Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (9 page)

We’re a threesome of old fishermen. A sightless dog, a flightless bird and an old man who’s having the time of his life.

Mike Lipstock

GARFIELD
© 1996 Paws, Inc. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS
SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.

Sister Seraphim’s Deal with God

Y
e shall not possess any beast, my dear sisters,
except only a cat.

Ancrene Riwle (“Nun’s Rule,” c. 1200)

Mother Superior wrung her hands. “Sister Seraphim, you know full good and well that a convent is not a refuge for every stray cat.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“One mouser per convent is quite enough.”

“Yes, Mother.” The diminutive Russian Orthodox nun bowed her head, more to conceal a grin than to convey contrition.

At that moment, a voice in the hallway murmured, “Oh! The sweet precious babies. Please Sister Seraphim, the mama must have another saucer of milk.”

The diminutive Russian Orthodox nun slipped unnoticed out of the room.

Mother Superior shook her finger at empty air. “And just last week we found the kitchen coffer empty because you took the money to purchase two ragged kitties from little boys, who were unable to care for them.” Mother added, “And Sister, how many times must I remind you, you are not allowed to raid the refrigerator for meat for the cats.”

Sister Seraphim returned to the lecture scene. “Yes Mother, but when I was but a child, I made a deal with God.”

“Sister Seraphim,” Mother said with long-suffering patience, “We do not make deals with God!”

“I do,” Sister said serenely. “I vowed early in life to take care of all living creatures who came my way so long as God provided the means.”

Mother Superior sighed as she watched the sisters file into Sister Seraphim’s room to coo and pet the newest addition to Sister Seraphim’s collection of waifs—Grisette and her three newborn white balls of fluff.

For Sister Seraphim, cats had spirits and every one had to have a name. She rescued Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego (named after the men in the Old Testament who survived the fiery furnace) from the burning heat of the summer sun. The duo hiding behind the nunnery received the Biblical names of Luke and Eli. Mary Magdalene was christened after she waited at a well for Sister.

And then there was Pandora, the born troublemaker. Pandora believed in the virtue of awakening Christian nuns at the crack of dawn. At first she tried to pry Sister’s eyes open with her paw. Soon the mere presence of Pandora’s paw on Sister Seraphim’s face was enough to roust the sister out of bed. But that wasn’t the worst of Pandora, as Sister Seraphim found out one Sunday after services, when Mother Superior called her over.

Mother Superior stood with her arms folded. “That cat is impossible. Come see what she has done to the convent bathroom.”

Sister Seraphim’s eyes widened with horror at the destruction. The haughty Pandora was sitting on the window sill, licking her dainty paws.

Sister asked sternly, “What have you to say for yourself?” But Pandora’s attitude only said, “See how I have excelled at bathroom transgressions. Pulled down all the curtains and towels. Chewed on the toothbrush bristles. Sharpened my claws on the toilet paper and then shredded it into confetti. One good swipe broke all the pretty bottles and knocked over tin cans. Then I mixed up the powder, vitamins, and cough syrup and rolled in the mess.”

Mother Superior continued, “Why just this morning after being ousted from the chapel, again, Pandora actually had the impudence to flick her tail at His Most Holy Reverence the Bishop.”

Suppressing a giggle, Sister Seraphim admitted, “Yes, Pandora is incorrigible, but if I don’t love her, who will?”

Mother Superior looked at her sternly. She was not going to make any concessions. “Other arrangements will have to be made. For all the cats.”

Sister Seraphim’s round face grew troubled. She knew she had to obey Mother’s instructions, but what would happen to her cats?

Over the next few weeks, after much worry and many phone calls and visits to local families, Sister Seraphim managed to find homes for all the cats. She vowed to start afresh with a slate clean of animals and an uncomplicated life. But it wasn’t long before a couple of stray cats appeared, obviously in need of her help. Sister Seraphim fed them. What else could she do? And of course it wasn’t long before word spread along the feline grapevine, and more unwanted cats sought succor from the angelic sister.

Mother Superior appeared to turn a blind eye at first, but inevitably, the day came when “other arrangements” had to be made.

And so the years passed. As she grew older, Sister Seraphim began to suffer from respiratory problems and arthritis. The time came when her order arranged for her to move to Arizona, hoping that the dry climate might improve her health.

Of course, Sister Seraphim’s compassion for homeless cats didn’t lessen at all in her new location. Shortly after arriving in Tucson, she decided to take matters into her own hands. The elderly nun persuaded a local real estate agent to donate a house and land. And there she founded the Hermitage, a no-kill cat shelter. At the Hermitage, Sister Seraphim and her cats found a refuge where, for the rest of her days, she no longer had to make “other arrangements.”

And when Sister Seraphim finally met God, they had both kept their end of the bargain.

Jane Eppinga

Heart of a Champion

Though it’s been years since his racing career ended, Niatross is still a powerful horse. Taller than most men, he weighs half a ton, with a broad chest and chiseled muscles that ripple under a rich bronze coat.

A racing legend, the champion Standardbred racehorse won thirty-seven of thirty-nine races in 1979–80 and over a million dollars. No horse could pass him once he got the lead.

In 1996, when he was nineteen years old, Niatross made a twenty-city tour across North America. For sixteen years, Niatross had done little more than romp in his paddock and munch hay and oats. Now he’d have a rock star’s schedule, with press conferences and photographers in every city, a strange stall to sleep in and thousands of fans wanting to pet and fuss over him. As his tour manager, I traveled with him.

Niatross greeted fans from Maine to Illinois, in big cities and county fairs, in scorching heat and chilly winds. Niatross endured it all with grace and almost eerie intelligence. He was always able to sense what was expected of him and do it.

One night in Buffalo, New York, Niatross pawed and stomped his feet as he waited for his cue to pace down the racetrack for a photo session. The big horse, in his impatience, reared up on his hind legs, pulling his handler (a six-foot, six-inch man) off his feet, before lunging on to the track. But the outburst was over quickly and soon he stood to be photographed, once again the obliging star.

After his track appearance, Chris, his handler, unharnessed Niatross and brushed his lustrous coat. As the two rounded the corner from the barn to the grandstand where a crowd of fans waited, Niatross rolled his eyes and stopped in his tracks, as if to say, “Oh, no. I have to do this again?” But with a gentle tug on the lead rope, Niatross moved ahead to take his place of honor.

For two hours, he was petted, stroked, prodded and swooned over. I was silently thanking Niatross for another night of patience with us when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a moving, buzzing blur zipping across the pavement toward Niatross. As it drew closer, I could see that the blur was a child in an electric wheelchair. The child had his chair going full throttle and before I could caution him not to scare Niatross, he came to an abrupt halt under the horse’s nose, mere inches from his powerful front legs.

Clearly startled, but maintaining his poise, Niatross widened his eyes and craned his neck to peer down at the tiny blond boy, who was around five years old and looked like a doll in the heavy, motorized chair. I said hello to the child, who perhaps because of his handicap, was unable to speak. The fingers of his right hand were clutched around a button that propelled his chair; the fingers on the left hand were frozen around a Niatross poster. He looked at me intently, his eyes burning a hole through my face.

“Would you like Niatross to sign your poster?” I asked. With great solemnity, he nodded his head yes. I pulled the poster from his fingers, tapped Niatross’s foot to get him to lift it, placed the poster beneath it and traced his hoof.

“There,” I said, slipping the poster back between his fingers, “Niatross signed his name for you.” The child said nothing, but continued his fixed gaze at me.

“Do you want to give Niatross a pat?” I asked. Again, he solemnly moved his head up and down. Yes.

A mild panic came over me.
How could we do this?
The boy couldn’t extend a hand or unclench his fingers, his arms were frozen at his side. How could he reach up to pat a horse? I turned to Chris, not knowing what to do, but knowing we couldn’t disappoint this child.

“Chris?” I said, hoping he’d have an idea. Without hesitation, Chris placed his hand a few inches beneath Niatross’s soft muzzle. Niatross lowered his velvety nose into Chris’ hand. Slowly, cautiously, Chris moved his hand, with Niatross following, lower and lower, past the boy’s head, past his tiny shoulders. Chris pulled his hand away and Niatross, closing his eyes, rested his head in the boy’s lap.

The boy’s intent expression melted into a faint, tranquil smile. The tension gone from his frail body, he laid his head alongside Niatross’s powerful head, the same head that jerked a man off his feet just hours before. The two were secure in the only kind of embrace a horse and a wheelchair-bound child could have. Boy and horse looked like old friends, exchanging a wordless greeting understood only by them.

Slowly, steadily, Niatross lifted up his head to look down at his new friend. With a flick of his finger, the child spun the wheelchair around. Still smiling and sitting a little taller now, he disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared, into the chilly night.

Ellen Harvey

A Duchess in the Desert

In January 1996 when I visited Qatar, on the Arabian Peninsula, the emir invited me to return in March for their annual “Festival of the Horse”—and, most intriguingly, to ride in the International Qatar Horse Marathon, popularly known as “Desert Storm.”

The race, I knew, was one of the most grueling in the world. It asked everything from rider and horse alike to go twenty-six miles over sand. I was reasonably fit at the time, but I wasn’t riding fit. Could I withstand hours of competition in hundred-degree heat?

Still, I was tempted by the emir’s proposal. If I rode, an oil company would sponsor me and they would donate a significant sum to Children in Crisis. I decided to do it.

As soon as I declared I would race, the press pegged me as a mad and frivolous publicity hound. The betting was that I would pack up a quarter of the way through, pose for the cameras, and thumb a ride to the nearest oasis. The
Daily Express
even ran the headline, FERGIE RIDING FOR A FALL.

But I had given my word, and the more that I heard I couldn’t do it, the more intent I became.

In England I went on a fiercely healthy diet, pushed my workouts to seven days a week. By the time I returned to Qatar, the race had taken on larger significance. Now it was a question of integrity, of my ability to stay the course and be the serious person I claimed. I could not expect to win the race, but I knew that I had to finish. Only then could I show my doubters—including the toughest one, myself—that I was for real.

When we took a look at the horse they’d assigned me, my equine consultant, Robert Splaine, could tell straight away that he wasn’t fit enough to last. Then our luck turned; we met another rider, who happened to have available a seven-year-old chestnut gelding named Gal.

Gal was an Akhal-Teke, a Russian breed once ridden by Alexander the Great. With their lanky bodies and thin skin, Akhal-Tekes are bred to thrive in the desert, and they are famous for endurance. “Just remember,” his owner told me, “my Gal loves to be spoken to. Just talk to him and he will help you.”

We lined up the next morning across a broad expanse of light sand: forty-six ready steeds and their riders, almost all of them men. Behind the horses were twice as many cars and jeeps and ambulances—including one open-topped car filled with British press, their huge lenses bristling like monstrous antennae, and every man jack of them aching to immortalize my failure.