Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (27 page)

Now, the snow was falling faster. An old man walking beside the road raised one gnarled, arthritic hand to hail him, and Cannon slowed the Jeep.

“Evenin,’ Doc. Did you know Annie Neal’s little Angie is bad sick?”

“No, I didn’t, Rufus.”

“Yep. I jest heard it at the store.”

“Well, why in heaven didn’t her daddy come for me, then?”

“He’s up takin’ care of his Ma in Boswell this week. Think you could get over to see Angie, Doc?”

“I’ll give it a try. But if this snow gets much heavier, I can’t promise I’ll even see the turnoff to get up to their cabin.”

Doc Cannon turned the Jeep around and headed back into the mountains. He wished the Neals had a phone so he could call and ask them to put some kind of flag out where the road branched off to their cabin, but he thought he would recognize it anyway. He wasn’t too worried about getting stuck. The new snow tires on the Jeep should make it.

When he reached Jackson County it was snowing harder, and he couldn’t see any distance. The Jeep lurched through potholes and along deep rock-laden ruts on the dirt road. It was one lane and narrow, with a drop of several hundred feet to the left. He found himself leaning in toward the mountain, hugging the side of it with his Jeep.

He thought about Angie, hoping he wasn’t too late and that he had everything in his bag that she might need. He felt his isolation in this white world of snowy, swirling flakes. Where was the grove of wind-twisted trees on the left just before the Hughes turnoff? Had he missed it? He wondered if he would get there tonight or freeze to death instead.

A faint sound came from behind the Jeep. He heard it again and slowed to a stop. Through his open window came the barking of a dog, sharp, insistent. Then he saw him. He would have known that dog anywhere. He looked like a cross between a golden retriever and a large coon dog, a long reddish fringe of fur hanging from the underside of his snowy tail. It was Angie’s dog, standing beside the road. He backed up a little more. The animal kept barking, coming toward him a few paces, then striking out on a trail among the trees. Gaine cut the wheel recklessly toward the slope of the mountain and followed. He hoped to God this was the road.

Gratefully he felt the tires of the Jeep settle into shallow ruts, and he drove on, the dog always keeping about twenty feet ahead. Then, in a clearing, he saw the dark shape of the little house. What luck! The dog had led him right to it.

He knocked, and after a minute Angie’s mother opened the door.

“Doc! I near didn’t hear you out there. Come in.”

The air in the room was filled with the smoky scent of the wood fire, Dr. Cannon knelt down beside a golden-haired child who lay on a pallet of quilts. He placed his stethoscope against her chest. Eyes bright and face flushed, her little body almost burned his hand—pneumonia. Had he reached her in time? He gave her a shot. She stirred and then was up on one elbow trying to rise.

“Did you see him, Doc?” she asked excitedly.

He tried to ease her back down on the pillow. “See who, honey?”

“My Prince.”

Doc Cannon glanced questioningly at her mother.

“She meant her dog, Prince. It’s just the fever talking, Doc,” and she clasped Angie’s hand tenderly in hers. “Hush. You were dreaming. Now go to sleep.”

“But Momma,” Angie exclaimed. “I saw him waving his tail as he trotted along the road up to the house here, and then he came in the room and over to my bed. He licked my face. He did, Momma.”

Dr. Cannon smiled. “He’s a fine dog.”

Her mother put a finger up to her lips and gave Dr. Cannon a look of warning that puzzled him.

At the door of the cabin, Gaine Cannon handed Angie’s mother a paper packet of pills for the sick little girl.

“Is she going to be all right, Doctor?”

“Yes, I think she’s going to be okay, but you send for me, now, if she takes a turn for the worse. By the way, as far as I’m concerned, Annie, that dog ought to be given a medal. I had already missed the road that leads up here when I heard him barking. He led me all the way up to your cabin. I would have missed it for sure without him.”

The woman stared. “Doc, Prince was killed by a car almost a month ago.”

“Killed!”

“Yes, down on the highway. The child took on so, Angie’s Pa carved a wooden plank in the shape of a grave rock for Prince, and carved some words she wrote herself. Angie plumb loved that dog.” Annie looked out the door and up at the sky. “Snow’s stopped. Maybe you can see the marker. The grave is at the edge of the woods where you turn in to our place.” She paused. “Doc, you don’t think it really could have been Prince?” she asked quietly. “But he was the only dog I ever saw all the way up here, and there’s not another house for five miles.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, however you got here,” she said, “I want to thank you, Doc.” She thrust a jug of apple cider into his arms. “Take this for now, and I aim to see you get some river stones for your hospital.”

Though he was eager to get off the mountain before dark, he saw the marker and could not help braking. The makeshift memorial to the dog stood beneath a big tree.

Leaving the motor running, the doctor got out and plodded through the snow. He untied the bandanna scarf from his neck to flick the white flakes from the face of the board. The words he read were crudely carved:

PRINCE
Angie’s dog always.

Nancy Roberts

6
PETS AS
TEACHERS

B
y loving and understanding animals,
perhaps we humans shall come to understand
each other.

Dr. Louis J. Camuti

“It's always 'Sit,' 'Stay,' 'Heel'—
never 'Think,' Innovate,' 'Be yourself.'”

©
The New Yorker Collection
1990 Peter Steiner from
cartoonbank.com
. All Rights
Reserved.

Lesson in Love

I
t was difficult to feel vexed by a creature that
burst into a chorus of purring as soon as I spoke
to him.

Philip Brown

Some people call me a cat shrink. I call myself a feline behavior consultant. Over the years, I’ve helped thousands of people and cats to have happier lives together. Mr. Vinsley was one of my most memorable clients. Originally from England, he lived in a beautiful mansion in Kentucky.

A widower for twenty-five years, Mr. Vinsley had no surviving relatives, so he was used to a life of solitude. He spent his days reading, listening to music and walking around the grounds surrounding his house. He was comfortable being alone and was not interested in making friends or engaging in silly chatter with neighbors.

One cold winter morning, Mr. Vinsley found a large gray cat sitting on his car. Having no fondness for cats, he chased the cat away and assumed that was that! But every morning for the next week, the same gray cat sat on the roof of his Mercedes.

The weather continued getting colder. Even though Mr. Vinsley didn’t like cats, he hated the thought that the poor creature might freeze outside. Surely he must belong to someone—perhaps he has a collar, Mr. Vinsley thought. The next day he went outside, expecting to find the cat lounging on his car as usual. But there was no cat. Mr. Vinsley found himself checking outside every few minutes, waiting for the cat. All he wanted to do was to find the owner of this pesky feline or take it to the local shelter if it had no identification.

When the housekeeper arrived later that morning, she found Mr. Vinsley in the kitchen, spooning a can of tuna into a dish. Mr. Vinsley hurried outside and placed the tuna on the roof of his car, then went back to his warm house to wait. By late evening, he removed the tuna, now quite frozen, from the car.

“Have it your way, stupid cat,” Mr. Vinsley said as he went back inside the house and dumped the tuna in the garbage before going to bed.

At about 2:00 A.M., Mr. Vinsley woke up. He swears it was a terrible thirst that drove him out of bed and down the stairs to the kitchen. Along the way, he stopped for a quick peek out the front door—still no cat. But just as he was closing the door he caught sight of something limping toward him. Hobbling up the driveway was the gray cat. His fur was matted and his right front paw dangled helplessly in the air. Mr. Vinsley stepped out onto the porch and the cat stopped.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Mr. Vinsley said. “Come here and I’ll help you.”

The cat just looked at him, not moving.

Leaving the front door open, Mr. Vinsley went into the kitchen, where he dumped some leftover chicken onto a plate. He placed the food on the porch and leaned against the doorway. The old man and the cat just looked at each other. The cat was a tough-looking male who had obviously seen more than his share of fights. He was tall and large. Both ears were torn at the tips and his nose bore several scars.

Mr. Vinsley really hadn’t cared about anybody in a long time, and he didn’t know why he was so concerned about this cat now. There was just something about him. And here they were, two tough old guys so used to being alone that they didn’t even know how to ask for help.

A few minutes passed. Mr. Vinsley was shivering. The cat was watching him intently. Then warily, the old cat limped up to the porch, sniffed at the plate of food, then weakly hobbled past it and through the open doorway.

Amazed that the cat had come inside, Mr. Vinsley followed him in. After some hesitation, the cat allowed him to examine his injured paw. It would need medical attention in the morning. In the meantime, the scruffy old thing would spend the night in the kitchen. But as Mr. Vinsley bent down to scoop him up, the cat darted off on his three good legs. Before he could be stopped, he was clumsily hobbling up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

Cold and tired, Mr. Vinsley climbed the stairs too. He figured the cat would be hiding under a bed. But when he reached his bedroom, he found that the cat had decided that curling up at the foot of the bed would be much more comfortable.

“You could’ve at least chosen one of the guest rooms,” Mr. Vinsley commented.

But he was too tired to argue, so he crawled under the covers, stretching his feet out next to the cat. “Don’t get too used to this. You’re leaving in the morning.”

The following morning, on the way to his doctor’s appointment, Mr. Vinsley dropped the cat off at the vet’s.

It was at this visit to the doctor that Mr. Vinsley learned he had cancer. Depressed, he drove home, almost forgetting to stop at the vet’s. In fact, when he realized he was near the animal hospital, he considered just leaving the cat there for the vet to deal with. But he stopped anyway.

The cat had a broken leg, which was in a large splint. Mr. Vinsley paid the bill and left with the cat. He didn’t understand why, but he felt a tug at his heart as he held the cat. Despite his rough exterior, the cat was gentle. Wrapped in his new owner’s arms, his loud purr sounded like an old car engine.

Three weeks later, Mr. Vinsley’s health took a turn for the worse, and he was confined to bed. The cat, by now named Dancer—because he moved so gracefully despite his heavy splint—only left his side to use his litter box and eat.

The friendship grew deeper. When Mr. Vinsley was well enough, the pair strolled around the grounds or sat in the sun. Dancer loved to sleep in Mr. Vinsley’s lap as he listened to classical music or read a book.

And another thing happened. Mr. Vinsley started chatting with his neighbors about pets. They’d share stories and advice. After all these years, Mr. Vinsley was caring about others again. Soon his neighbors became friends who would stop by for a cup of coffee or to play cards.

It was at this point that Mr. Vinsley called me. His doctor had told him he had less than nine months to live. He was not afraid to die, he assured me. After all, he had lived a good seventy-seven years and would face the end with dignity. All of his business was in order.

“There’s just one important thing left to do,” Mr. Vinsley told me sadly. “I need to take care of Dancer. Since I found him, we’ve been best friends. I need you to find him a home while I’m still alive. I want to know that he’ll be getting the love and care he deserves. I’ll provide for his medical and food expenses.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “I know anyone else would think I’m a foolish old man, worrying about some cat, but he’s been by my side through the tough times. He’s a wonderful friend, and I want to make sure he lives a good life without me.”