Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (32 page)

What was most striking about the dog’s heroic act was that night he had easy access to the porch door, left open to the outdoors. King could easily have just saved himself. Instead, he chose to gnaw and smash through the door to the house, and face blinding fire and choking smoke, all to rescue his family.

Stephanie Laland

Ginny, the Dog Who Rescues Cats

My dog Ginny is in the lifesaving business, and the first life she ever saved was mine. Ginny is a bright-eyed, tail-wagging, medium-sized mixed breed—mostly schnauzer and Siberian husky by the look of her—who came to me out of a Long Island animal shelter during the darkest days of my life.

I was a well-paid construction worker, content with my comfortable life, when an industrial accident cost me the use of my right arm. After my surgery, all I could do was feel sorry for myself until my good friend and neighbor, Sheilah, convinced me to adopt a dog from our local shelter. She knew I needed some responsibility to snap me out of my depression. I agreed to adopt a large, male dog of a pure breed, but once I was in the animal shelter some instant mysterious connection took place between me and a smallish dog of no pedigree at all. The next thing I knew, I was head over heels in love with a pup I named Ginny.

When I took Ginny home six years ago, I had no idea of how radically my life would change. It turned out that Ginny Gonzalez was put on earth to save the lives of abandoned and homeless cats, especially disabled cats and kittens. With her it is a sacred mission. Using a kind of sixth sense, she seeks them out in the hardest-to-reach places, where I am certain that nothing could possibly survive. Ginny has proved me wrong again and again, until I’ve learned to trust her instincts completely. Time after time, she has turned up some ill, injured, disabled, abused, helpless cat or kitten and demanded quick assistance for them. The more a cat needs her help, the faster Ginny is to respond.

Little by little, and at first with great reluctance on my part, Ginny increased my household from two—Ginny and me—to many more, all of the new ones being cats she rescued. When she started out, I was pretty much indifferent to cats, but it wasn’t long before Ginny convinced me to love them as much as she does. We have a deaf cat, a cat with one eye, a cat with no hind feet, and a cat so brain-damaged it can’t stand up or walk, but rolls across the floor instead. The more a cat is disabled or abused the more determined Ginny is to bring that animal straight home to our house, where she can look after it properly.

Now, in addition to my indoor cats, Ginny, Sheilah and I feed about eighty or more outdoor cats, homeless strays, twice a day every day no matter the weather.

One of Ginny’s most dramatic rescues took place when we were out on one of our daily feeding runs. Across the street from one of our feeding stations is a glassworks where windows are manufactured, the Airtite Window Factory. Because there’s a lot of broken glass around, I keep Ginny in the car when we feed there. I just tell her “stay.” Usually she stays put, because Ginny is always very responsive to what I say to her, but this time she dashed out of the car and ran to my side.

First, she froze and stood at attention, staring at the loading dock. Her nose twitched and her ears stood up as stiffly as palace guards. I could tell she was even more excited than usual. Suddenly, Ginny was heading across the street at a dead run, straight for the loading platform. Before we knew what was happening, Ginny began digging furiously in a carton overflowing with broken glass.

“Ginny! No!” I yelled, and Sheilah let out a scream. We both ran toward the loading dock. I could tell my dog was cutting her pads on the sharp glass, maybe deeply; but Ginny paid us no attention. She kept on pawing through the knifelike shards. By the time we reached the platform, she had found something, picked it up in her mouth, and was already limping toward us with the something dangling from her jaws. Although it was dark out, there was a light on the loading dock, and I could see that Ginny was leaving bloody footprints. My heart sank. How badly was she hurt?

In her mouth was a curled-up ball of fur, barely moving. Ginny didn’t seem to notice that her paws were bleeding as she laid the little bundle down at our feet.

It uttered a tiny little sound, an unmistakable mew. It was a kitten, very tiny, and it was covered with splinters of glass. Some of the glass had penetrated its skin, and its fur was bloody. Could this kitten possibly live?

We wanted to get Ginny and the kitten home right away so we could examine their wounds and treat them. Even though Ginny is no lightweight, Sheilah scooped her up and carried her to the car in her arms. I followed with the kitten.

As soon as we were safe in my apartment, Sheilah and I brought Ginny into the bathroom and turned on the light for a good look. My dog sat quietly letting us examine her without pulling her paws out of our hands, even though they must have been hurting.

There were pieces of glass stuck in the pads of Ginny’s feet. We lifted them out very carefully, making sure to get even the tiniest piece out, washed her wounds, and applied a styptic pencil. We then turned our attention to the kitten, which couldn’t have been more than a week and a half old. Gently, we brushed the glass off it, pulling out the pieces sticking in its flesh and examined its scratches and cuts. They didn’t appear to be too serious, so we went the soap-and-water and styptic pencil route with the little cat, too.

We got out the little bottle we use for nursing kittens and gave the baby a decent meal. The kitten drank until it was full, and then curled up and went to sleep between Ginny’s aching paws. It was already making itself at home.

Neither Sheilah nor I expected that baby kitten to live. Its wounds weren’t serious, but it just seemed too young to have much of a chance at growing up. There was feistiness in that little fellow, though, and he surprised us by thriving.

A few days later he was as lively as a kitten ought to be, and eating enough for six. I made up my mind there and then not to put him up for adoption, but to keep him.

I named him the Chairman. The Chairman and Ginny have a very special relationship. She seems to think he belongs to her, the way she fusses over him all the time. And he thinks he belongs to her, too. It’s almost as though the Chairman recognizes that he is Ginny’s living reward for her brave dive into that box of broken glass to save him.

Philip Gonzalez with Leonore Fleischer

Jim the Wonder Dog

In 1925, Sam VanArsdale, proprietor of the Ruff Hotel in Marshall, Missouri, purchased an English setter puppy born of pureblood champion field stock in Louisiana. The puppy was considered the least promising of the litter and was sold at a throwaway price. The dog was nothing special to look at as he had unusually big paws and an ungainly appearance. Sam decided to call him Jim.

Jim grew to be a fine companion for Sam. The dog was smart and good-natured, and Sam was pleased with his “bargain.”

One day, when Jim was three years old, he and Sam were walking through the woods. The weather was hot, and Sam said to Jim, “C’mon boy, let’s go and rest a little under a hickory tree.”

There were many types of trees in the woods, but Jim ran straight over to a hickory tree. Sam was a bit surprised. No doubt it was just a coincidence. On a whim, Sam said to Jim, “Show me a black oak tree.” When Jim ran to the nearest black oak and put his right paw on the tree, Sam was amazed. This couldn’t
possibly
be true.

“Show me a walnut tree,” he said, and Jim ran unerringly to the nearest walnut and put his paw on it. Sam continued with everything he could think of—a stump, hazel bushes, a cedar tree, even a tin can. Jim correctly identified them all. Sam could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes. How could a dog do such things?

Sam went home and told his wife what had happened.

She said flatly, “Sam VanArsdale, you can tell me, but don’t go telling anyone else.”

Sam persuaded his wife to accompany them back to the woods, where Jim put on a flawless repeat performance. She shook her head in amazement—Sam’s crazy story was true!

Over the next few days, Sam couldn’t help telling his friends around town what his smart dog could do. They smiled at him indulgently and moved off pretty fast.

One man did listen, although of course he was skeptical. Sam, noticing that the man had parked his car on the street a few yards away, told Jim to show the man which car was his. Jim went straight to the car and put his front paw on it.

Then another man gave Sam the license plate number of his car. Sam wrote it down on a piece of paper and put the paper on the sidewalk. He told Jim to identify the car. Without hesitation, Jim walked to the car in question.

After incidents like these, Jim’s reputation spread like wildfire around the small town. Soon he was demonstrating his powers in the Ruff Hotel for amazed crowds of up to a hundred people at a time. There seemed to be no limit to what Jim could do. When people were in the lobby, he could determine what room numbers they occupied in the hotel. He could identify people according to the clothes they wore, the color of their hair—in spite of the fact that dogs are thought to be color-blind—their profession, and, in the case of the military, their rank.

In addition, he could identify objects not just by name but by function. For example, at a command such as, “If we wanted to hear Amos and Andy, where would we go?” Jim would go to the radio.

Perhaps, the skeptics said, Sam was secretly signaling to Jim. Although none of Sam’s friends and associates questioned his integrity, knowing him to be a plain-speaking man who wouldn’t dream of deceiving others, one woman decided to test this theory. She had the clever idea to write an instruction for Jim in shorthand, which Sam did not understand. When Sam showed Jim the paper on which the instruction was written, and told him to do whatever it said, Jim went over to a certain man. The woman shouted, “He’s doing it!” Then she explained that the instruction was, “Show us the man with rolled socks.”

One year, at the State Fair in Sedalia, the editor of the
Joplin Globe
asked for a demonstration. Since they were near the bandstand where the musicians were putting away their instruments, Sam said, “Jim, show us who plays the tuba.” Jim went to the tuba player and put his paw on him. The citizens of the “Show-Me State” had to admit Jim had abilities far beyond the normal.

By this time Jim’s reputation had spread far beyond the small town of Marshall. Newspapers and magazines from all over the country sent reporters to cover the story. They went away, like everyone else, amazed. Jim became known as the Wonder Dog.

Jim’s feats aroused scientific and medical curiosity. He was examined by veterinarians at Missouri State University, who said that there was nothing unusual about Jim—physically, he was just like any other dog. They could offer no explanation for his uncanny talent.

Later that same day, Jim gave an outdoor demonstration at the university, attended by students and professors. Various professors gave him instructions in different languages.

In Italian, “Show me an elm tree.”

In French, “Point out this license number.”

In German, “Show a girl dressed in blue.”

In Spanish, “Find a man wearing a mustache.”

Not once did Jim err.

Sam watched the demonstration with quiet satisfaction. His bargain pup had become his dearest treasure, an extraordinary dog whom he loved and was proud of. But he had no explanation of how Jim could do all these things. When a friend at the demonstration asked him about it, he said, “All I know is that he has the power of doing whatever I ask him to do, and there seems to be no limit to his knowledge or ability.”

One man who was deeply impressed by Jim’s ability was Jack L. Jolly, a Missouri state representative, who invited Sam and Jim to Jefferson City for a joint session with the legislature. The politicians tried to trip Jim up. They gave him an instruction in Morse code. But Jim had no problem indicating the person they were calling for. Anyone who harbored any lingering doubts that Jim was simply reading his master’s mind, or responding to secret signals, had to put them aside, because Sam knew Morse code no better than he knew shorthand. Sam was as astonished as everyone else by Jim’s supernormal gift.

One day, some friends persuaded Sam to test Jim further. Could he possibly predict the future? Sam took an interest in the Kentucky Derby, so that year he wrote down the names of the horses on pieces of paper that he then laid on the floor. He asked Jim to select the horse that would win. Jim put his paw on one of the slips of paper, which was then put in a locked safe until after the race. It turned out that Jim had picked the winner. He repeated his success the following year, and so on for seven successive years.

Sam was not a gambling man and never attempted to profit from Jim’s abilities to foretell the future. He received many letters and telegrams requesting Jim’s predictions of winning horses. Some people offered to split the profits with Sam. But Sam never wavered. Nor was he interested in a lucrative offer from Paramount for Jim to work in movies for a year. Like the modest midwesterner he was, Sam said he didn’t really need the money and didn’t want to commercialize Jim.

As time passed, the bond between Sam and Jim grew. Sam’s love for Jim was that of a man for his greatest friend. And the dog’s ability to do anything Sam asked was just one facet of Jim’s deep devotion towards Sam. So when Jim died at the age of twelve in 1937, Sam was devastated. And indeed, the whole town of Marshall was stunned by the loss. Jim was buried in the Ridge Park Cemetery, where his small white headstone reads: Jim the Wonder Dog.