Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (15 page)

I told him she had lost her mama and she needed someone to take care of her. Then we talked about how it feels to lose a mother, how scary it is to be alone. I’m convinced that some of the best therapy at the ranch happens in situations like these.

We sat quietly together, watching the foal sleep and then Martin said to me, “She’s my baby now. I’ll be her mama.”

And he was. Martin was the best surrogate mother a foal could have had. He came every day to feed the baby horse we named Sweet Pea and to clean her stall. He brushed her, sat with her, held her and played with her. They had a wild game where they took turns chasing each other, which was wonderful to see. Every time I turned around, Martin was there—I think that boy would have slept out there with Sweet Pea if we had let him.

When it was time to halter-break the little filly, Martin asked me if he could do it, and I said yes. When he had started taking care of Sweet Pea, he had begun reading everything he could about horses. In a short time, he had become one of the horsemanship program’s star pupils. As I watched Martin—now a competent and gentle horseman— work with Sweet Pea, it was hard to believe that only a few months ago I wouldn’t have trusted him around
any
horse, much less a young filly.

Martin was different with the other boys as well. It was now common to see him helping a younger boy to saddle and mount a horse, and encouraging the boys as they learned to ride. And if anyone was as rough and wild as Martin had once been, he immediately told the boy in a firm tone to “Act right around the horses!”

Everyone at the ranch knows that the animals transform these boys. Time and time again, boys who are having a rough time run out of their classrooms and find their special animal, a horse or a dog or even a goat or sheep. The boys will throw their arms around that animal’s neck and bury their faces in a soft coat, and talk and talk and talk, knowing that their animal friend will listen, patiently and silently, eyes full of love and acceptance, for as long as they are needed. The animals are simply “being there” for kids who could never count on that in their lives before.

I’ve always known that the animals can act like mamas for the boys, healing hearts that yearn for close contact and love. But now that I’ve met Martin, I see that for some boys, it takes
being
a mama to become whole.

Jim Kerr

Meant to Be

A few years ago, we had a Lab puppy named Blue whom we loved very much. But because everyone in the family spent so much time at work or at school, it soon became obvious Blue wasn’t getting the attention and training she needed. It was a difficult decision, but we decided to see if we could find her a better home than we could provide at that time.

I asked around at our church and at work, looking for a special home for Blue. A coworker told me that she had a friend whose old dog had recently died. The family was looking for a puppy. I knew of the family: the husband was named Frank and his wife, Donna, was a Lamaze instructor who worked at a local hospital. Their children, my friend told me, were crazy about dogs and missed their old dog tremendously. It sounded like the perfect place.

I spoke to Donna on the phone, and she was thrilled about taking Blue. I arranged for my husband to deliver the puppy the following day, which was a Friday. Frank gave my husband their address, 412 Adams, and told him that he would be home all day, doing work on the house, so my husband should look for ladders in the front yard.

The next morning, my husband took Blue and set off in the car. Our sad good-byes were lightened by the knowledge that she was going to a wonderful home.

Donna and Frank lived an hour away, on the other side of the nearest big town. My husband found the house; the number 412 was clearly displayed and there was a ladder in the front yard. Taking the puppy in his arms, he went up to the house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He waited a moment and knocked again.

A man in the next yard called over to him, “Who are you looking for?”

My husband said, “Frank.”

“Oh, Frank went to the hospital,” he said. “I don’t know when he’s coming back.”

My husband was irked. Frank had said he’d be home all day. Maybe he’d had to give Donna a ride to work at the hospital. But my husband couldn’t wait around. He had made appointments for the rest of the day and had to get going. Something of this must have shown on his face, for the man in the next yard said, “What’s the problem, young fella?”

My husband explained his predicament and the neighbor offered to keep the puppy at his house until Frank returned. The neighbor had a fenced yard and said it’d be no trouble at all. He was a nice man with dogs of his own, and my husband decided it would be all right. He gave the puppy to the neighbor and left for his appointments.

The following Monday when I returned to work, my coworker said to me, “Did you change your mind about giving away Blue?”

Surprised, I answered, “No. Why?”

“Well, Donna told me you never delivered her on Friday. They figured you’d had a change of heart when it came time to really say good-bye.”

I told her we certainly
had
delivered Blue. I called Donna and told her about the neighbor taking care of Blue until Frank returned.

“But Frank was home all day!” she insisted. “And we haven’t heard from any of our neighbors.”

What on earth was going on? We finally figured out that my husband had made a wrong turn and had gone to 412 on the next street over. There had been a storm not long before and many people had ladders out to do roof and gutter repairs. Could it possibly be that the man in that house was also named Frank?

My husband and I got into the car and drove over to see what had become of Blue. We saw immediately that that he’d gone one street too far and we knocked on the door of the house where he’d left Blue.

A red-faced man in his sixties answered our knock. When we explained that we were looking for a puppy that had been delivered here last week, the man answered, “Oh, you mean the one that Frank ordered.”

Realizing that the man at 412 on this street was also named Frank, we explained the mix-up. The man’s face grew somber.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is the puppy all right?”

“Oh, the puppy is fine. In fact, I’m sure the puppy is great. But . . . well, I hope you don’t want it back,” he said seriously. Seeing the question in our eyes, he continued, “When you came with the puppy on Friday, my neighbor Frank was at the hospital. He’d been out in the yard working and had started having chest pains, so his wife took him to the hospital. Frank never did come home. He died of a massive coronary Friday afternoon. It was a terrible shock for his family, and I decided not to bother them until things had settled down a bit. Yesterday, I brought the puppy over and knocked on their door. Frank’s eldest daughter came out. I told her that her father had ordered a puppy and since he hadn’t been home, that I’d taken delivery on it for him. I said I didn’t know what to do with the little dog now that ‘things had changed’ at their house.

“The daughter just couldn’t believe it. She said, ‘My father ordered a puppy? This is Dad’s puppy?’ Then she reached out and I gave her the pup. She hugged that little dog real tight, stuck her face in its fur and just began to cry.

“I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just stood there. After a while, she looked up at me and thanked me. She said, ‘You don’t know what this means to me. I’m so glad to have my father’s dog.’ The puppy was wiggling around, trying to kiss the daughter any way it could and her face was just lit up with love.”

Amazed at the story I turned to my husband, “We can’t take Blue back now.”

The man nodded in agreement. “Folks, some things are just meant to be. I’d say that puppy is in exactly the right place.”

Cindy Midgette

Is Holly Working Today?

For Holly and me, it started with a stray kitten. Abandoned in the harsh winter weather, she huddled in a ball on the front steps of our building, an elementary school for emotionally disturbed children where I provided therapy three days a week.

That morning, I kept the kitten in my office while the principal figured out where to take it. Little did I know that this tiny bundle of fur curled next to my desk would inspire a project that would affect the entire well-being of the school.

It started as the children soberly traipsed into my office that day for their therapy. When they spotted the kitten, their faces suddenly brightened. Their reticence and tenseness seemed to melt away as they petted the stray, and our sessions were relaxed and open. The kitten’s effect was astounding, and, by the end of the day, I was hatching a plan. My dog, Holly, was a gentle, gregarious, well-behaved seven-year-old of mixed parentage. Couldn’t she have the same relaxing effect on the children I counseled? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Holly was perfect for the job. She loved to ride in the car, could follow basic commands in English and Spanish, and could tolerate small, sticky hands running their fingers through her short, brown hair. Enthused, I began paperwork requesting permission to bring Holly to school with me, providing documentation of the benefits of companion animals.

The enthusiasm stopped short at my supervisor’s desk. “What if it bit one of the children? What if it had an accident?” she asked me curtly. Obviously skeptical, she pushed my proposal through the proper channels. The project was approved, but my supervisor clearly let me know that Holly and I were on trial. The responsibility for any problems with the “dog experiment” would land squarely on my shoulders.

Optimistic nonetheless, I smiled at the signs pasted on my office door as I unlocked it on Holly’s first morning with me at school. “Holly is happy to be here,” the children had carefully stenciled. Already the children were responding positively to the idea of a dog counselor. Holly sniffed out my office, and we settled in for a day of work.

At a knock on my door, Holly jumped up and barked loudly. I hurried to calm her down, wincing at the noise; I was sure my supervisor would not consider the barking therapeutically productive for insecure children. We would have to work on that. A small boy entered, and he and Holly stared at each other warily.

“Does that dog bite?” he asked.

“No,” I assured him. “Why don’t you give her a treat?” I handed him a bag of multicolored doggie treats. “Pick any color you like,” I said. The boy chose a red treat and tentatively held it out to Holly. She neatly and gently took the treat, swallowed it quickly and licked the boy’s hand. The boy smiled. Holly’s critical debut had been a success.

After the bell rang, a succession of little visitors came to our door, vying to see Holly. As they took turns handing treats to Holly, she wagged her tail and licked their hands, showing her approval. It was no wonder the children were drawn to her: For many of them, it was their first encounter with unconditional acceptance.

During the days that followed, Holly learned not to bark at the children’s knocks on my office door. I set up a corner for her in my office on a piece of carpet remnant. The children eagerly came to me for their counseling visits, sitting on the floor by Holly and petting, brushing, playing with and confiding in her. As they relaxed with Holly, they let down their defenses. Our counseling sessions became smooth and productive.

Little by little, Holly’s influence reached beyond her little corner of my office. Absences at school began to drop, and the children’s disruptive behaviors softened. Even the teachers ducked in for some pet therapy throughout the day, giving Holly a short pat and restoring their spirits in her presence.

I didn’t realize how loved Holly was, though, until I missed two days of work with strep throat. When I called in sick the first day, expecting a touch of sympathy, I was immediately asked if that meant Holly would have to stay home, too. The second day, I was seriously asked if I could at least send Holly to work in a cab. Apparently, the teachers were tired of answering the question: “Is Holly working today?”

One morning before school, nine-year-old LeMar, a third-grader who visited Holly regularly, was shot and killed in a domestic dispute. His classmates learned of the tragedy while they were still on the school bus, and by the time they arrived at school, they were terrified and in tears.

I hurried to LeMar’s home classroom, Holly trailing behind me. LeMar’s teacher stood there with tears streaming down her face. “My degree didn’t prepare me to handle something like this,” she sobbed. I mustered all my resources and expertise to come up with the right words to soothe them.

“Crying is okay for adults and children,” I began, “especially when something like this happens.” Still seeing the pain on their faces, I continued to tell them that it was okay to be scared, that fear is a natural response. For a while, we talked about how we would miss LeMar. It was at this point that I realized what Holly was doing.

She was working her way around the room, going from child to child—and the teacher—putting her front paws on their laps and stretching up to lick the tears from their faces. Unconsciously, the children hugged her back, running their fingers through her fur with such intensity that she would have gone bald if they’d done it all day. She called no significant attention to herself, but quietly expressed love and consolation. She diligently kept up her silent comfort throughout that long, difficult day.

As I slid into the front seat of my car that afternoon, I leaned back, exhausted from the emotional trauma. I just wanted to be home. Glancing briefly into the backseat, I was surprised to see that Holly had already fallen asleep. She was just as drained as I was, if not more so, and, not for the first time, I felt a pang of guilt.
Was it fair to ask my
dog to take on the emotional responsibilities of troubled children?
Shouldn’t she be allowed to stay home and enjoy the carefree life
of a house pet?