Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (28 page)

There was something so sincere and compelling about this man’s love for his cat that I couldn’t refuse. After a lengthy search, I found a potential home for Dancer with Ruth, a sweet but lonely widow.

When Ruth met Mr. Vinsley and Dancer, all three of them hit it off. Mr. Vinsley took great pleasure in telling Ruth all about Dancer’s likes and dislikes.

Eight months after I first met Mr. Vinsley, he was taken to the hospital. At Mr. Vinsley’s request, I drove to his house and collected Dancer’s things. As if he knew what was about to happen, Dancer was waiting for me in Mr. Vinsley’s room. He sat quietly on the bed. The housekeeper walked me to my car. She touched my arm and thanked me for helping Mr. Vinsley. There were tears in her eyes. She’d worked for him for fifteen years.

Later that day I visited Mr. Vinsley to tell him that Dancer was in his new home. He smiled. We talked a little more and then he drifted off to sleep. I stood by the bed for a few moments. “I’ll keep watch over Dancer for you,” I whispered. Two days later Mr. Vinsley died.

I’ve since visited Dancer several times, and he’s very happy. He follows Ruth the same way he did Mr. Vinsley. And I’ve noticed that Ruth looks more content than when I first met her. She proudly told me that Dancer sleeps next to her in bed.

Dancer, the tough, stray cat, had once taught Mr. Vinsley how to love again. Now, the furry gray teacher with torn ears and a purr like an old car engine was helping Ruth to learn that same lesson.

Pam Johnson-Bennett

ZIGGY
®

ZIGGY
© 1998 ZIGGY AND FRIENDS, INC. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL
PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.

More Than Medicine

H
ear our humble prayer, O God. . . . Make us,
ourselves to be true friends to the animals and so
the share the blessings of the merciful.

Albert Schweitzer

Tuesday was my day to make the housecalls in our multidoctor veterinary practice—not my favorite thing to do. I felt isolated working outside the safety of the clinic, yet having to make crucial medical decisions on my own. The cats always hid, and the dogs were always meaner at home. And the people? Well, you never knew what sort you’d run into. I was uncomfortable dealing with the people on their own home turf. As a new graduate depending on textbooks and medical notes to get me through, Tuesdays were definitely a pain in my calendar.

This wasn’t what I had envisioned when I’d decided to become a veterinarian. I’d had noble dreams of healing animals, which I felt at least semiqualified to do. But I was at a loss having to deal with people. Somehow my professors had failed to mention two very important facts: Every pet comes with an owner, and every case costs money. My boss, who always had one eye on the bottom line, constantly reminded me of the second.

Cheryl, our technician, had our schedule for the day and plotted our route. Handing me the clipboard, I could see she had saved the best for last, a sick dog in the not-so-affluent end of town.

Cheryl packed our supplies for the day, I packed my insecurities and a medical text, and we both piled into the house-call van for another day’s rounds. The first several calls went relatively smoothly with the exception of one junkyard dog with a torn toenail. I was surprised we left with all our fingers intact.

As we parked in front of our last stop for the day, I sighed.

The house was old and rundown, and the lawn hadn’t been mowed for a very long time. “Hope this dog isn’t too sick.” I said, “ It doesn’t look like these people can pay for veterinary services.”

We knocked on the door that was presently answered by Mrs. Johnson, an elderly lady in a flowered-print house-dress. “Oh, doctor!” she exclaimed. “I am so glad you’re finally here. Blackie just ain’t doin’ right. He can hardly pick his head up. He’s back in the kitchen. Come right this way.”

Mrs. Johnson led us through a remarkably neat and tidy home to the kitchen. It was a pleasant room with flowerpots in the window and fresh-baked bread on the counter. Blackie, a black furry Heinz 57, lay on a pile of blankets in the corner.

Cheryl got the necessary information from Mrs. Johnson as I took a look at Blackie. His gums were pale, his pulses were thready and his heart was rapidly beating. This was one sick little dog.

I explained to Mrs. Johnson that Blackie was very sick and would need to be hospitalized. “The hospital stay and the tests could be very expensive,” I told her. “And I can’t be sure that we’ll be able to save Blackie.”

“Doctor, I want you to try,” she replied. “I just know you will be able to help him. You see, I’m gonna be praying for Blackie—and for you too, doctor.”

Cheryl took a twenty-dollar deposit from Mrs. Johnson. It was all the old lady could spare, but she promised to come up with more in a few days and to pay the rest over time.

We carried Blackie out to the van with Mrs. Johnson calling “God love ya!” after us.

I shook my head wearily as I pulled away from the curb. Here I was with a hopeless case and an owner that couldn’t possibly pay the bill.
I guess the clinic will just have to eat this
one,
I thought. I wasn’t looking forward to telling my boss. And Mrs. Johnson was a Bible-thumper to boot. I didn’t place much stock in faith healing. Either we could cure the dog or we couldn’t.

Back to the clinic we went and began treatment, running the necessary tests. The results were discouraging at best. I called Mrs. Johnson and told her that Blackie had a condition called autoimmune hemolytic anemia—his body was destroying its own blood cells.

At the time, dogs rarely survived this disease; I asked her as gently as I could if she wanted to put Blackie to sleep.

“No, doctor,” she said. “You keep him going overnight. Tomorrow I have prayer group and we’re gonna pray for you and Blackie. Just trust God on this one.”

The next day Blackie began showing signs of improvement.

His blood cell count was up a bit, and he now sat upright in his cage. I felt my skepticism slip a notch as I phoned Mrs. Johnson with the surprising news.

“Oh, I’d no doubt he’d be better today. You just keep on doing what you’re doing, doctor. Me and the girls will keep on a-praying.”

With each day that passed, Blackie showed more and more improvement. Humbled, I had no explanation for it. And Mrs. Johnson and the girls just kept on praying. After a week of hospitalization Blackie was back to his normal happy self, eating and wagging his tail.

I was shaken. Maybe there was something to this praying Mrs. Johnson and the girls had been doing. Many other dogs I’d seen had received the same treatment as Blackie and had died. Did God really care about this little black mutt?

We brought Blackie home to a jubilant Mrs. Johnson. “God bless you, doctor,” she said. “God bless you.”

I
felt
blessed. My experience with Mrs. Johnson and Blackie gave me the pieces I’d been missing—healing wasn’t just about textbooks and medications. If it were, Blackie would never have made it. Now I knew healing was a team effort that involved God, me, the animals and the people who loved them. It was about compassion and faith and serving others.

The next Tuesday I found myself humming as I helped Cheryl load the van for our house-call rounds. What would the day bring? I didn’t know, but I was ready to start on this week’s adventure. I knew I wouldn’t be alone.

Liz Gunkelman, D.V.M.

Wheely Willy

The dog in the cardboard box was incredibly tiny. Someone had brought him, box and all, into the vet’s office. They had found him on Melrose, they said. Just one more unwanted animal in Los Angeles. But this one, a full-grown Chihuahua, was unusual in two respects.

Someone had gone to the trouble and expense of ensuring this dog would be a quiet pet by having his vocal chords surgically severed. Plus, the poor little guy had recently been in an accident of some sort, because he was paralyzed from behind his front legs all the way to his tail. But the dog had a good disposition and wasn’t in pain, so the vet decided to see if he could find a home for him.

For a year, the Chihuahua waited. No one was willing to take on the burden of a special-needs pet. But right about then, Deborah Turner heard about the unfortunate dog. Haunted by the story, she came to look.

The first moment she laid eyes on him, something in his face moved her deeply. And it seemed the feeling was mutual.

She picked up the two-pound dog and held him to her heart. He was underdeveloped from lack of exercise and strangely mute, but his eyes said it all: I will love you with everything I have and more.

When Deborah’s boyfriend saw her new dog, he was doubtful, “What are you going to do, carry that dog everywhere?” he asked her.

“If I have to,” Deborah answered. She had named the Chihuahua Willy, and he had seemed thrilled with everything she’d offered him. He squirmed with delight when she fed him, he sighed luxuriously when set in his new soft dog basket. He played enthusiastically with the toys she gave him. When she walked into the room, Willy pranced, lifting his front feet one at a time in an eager dance of greeting. He especially loved Deborah’s cat, Stevie, and rolled over trying to get as close to the large silver Persian as he could. Sometimes he tried to walk, dragging his back legs behind him, but the weight of his hindquarters was too much for his tiny front legs.

Deborah’s boyfriend had an idea. He bought three large helium balloons and tied them to Willy’s hip area, hoping it would lighten the load. But Willy was so small, the balloons lifted his front legs off the ground as well. He hung for a moment, suspended with his back end higher than his front end, before they could take the balloons off of him. He didn’t seem disturbed, just curious. Deborah could see that her dog was an exceptionally patient and trusting creature.

They tied the balloons to three of his toys and Willy batted at them with his front paws. Now
this
was a great game!

Not long after the balloon experiment, Deborah read about a wheelchair for disabled pets called the K-9 cart. She ordered one and when it arrived, she was excited to try it on Willy. It was delivered to the pet store where Deborah worked. She always brought Willy to work with her and so she immediately strapped him into the contraption and laid his back legs in rests built over the wheels. The instructions had warned her that sometimes an animal could be initially scared of the cart and refuse to take a step, but Willy took off like an airplane. For a full half an hour, the little dog raced around and around the store. Finally free of the limitations he’d so patiently endured, Willy’s spirit soared and now his body could keep pace with his joy.

From that moment, there was no stopping Willy. Deborah began taking him to the local hospital, to the Starlight Room, where children who were ill as a result of accidents or disease—some in wheelchairs, some sitting in red wagons with their life-support machines beside them—received visitors. When Willy first arrived, the children were wide-eyed with wonder. A dog! In a wheelchair! Just like us! It was hard to say who was more excited, the children or Willy. Soon Willy was visiting schools, convalescent homes, and senior centers on a regular basis.

L.A. reporters wrote stories, took pictures and filmed interviews about “Wheely Willy.” Deborah’s dog was a local celebrity. One day Deborah was doing errands, Willy rolling along right by her side without a leash, when a woman stopped them.

“Is that Wheely Willy?” she cried. “I saw you on TV. Your dog saved my life.”

Deborah was used to people making a fuss over Willy, but this was a first. “Saved your life?”

The woman explained, “Not long ago, I lost my job of many years. I felt helpless, betrayed and hopeless. I was sure I would never be able to find another job. I stopped bathing, I stopped going out—except to buy junk food—I guess I just stopped caring. Day after day, all I did was sit in front of the TV.

“Then I saw you on a talk show. You were talking about Willy, about this little dog in a wheelchair. You said, ‘Dogs don’t feel sorry for themselves. They do what they have to do to get what they want. Before Willy got his wheelchair, if he was across the room from me, he didn’t collapse in a heap and whine, “Oh, I want to go over there, but I can’t.” He gladly did whatever he could to make his way to me. No question—he’d just do it with everything he had!’”