Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (8 page)

All that summer the boy and the dog romped through fields and roamed the woods, discovering fox dens and groundhog burrows. Each day, they brought back treasures to share.

“Mom, we’re home!” Tim would shout, holding the screen door wide for Inky. “Come see what we’ve got!” He’d dig deep in his jeans and spread the contents on the kitchen table: a pheasant’s feather; wilted buttercups with petals like wet paint; stones from the brook that magically regained their colors when he licked them.

September arrived all too soon, bringing with it school for Tim and Carl, my schoolteacher husband, and lonely days for Inky and me. Previously, I’d paid little attention to the dog. Now he went with me to the mailbox, to the chicken coop, and down the lane when I visited Mr. Jolliff.

“Why didn’t they want to take Inky?” I asked Mr. Jolliff one afternoon.

“And shut him up in a city apartment?” Mr. Jolliff replied. “Inky’s a farm dog; he’d die in the city. Besides, you’re lucky to have him.”

Lucky? I thought ruefully of holes dug in the lawn, of freshly washed sheets ripped from the clothesline. I thought, too, of litter dumped on the back porch: old bones, discarded boots, long-dead rodents.

Still, I had to admit that Inky was a good farm dog. We learned this in early spring when his insistent barking alerted us to a ewe, about to lamb, lying on her broad back in a furrow, unable to rise. Without Inky’s warning, she’d have died. And he had an uncanny way of knowing when roving dogs threatened the flock, or when sheep went astray.

Inky’s deepest affection was reserved for Tim. Each afternoon when the school bus lumbered down the road, Inky ran joyously to meet it. For Inky—and for Tim—this was the high point of the day.

One mid-October day when I had been in town, Tim rode home with me after school. He was instantly alarmed when Inky wasn’t waiting for us by the driveway.

“Don’t worry, Tim,” I said. “Inky always expects you on the bus, and we’re early. Maybe he’s back by the woods.”

Tim ran down the lane, calling and calling. While I waited for him to return, I looked around the yard. Its emptiness was eerie.

Suddenly I, too, was alarmed. With Tim close behind me, I ran down to the barn. We pushed the heavy doors apart and searched the dim coolness. Nothing. Then, as we were about to leave, a faint whimper came from the far corner of a horse stall. There we found him, swaying slightly on three legs, his pain-dulled eyes pleading for help. Even in the half-light I saw that one back leg hung limp, the bone partially severed. With a little moan, Tim ran to Inky and buried his face in the dog’s neck.

By the time the vet arrived, Carl was home. We placed the dog on his blanket and gently lifted him into the pet ambulance. Inky whimpered, and Tim started to cry.

“Don’t worry, son,” the vet said. “He’s got a good chance.”

But his eyes told a different story.

At Tim’s bedtime, I took him upstairs and heard his prayers. He finished and looked up. “Will Inky be home tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow, Tim. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

“You tell me that doctors make people well. Doesn’t that mean dogs, too?”

I looked out across the fields flooded with amber light. How do you tell a little boy that his dog must either die or be crippled? “Yes, Tim,” I said at last. “I guess that means dogs, too.” I tucked in his blanket and went downstairs.

I tossed a sweater over my shoulders and told Carl, “I’m going down to Mr. Jolliff’s. Maybe he’ll know what happened.”

I found the old man sitting at his kitchen table in the fading light. He drew up another chair and poured coffee.

Somehow I couldn’t talk about the dog. Instead, I asked, “Do you know if anyone was cutting weeds around here today?”

“Seems to me I heard a tractor down along the brook this morning,” Mr. Jolliff replied. “Why?” He looked at me. “Did something happen?”

“Yes,” I said, and the words were tight in my throat. “Inky’s back leg’s nearly cut off. The vet came for him. . . .” I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. “It’s growing dark,” I finally murmured. “I’d better head home.”

Mr. Jolliff followed me into the yard. “About Inky,” he said hesitantly, “if he lives, I’d give him a chance. He’ll still have you folks and Tim, the farm and the animals. Everything he loves. Life’s pretty precious . . . especially where there’s love.”

“Yes,” I said, “but if he loses a leg, will love make up for being crippled?”

He said something I didn’t catch. But when I turned to him, he’d removed his glasses and was rubbing the back of his stiff old hand across his eyes.

By the time I reached our yard, the sun was gone. I walked down by the barn and stood with my arms on the top fence rail. Then I dropped my head to my arms and let the tears come.

I cried because Inky had been so gentle with the animals, and because he loved Tim so much, and Tim loved him. Butmostly I cried because I hadn’t really wanted him; not until now, when this terrible thing had happened.

Inky’s paw couldn’t be saved. Too vividly, I recalled how Inky had raced across fields and meadows, swift and free as a cloud shadow. I listened skeptically as the vet tried to reassure us: “He’s young and strong. He’ll get along on three legs.”

Tim took the news with surprising calmness. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just so Inky comes home.”

“But those long jaunts the two of you take may tire him now,” I cautioned.

“He’s always waited for me. I’ll wait for him. Besides, we’re never in much of a
hurry
.”

The vet called a few days later. “You’d better come for your dog. He’s homesick.” I went immediately and was shocked at the change in Inky. The light was gone from his eyes. His tail hung limp and tattered, and the stump of his leg was swathed in a stained bandage. He hobbled over and pressed wearily against my leg. A shudder went through the hot, thin body and he sighed—a long, deep sigh filled with all the misery and loneliness of the past few days.

At the farm, I helped Inky from the car. He looked first to the sheep, grazing in the pasture; then, beyond the fields of green winter wheat, to the autumn woods where the horses, dappled with sunlight, moved among the trees. My heart ached as I realized how great must have been his longing for this place. At last, he limped to the barn and slipped between the heavy doors.

While his wound healed, Inky stayed in the barn, coming out only in the evenings. Throughout those days a sick feeling never left me.
You are a coward to let him live in
this condition,
I told myself. But in my heart I wasn’t sure.

About a week after bringing Inky home, I was in the yard raking leaves. When I’d finished under the maple, I sat on the steps to rest. It was a perfect Indian summer day; our country road was a tunnel of gold, and sumac ran like a low flame along the south pasture.

Then, with a flurry of leaves, Inky was beside me. I knelt and stroked the fur so smooth and shiny again. He moved, and I was achingly aware of the useless limb. “I’m so sorry, Inky,” I said, putting my arm around his neck and pressing my head against his.

Sitting awkwardly, he placed his paw on my knee and looked up at me with soft, intelligent eyes. Then he pricked his ears and turned to listen. In an instant, he was off to meet the school bus. He ran with an ungainly, one-sided lope—but he ran with joy.

Tim jumped from the high step and caught the dog in his arms, “Oh, Inky! Inky!” he cried. Inky licked Tim’s face and twisted and squirmed with delight. They remained there for a time, oblivious to anything but the ecstasy of being together again.

Watching them, I knew I’d been right to let the dog live. What was it Mr. Jolliff had said?

“Life’s pretty precious . . . especially where there’s love.”

Aletha Jane Lindstrom

2
THE MAGIC
OF THE BOND

W
e are shaped and fashioned by what
we love.

Goethe

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

The Fishermen

Peppy was an old dog put together with a few genes of this and that. His body was a mass of gray curls that still had traces of the black that once covered him from head to toe. A lot like my own hair. But it was his eyes that could melt your soul. Dark-brown discs were clouded milky white. Pep was blind and a stroke had rendered his legs useless. The poor dog had to be carried everywhere. He was 15, 105 in human years, and I was nearing 80. We could commiserate.

We met for the first time in an elevator that took us down from the thirty-second floor. Peppy’s master, Nick, held the old dog in his arms. They were my new neighbors and had come to Florida from the north. I said a few words to break the awkward silence, and Peppy immediately lifted his drooping head at the sound of my voice. His nose sniffed in every direction searching for this new stranger in his midst. Reaching out his snow-white muzzle and shaggy white head, he licked my fingertips with a warm tongue. I stroked his head. His tail wagged a little faster, and his backside moved to the same tempo. By the time we reached the lobby, I knew I had a friend.

With Nick’s enthusiastic approval, I started taking care of Peppy while Nick was off at work. I’d spend hours telling him about my life. He would close his sightless eyes and listen to everything I had to say. His curly tail would wave slowly, and his nose would punch the air catching the different tones of my voice.

After a while, Nick rigged up a baby carriage with a platform built on its frame. How wonderful—Pep now had a set of wheels. I even began taking Peppy to my favorite fishing spot. Peppy loved being wheeled along on the quay. The wind pushed back his floppy ears, and he lifted his nose to drink in the many fascinating, fishy smells.

It wasn’t long before another old critter joined our party. It was a pelican that usually sat nearby and waited for a meal every time I threw over the line. I knew what an effort it was for him to fly. He was too old and worn out to join his wingmen, diving from high altitudes and skimming fish from the edge of the sea. The other pelicans flew off in perfect formation, but the old one just sat there and watched. He survived by gliding a few feet off the dock and snaring baitfish in his huge mouth. Between that and my handouts, he just barely survived.

Peppy and the pelican hit it off from the first time they met. They sat close to each other and developed a special kind of rapport. What a picture we must have made, Pep on his platform carriage, the tattered bird dozing and me, still casting in the twilight of my own ancient life.

One day I dropped a baited hook in the water and waited as the line swayed gently in search of a fish. Suddenly Peppy whimpered, not loud, more like a purr. He could see nothing, but his head stretched over the platform till he was facing directly into the sea. His tail beat faster, and his ears stood erect. Somehow the old dog was trying to help me catch a fish. His motions and whimpering alerted the pelican. The old bird stood up and also peered into the water. His yellow eyes bulged, and he stared at my line. The two clairvoyants were telling me something was about to happen. Sure enough, it did! The line became taut! Wham! We had a hit! The pole bent in half, and I strained with all I had to bring something up to the planks. Peppy was half-crazy with excitement; he even pulled himself up on his haunches to get closer to the struggle. And the pelican waddled over to keep an eye on the end of my pole.

With a lot of grunting, I finally brought up a big, beautiful yellowtail snapper and laid it at Peppy’s feet. Peppy sniffed at the fish madly, then rested on his blanket and seemed to enjoy the sound of the pelican eating his freshly caught lunch.

These days I’m spending more time at the quay than ever and catching loads of fish. My two pals never disappoint me. Alerted by a wagging tail, a whimper and a flutter of wings, I’m always ready when the magic begins. Everyone knows about bird dogs, but who’s ever heard of a fish dog? Or a fish bird? Who’d ever believe I have pets like this?

These are wonderful days for old Peppy. Instead of moping indoors, alone all day, he’s out in the sunshine with a whole new mission in life. Just last week, Peppy celebrated his sixteenth birthday with some of the most exciting catches of his new career.

And the pelican? All this activity’s had an effect on him, too. As dusk came to the quay not long ago, I watched as he unfurled his trailing feathers and actually lifted himself off the ground. He pumped his long, weathered wings, and slowly made it to a roost to sleep for the night.