Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (26 page)

That crisis was a turning point. I realized I had issued my ultimatum in all seriousness. Bob realized that I did not solely depend on him for love and affection—I had loyalties beyond him. And Miso found her new place in my life, no longer my one-and-only, but as a beloved member of a family.

For that’s what we became. Bob and I married, and soon our threesome became a foursome with the birth of our daughter.

Eleven years later, Miso is over fourteen years old. Partially blind and deaf, she suffers the infirmities of old age now, enduring diabetes and arthritis with dignity and grace. The relationship between Bob and Miso has undergone an amazing transformation.

Now I watch Bob tenderly guide Miso to find me when she has “misplaced me” in our house, and lovingly help her up the front steps on a rainy night. I believe Bob has grown to respect the debt he owes Miso. For Miso held a place ready in my life for Bob. She gave love a foothold.

There was never any need to choose between Bob and Miso—both had already laid claim to my heart.

Sometimes now I look into Miso’s eyes, which see only shadows, and speak in her ear, though I know she no longer hears, and tell her once again: “Remember, you chose me.”

Holly Manon Moore

Bedroom Secrets of Pets Revealed

A long, long time ago, people slept in the house; dogs slept in a doghouse in the backyard; and cats, well, they “catted around” and slept in the barn or alley. That was before our pets migrated from the backyard to the bedroom to sleep, and from the kennel to the kitchen to eat. Now, the average doghouse has three bedrooms, two baths, a spa, an entertainment center and a two-car garage. Yes, the doghouse is our house.

Consider this: Before the arrival of our four-legged bed-partners, human bed-partners decided which side of the bed they would sleep on; we carved out property lines on the mattress. But then we decided to welcome pets into our homes, hearts and bedrooms.

That was the last day any of us got a decent night’s sleep.

I was reminded of this recently when, after a hectic trip, I headed home from New York to Almost Heaven Ranch in northern Idaho. Between airplane breakdowns and storms, it was a nightmare trip that took two sleepless days of travel instead of the usual one.

Fighting extreme fatigue, I finally made it home, stumbled into our log house, and headed directly to my bed, ready to slip between the flannel sheets and nestle under the goosedown comforter next to my beloved wife, Teresa. Now at long last I would be able to sleep. It sounded great in theory, but I was dreaming!

Three formidable barriers to my sleep were sprawled across the king-size bed. Scooter, our wired wirehaired fox terrier, was lying perpendicular across the bed, while Turbo and Tango, our two Himalayan-cross cats, were asleep on each pillow. I shoehorned myself next to Teresa and collapsed into deep sleep. I was sawing the timber and dreaming sweet dreams when suddenly, I was shot in the ribs with a deer rifle! At least that’s what it felt like.

It was actually Teresa’s elbow that had poked into my side as a last resort to stop my snoring. Sleepily, I looked across at her. She was crowded onto the tiniest sliver of mattress at the edge of the bed. The cats were wrapped around her neck and face, and our twenty-pound, flabby, fur-covered, thorn-in-the-side, Scooter, was dreamily snoring away, her feet pushing against Teresa’s head. But would Teresa shove an elbow into Scooter, or disturb Tango or Turbo? Are you kidding?

Now, if
I
snore, Teresa’s sure to find a way of letting me know it, and if I cross over to her side of the bed, she waits only a nanosecond before shoving me back onto my side or onto the floor. But there she lay, unwilling to move a muscle or twitch an eye, because she didn’t want to interrupt the fur-queen’s sleep!

I turned over, pulling instinctively on the down comforter to make sure that Teresa let me have my fair share of it. Yet through this sleepy tug-of-war, I was careful not to disturb my “Scooter Girl,” who slept lying across me, looking warm, toasty and content.

And who needs an alarm clock when you have pets? I had managed to doze off again, but Scooter woke me up before the crack of dawn to be let outside. Again, I looked across at Teresa. Turbo and Tango were kneading her hair and licking her face to show they were ready for breakfast— now!

It was clear that Scooter, Turbo and Tango had had another great night’s sleep, while Teresa and I were battling for shuteye scraps. I knew the pets would fly out of bed fully charged, while my wife and I, chronically sleep-deprived, would crawl out from under the blankets to start another day on the hamster wheel of activity we call life.

And yet . . . that’s not quite the whole story. I knew full well that our four-legged bed partners had as usual gotten the best end of the sleeping arrangements, but I regarded it as just a small payback for the great gift of unconditional love that they give us, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

So as I got out of bed, I paused to kiss Teresa’s cheek, pat Scooter’s furry head and stroke the cats’ tails. Our bed was in purr-fect order and I had had a grrr-eat night’s sleep after all.

Marty Becker, D.V.M.

Mighty Hercules

One April Sunday, my children and I picnicked in the park. I was pouring lemonade when I heard a shout. Andy, my towheaded eleven-year-old, ran toward us, holding what looked like a long, crooked stick. When the stick wriggled, the lemonade splashed across the picnic table.

“Mom!” Andy cried. “It’s a garter snake. May I keep him? Please?”

My instinct was “No!” But the look in Andy’s eyes made me hesitate. Andy was the youngest of my three children, and I worried about him. At four, he’d required surgery on his ears and subsequent speech therapy. A year later, his father died; the same year, doctors diagnosed attention deficit disorder. He had needed special schools in early grades and still required a tutor. And, like many ADD kids, he had grown up feeling “different” and “dumb,” despite his very real intelligence.

From an early age, Andy possessed an affinity for animals. Growling dogs wagged their tails at his approach. Hissing cats purred. But dogs and cats were not allowed in our apartment complex. I looked from Andy’s pleading eyes to the unblinking eyes of the snake. Its tongue flicked at me, and I shuddered.

“Where would you keep it?”

“In my aquarium. I’ll put a lid on and never ever let it bother you, Mom.” He held the striped, black snake up to his face. “Please, Mom. Please?”

I’m still not sure why I said yes. But Hercules, as Andy triumphantly named him, came home with us.

Andy set to work at once, cleaning the twenty-gallon aquarium, lining it with rocks and dirt, setting a branch upright in one corner for Hercules to climb on, installing a light bulb for warmth.

I admired Andy’s industry, and once Hercules was safely behind glass I could even admire the long, striped snake. In the sunlight, his scales danced and glittered, the way sunlight catches on a dragonfly’s wing.

“He’s not trying to sting you,” said Andy, when I jerked back from Hercules’ flicking tongue. “Snakes use their tongues to sense things around them.”

To a boy with dyslexia, reading can be an excruciating task. Andy had never read for fun, even though his tutor told us he had overcome his early handicaps. But after Hercules’ arrival, Andy checked out every book on snakes in the library. We were amazed at all he learned.

Even more amazing were the changes in Andy, especially after his sixth-grade teacher invited Hercules to school. Andy was smaller than most of his classmates, but I saw his shoulders straighten as he proudly carried the snake to school.

Hercules spent all spring in the classroom, under Andy’s charge, and adapted well. Before long, Andy had only to stick his hand in the aquarium for Hercules to slither to his outstretched fingers and glide smoothly up his arm. On the playground, he looped gracefully around Andy’s neck, basking in the warm Kansas sunshine, his tongue flicking Andy’s cheek.

Hercules returned home when school ended, to be joined, for Andy’s birthday, by a pair of boa constrictors he named Mabel and Sam.

The boas were young, about eighteen inches long, and beautifully mottled in rich shades of brown and tan.

“How do you know they’re male and female?” I asked.

“I just know,” said Andy confidently. “I’m going to put myself through college by selling baby boas.”

College! I marveled again at the changes the snakes had wrought. Here was Andy, who had thought he was “dumb,” suddenly talking about college.

As summer veered toward autumn, Herc became Andy’s near constant companion. Often, when Andy went out on his bicycle, Herc rode with him, sometimes wrapped around the handlebars, other times tucked into Andy’s drawstring snake bag.

Seventh grade is a tough year for kids, and for shy, insecure Andy, starting junior high could have been a nightmare. But now there was a difference.

The lonely boy of a year ago smiled now. He held his head high and stepped confidently into the crowded school hall, knowing that the other kids whispered of him, “He’s the guy with the snakes.”

I remembered what Andy’s teacher had told us on the last day of grade school: “Hercules has given Andy value in his own eyes. For the first time he has something no one else has—something others admire. That’s a new feeling for Andy. A good feeling.”

The snakes were a regular part of all of our lives now. When Hercules disappeared from the bathroom one day, after Andy had let him out to exercise, the whole family pitched in for the snake hunt. We found him in the closet, wrapped cozily around one of Andy’s sneakers.

And we all watched, fascinated, when Hercules shed his skin, slithering out with a smooth, fluid motion to leave behind the old skin perfectly intact, while his new scales glowed with youth and promise. Carefully, Andy collected the old skin and placed it in the shoebox where he kept his valuables.

We never learned what sent Hercules into convulsions that spring. As far as we could tell, nothing had changed in his environment. But one Friday afternoon, Andy ran to me screaming, “Hurry! Something’s wrong with Herc!”

Mabel and Sam lay quietly curled in their corner of the aquarium. But Hercules writhed and jumped. His tongue flailed the air wildly.

I grabbed my car keys while Andy wrestled Hercules into the snake bag.

Our veterinarian injected some cortisone, and it seemed to work. Gradually Hercules grew calmer.

Andy gently stroked his snake, and slowly Hercules reached up and flicked Andy’s cheek with his tongue. He flowed again into a graceful loop around Andy’s neck.

For several weeks thereafter, Hercules seemed fine.

But then the convulsions returned, and we raced to the vet for another shot of cortisone. Once again, Hercules recovered.

But the third time was too much. Although the cortisone quieted the massive convulsion, it was apparent as we drove home that Hercules was dying. His long, lean body lay limp in Andy’s lap. His scales, instead of catching the light, were clouded and gray.

He tried to lift his head as Andy stroked his back, but the effort was more than he could manage. His tongue flickered once, weakly, like a candle flame about to go out. And then he was still.

Tears rolled silently down Andy’s cheeks. And mine.

It would be another year before Andy blossomed, seemingly overnight, into the six feet of linebacker’s build that would carry him through high school. He went on to college, made good grades and, later, earned an M.B.A.

Andy never did raise baby boas, but Mabel and Sam stayed with us all through high school, bequeathed, at the end, to Andy’s biology class. They never took the place of Hercules, though.

In Andy’s top drawer, there is still a dried snakeskin. Before he left for college I suggested it might be time to throw it out.

Andy looked at me in horror. “Don’t you dare!”

He touched the skin gently. “Ol’ Herc . . . he was sure one splendid snake, wasn’t he?”

Yes, he was. He gave a shy, lonely boy the first intimation of all he was—and all he could be.

Barbara Bartocci

Angie’s Dog Always

The mountain folk didn’t know what to make of Dr.

Gaine Cannon at first. All they had heard was that the stranger had left a good practice in another state because he wanted to come up to an isolated community here in the North Carolina mountains and build a hospital. They were used to traveling twenty-five miles over one-lane dirt roads to the nearest clinic at Brevard. But only if it was urgent, because even if they could get there in time, the cost was out of the question for families living on three or four thousand dollars a year, like most did way back in the coves and hollows.

Cannon knew all that when he moved up to Balsam Grove, but he was of mountain stock himself and he cared about these people. Today, bouncing along in his black Jeep over the gravel road on his way home from his last call, he flicked on his windshield wipers as snow started to fall from a darkening sky. He was glad he had no more calls to make that day.

Walls were already raised for the Albert Schweitzer Memorial Hospital. Dr. Cannon had become fast friends with the great doctor during the summer he spent working with him at his hospital in Africa. The inspiration of Dr. Schweitzer kindled Cannon’s desire for a similar ministry to the people of Appalachia. He didn’t worry about his patients not having money to pay. He asked them to bring river stones for the walls of the hospital, or whatever they had—a home-cured ham from their smokehouse, or some fresh vegetables.