he had always been the good guy.

Sharon Landeen

“I listened to some of your motivation tapes while you were at work and I've decided to become a Great Dane.”

Reprinted by permission of Randy Glasbergen.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

I
f your dog thinks you’re the greatest person in
the world, don’t seek a second opinion.

Jim Fiebig

I dashed out an exit at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago and ran towards a waiting cab. I was greeted by a cab driver with a three-day-old beard, an old baseball cap and arms the size of tree trunks.

As he tossed my bags into the trunk, he spotted my luggage tags and said, “What kind of doctor are you?”

“A veterinarian,” I said. Instantly, his grizzled face broke into a smile. This happens to veterinarians all the time, as people love to talk about their pets.

The doors slammed, he put the car into gear and hit me with this opening salvo, “My wife claims I love my toy poodle Missy more than I love her. Just once, she wants me to be as excited to see her as I am Missy. But Doc, it ain’t gonna happen. Ya see, when I get home from a long day in the cab, dead tired, I open the door and there are the two of them looking at me, Ma and Missy. Ma has a scowl on her face and is ready to tear into me. Missy, on the other hand, is shaking all over, she’s that happy—her face is grinning so wide, she could eat a banana sideways. Now who do you think I’m going to run to?”

I nodded my head in agreement because I understood his point only too well. He loved his wife, but he simply wanted permission to savor his fifteen minutes of fame.

It’s been said that everybody gets fifteen minutes of fame once in his lifetime. We pet owners get our fifteen minutes every time we come home—or even return from the next room.

A few days after I saw the cab driver in Chicago, I returned home. I was tired from my travels and looking forward to seeing my family.

Pulling into the driveway, I peered through the windshield, straining to catch my first glimpse of my loved ones. My two children, Mikkel and Lex, are very close to good ol’ dad, but I didn’t see their faces pressed against the window looking for me. Nor did my beloved wife, Teresa, come running in super slow motion across the yard, arms open wide ready to embrace me.

But I didn’t despair. I knew I was still wanted, a Hollywood heartthrob, hometown hero to my two dogs: Scooter, a wirehaired fox terrier, and, Sirloin, a black Labrador retriever!

As soon as I exited the pickup, Sirloin and Scooter charged to meet me. Their love-filled eyes danced with excitement, and their tail turbochargers whipped them into a delighted frenzy of fur.

Was this affection-connection routine, or ho-hum for me? Was I cool, calm and collected?

Heck no. I turned into a blithering idiot as I got out of my truck and rushed to meet the hairy-princess, Scooter, and Sirloin, the fur-king.

There I stood, all the false layers stripped away, masks removed and performances cancelled. It was my true self. Extra pounds, bad-hair day, angry people, travel strains, no matter. Scooter and Sirloin came to the emotional rescue and allowed me to drink in the sheer love and joy of the moment. I was drunk with contentment.

I was glad this took place in the privacy of my own home. What happened next might have spoiled my polished professional image. I immediately smiled, and raised my voice an octave or two, exclaiming, “Sirloin, yuz is daaaaddy’s boy, aren’t ya?” And, “Scooter, have you been a good girl today? Yeah you have, you’ve been a goooood girl!!”

They responded by turning inside out with delight, pressing themselves against my legs and talking to me. I felt as if I could tap directly into their wellspring of positive, healing energy. Gee, it was great to be home!

I bounded up the steps to find the rest of the family, heart open, stress gone and spirits restored by my fifteen minutes of fame.

Marty Becker, D.V.M.

A Gift Exchange

My favorite Christmas custom is placing reminders of special people or events on my tree. It’s only a tiny artificial tree, but it’s loaded with mementos. Many were never intended to be ornaments: intricately whorled cross sections of pink seashells from Florida; several small, hand-carved olivewood crosses from my trip to the Holy Land. A few traditional ornaments, such as a deep blue, hand-blown ball well over a century old, given to me by an “adopted aunt,” bring to mind people I love. Two antique stars are family heirlooms. But the ornament I save to put on last, most honored at the very top, came to me in a most unusual way.