Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (22 page)

When Mycki explained all this to me in one of her letters, I had to laugh. It was rather nice to have two ladies fighting over me.

But things reverted to normal pretty quickly when I returned home. Roulette suddenly lost interest in the mail. However, while packing and preparing to move to our next duty station, we did discover a few more postal hideaways containing unopened letters from Vietnam—a reminder that as far as a dog’s nose is concerned, a small object sent by a beloved human that travels nine thousand miles, though handled by dozens of other people, still bears a treasured message. I had never realized during all those months when I thought I was writing just to Mycki that I was also sending a uniquely personal greeting to one smart and sharp-nosed little poodle.

Joe Fulda

MUTTS
by Patrick McDonnell. Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.

I Love You, Pat Myers

H
e deserves paradise who makes his companions
laugh.

The Koran

Pat Myers had been away in the hospital having some tests. “Hi Casey, I’m back,” she called as she unlocked the door of her apartment. Casey, her African gray parrot, sprang to the side of his cage, chattering with excitement.

“Hey, you’re really glad to see me, aren’t you?” Pat teased as Casey bounced along his perch. “Tell me about it.”

The parrot drew himself up like a small boy bursting to speak but at a loss for words. He peered at Pat with one sharp eye, then the other. Finally he hit upon a phrase that pleased him. “Shall we do the dishes?” he exploded happily.

“What a greeting,” Pat laughed, opening the cage so Casey could hop on her hand and be carried to the living room. As she settled in her chair, Casey sidled up her armand nestled down with his head on her chest. Pat stroked his velvet-gray feathers and scarlet tail. “I love you,” she said. “Can you say that? Can you say, ‘I love you, Pat Myers?’”

Casey cocked an eye at her. “I live on Mallard View.”

“I know where you live, funny bird. Tell me you love me.”

“Funny bird.”

A widow with two married children, Pat had lived alone for some years and kept busy running a chain of successful dress shops. But when she developed serious health problems she had to give up her business and was scarcely able to leave the house.

Always an outgoing woman, Pat was reluctant to admit how lonely she was, but finally she confessed to her daughter, Annie. Annie suggested a pet.

“I’ve thought of that, but I haven’t the strength to walk a dog, I’m allergic to cats and fish don’t have a whole lot to say.”

“Birds do,” said Annie. “Why not a parrot?”

That struck Pat as a good idea, and she telephoned an expert who recommended an African gray, which he described as the most accomplished talker among parrots.

And so it turned out. Only days after Casey’s arrival, he began picking up all kinds of words and phrases, like “Where’s my glasses” and “Where’s my purse?” Every time Pat scanned tabletops, opened drawers, and felt behind pillows, Casey set up a litany. “Where’s my glasses?

Where’s my glasses?”

“You probably know where they are, Smarty Pants.”

“Where’s my purse?”

“I’m not looking for my purse. I’mlooking formy glasses.”

“Smarty Pants.”

When Pat found her glasses and went to get her coat out of the closet, Casey switched to, “So long. See you later.” And when Pat came home after being out in the Minnesota winter, Casey greeted her with “Holy smokes, it’s cold out there!”

Pat began feeling better. It was so much fun having Casey; he could always be relied upon to give her four or five laughs a day.

Like the day a plumber came to repair a leak under the kitchen sink. In his cage in the den, Casey cracked seeds and eyed the plumber through the open door. Suddenly the parrot began reciting, “One potato, two potato, three potato, four.”

“What?” demanded the plumber from under the sink.

Casey mimicked Pat’s inflections perfectly. “Don’t poo on the rug,” he ordered.

The plumber pushed himself out from under the sink and marched to the living room. “If you’re going to play games, lady, you can just get yourself another plumber.” Pat looked at him blankly.

The plumber hesitated. “That was you saying those things, wasn’t it?”

Pat began to smile. “What things?”

“One potato, two potato . . .”

“Ah, well, that’s not too bad.”

“And don’t poo on the rug.”

“Oh, dear, that’s bad.” Pat got up. “Let me introduce you to Casey.”

Casey saw them coming. “Did you do that?” he said in Pat’s voice. “What’s going on around here?”

The plumber looked from the bird to Pat and back again. Then he shook his head slowly, speechlessly, and retired back under the sink.

Casey’s favorite perch in the kitchen was the faucet in the sink; his favorite occupation, trying to remove the washer at the end of it. Once, to tease him, Pat held a handful of water over his head. Casey swiveled his head to look at her. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded sharply.

Often when Pat wanted him to learn something, however, Casey could be maddeningly mum. For her first Christmas back on her feet, Pat tried to teach Casey to sing “Jingle Bell Rock.”

“It’ll be your contribution to the festivities,” she told him.

“Where’s my glasses?”

“Never mind. Just listen to me and sing.” But as often as Pat coached him, the bird simply looked at her and said, “Wow!”

A week before Christmas, she gave up. “All right, you stubborn creature, you probably can’t carry a tune anyway.”

Taking a beakful of seeds, Casey shook his head and flung them around his cage. Then he cocked his head and demanded in Pat’s voice, “Did you do that? Shame on you, you bad bird!”

On Christmas day, he inquired, almost plaintively, “What’s going on around here?” amid the noise of laughter and packages being ripped open, but all through dinner he was silent. When it was time for dessert, Pat touched a match to the plum pudding. The brandy blazed up. At that moment, with impeccable timing, Casey burst into: “Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock!”

With her health so much improved, Pat decided on a three-week vacation. Casey was sent to stay with Annie.

The day Pat was due back, Annie returned the parrot so he’d be there when Pat came in.

“Hi, Casey!” Pat called as she unlocked the door. There was no answer from the den. “Holy smokes, it’s cold out there!” she shouted. Still silence. Pat dropped her coat and hurried into the den. Casey glared at her.

“Hey, aren’t you glad to see me?” The bird moved to the far side of the cage. “Come on, don’t be angry,” she teased. “Shall we do the dishes?”

She opened the door of the cage and held out her hand.

Casey dropped to the bottom of the cage and huddled there.

In the morning, Pat tried again. And the next day, and the next. Casey refused to speak. But finally, on the fifth day, he consented to climb on her wrist and be carried to the living room. When she sat down, he shifted uneasily. “Please, Casey,” Pat pleaded. “I know I was away a long time, but you’ve got to forgive me.”

Tentatively, Casey took a few steps up her arm. “Were you frightened I wasn’t going to come back?” she said softly. “Darling Casey, I belong to you just as much as you belong to me.” Casey cocked his head. “I’ll never not come back.”

Step by step, Casey moved up her arm. After a while, he nestled down with his head on her chest. Pat stroked his head, smoothing his feathers with her forefinger. Finally Casey spoke. “I love you, Pat Myers,” he said.

Jo Coudert

Jake and the Kittens

I
t is a very inconvenient habit of kittens . . .
that, whatever you say to them, they always
purr.

Lewis Carroll

From the beginning, Jake made his feelings clear about the subject of cats: they were best served on a plate, with a side order of fries!

Jake was our resident dog, a large dominant male, part Border collie and part Labrador retriever, with a little German shepherd thrown in. Jake was about two years old when he adopted us from the local animal shelter. He came into our lives shortly after I lost my beloved dog Martha to an unexpected illness. One day we went to the shelter searching for a shaggy-haired female (like Martha) to bring into our home. Instead, we found Jake, a shorthaired male, sitting tall, proud and silent in the middle of all that barking. We told the shelter worker that we wanted Jake to come home with us because we could sense he had a lot of magic inside of him. “That’s great,” she said. “Just don’t bring him back when he shows you that magic!”

Jake immediately became a cherished member of our family. He loved watching the birds we attracted to our yard with numerous feeders and birdbaths. He played with the puppy next door and other dogs in the park, but made it extremely clear that cats would never be allowed on his property, chasing any feline that came too close.

One day I found a litter of wild kittens in our woodpile. Although I had been a “dog person” all my life and had never had the privilege of sharing my life with a cat, my heart went out to these little furballs. They were only about four weeks old, and had beautiful gray-striped bodies and large, frightened eyes. Their mother was nowhere in sight. I put them into a box and brought them inside. Jake heard the meowing and immediately began to salivate. And drool. And pant. Every attempt to introduce him to the kitties ended in near disaster. It was clear we couldn’t keep the kittens in the house, even long enough to help find them homes. Our veterinarian told us, “Some dogs just won’t accept cats under any condition.”

A year after the kitty experience, I looked outside onto our deck and saw Jake with his ears up and his head cocked sideways, staring at the ground. There at his feet was a tiny kitten, sitting very still. Using soothing words to try and keep Jake calm, I moved in closer, hoping to prevent the ugly attack I felt sure was coming. The kitten had badly infected eyes, and it probably couldn’t see where it was or what was looming over it. But Jake just looked at the little creature, then looked up at me, and then back at the kitten. I heard some meowing, and discovered another kitten under the deck. So I scooped them both up and brought them into the house, depositing them into a box that would be their temporary home. I put the box in the garage and started making calls to all the animal people I knew, telling each the same story— my dog would never allow these cats into our home, and I needed to relocate them right away.

I bought baby bottles and kitten milk, and as I fed my two little bundles of fur, I told them how much I would have loved to welcome them into our family. But it could never be.

The next morning, we found three more kittens lying in a pile outside the door, huddled together for warmth and protection. So I took them in and added them to the box.

My heart was very heavy. Now we had five little kittens, all with infected eyes, who would be sent out into a world already crowded with unwanted little creatures. I spent the day making phone calls, only to be told over and over that no one had room for more critters. I knew I’d run out of options, so with tears in my eyes, I picked up the phone to make the call to the vet that would take the kittens out of my life forever. At that same moment, my eyes fell on Jake, calmly observing everything going on around him. There was no drooling, no panting. He didn’t seem upset or anxious. He was definitely interested, but not in a calculating, just-wait-until-I-get-them-on-my-plate kind of way. I felt something was different.
Slow down,
I thought.
Don’t react. Just sit for a minute. Be still.

So I became still and I sat. And I heard a voice in my heart telling me what to do. I called our veterinarian and made an appointment to bring the kittens in and get their eyes checked. On the way home from the doctor, I went to a pet store and bought my first litter box. I came home and brought the box of kittens back into the house. Jake was waiting. The time had come, so I carefully put the babies on the floor of the kitchen and held my breath, ready to come to the rescue if necessary.

Jake walked over and sniffed each of the kittens. Then he sat down in the middle of them and looked up at me with a sweet, sappy grin on his face. The kittens swarmed over him, happy to find a big, warm body of fur to curl up next to. That’s when Jake opened his heart to the five little kitties and adopted them as his own. I wondered if he remembered a time when he, too, had needed a home. I knelt down to thank him for his love and compassion and tell him how grateful I was he’d come into my life. But it would have to wait until later—Jake and his kittens were fast asleep.