Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul (24 page)

“Carly.”

“Carly, you want to know something? Luke here has cancer. He’s dying. And he wishes more than anything that he could go on living. You’re perfectly healthy, yet you want to die. It just isn’t fair, is it?”

Carly snapped her head up and looked at me. “Luke’s dying?”

I nodded, swallowing back tears. “He doesn’t have much time—a week, maybe two . . . or just a few days . . . we don’t know for sure.”

“Shouldn’t he be at home or in the hospital?” she asked.

“He wanted to visit with you kids, to bring you some happiness. Just like you, things aren’t good for him either. He probably hurts a lot inside.” I paused, wondering if she was old enough to understand. “But by coming here, it’s as if he’s trying to make every minute of his life count for something.”

Carly sat silently, looking at Luke while she softly rubbed his belly. “Poor Luke,” she said, almost in a whisper. When she raised her head and met my gaze, her eyes looked wary, almost accusing. “You think I should be glad I’m alive and not wanting to die, don’t you? Even if I’m stuck here.”

I took a few seconds to try to gather my thoughts. “Maybe you could make it sort of like a game. Every day try to think of at least one good thing about being alive.”

The counselors began calling the children back to their classrooms. I looked straight into Carly’s eyes, trying to reach her. “If nothing else, there’s always hope things will get better.”

“Come on, Carly,” a counselor called out.

Carly stood. “Will you come back and see me?”

“Yes, I will. I promise. And you’ll tell me lots of reasons to live, right?”

“Right.” She gave me a big nod, and then ran off to join her classmates.

The next week, though Luke’s walk was slower and more labored, we visited the children’s center again. Carly didn’t show up. Alarmed, I asked one of the counselors where she was. They told me that she’d gone to live with a foster family. My heart settled back into place.
Good for
you, Carly.

Twelve days later, Luke lost his battle with cancer.

When I think of him now, I try to focus on what I told Carly: that Luke made every minute of his life count for something. Perhaps he inspired Carly to do that, too. I hope that she, and all the other children we visited, benefited from being with Luke. I know I did.

Christine Watkins

Honey’s Greatest Gift

Like most families with a dog, we loved our yellow Lab and treasured the gifts she brought into our lives. From the time she joined our family at the age of seven weeks, Honey enlivened our household with her boundless enthusiasm, happiness and love. Her powerful “helicopter” tail wagged in a circle; she loved to play hide-and-seek with us and readily allowed visiting children to crawl all over her—and to play with her tennis balls and squeaky toys.

When our oldest son, Josh, began kindergarten, our youngest son, Daniel, found an eager playmate in Honey. When Daniel began school, she became my companion, often sitting next to me, head resting on my lap as I did paperwork for our fledgling business. But it was her companionship with my mother that led to what was, perhaps, her greatest gift.

Growing up in Germany, Mom’s life had been difficult. A stern older couple adopted her when she was about three years old. At sixteen, the town she lived in, Wuerzburg, was leveled during a World War II air strike. She fled from town to town on her own, trying to survive and suffering repeated rejections by people who could have helped her, but instead looked after their own interests. Then she married my father, an American soldier. Their marriage was not a happy one, and Mom struggled in her role as a mother of four. Between my mother’s unhappiness and my father’s quiet and distant nature, there wasn’t a lot of emotional nurturing in our family.

When Mom—a widow—moved to our city as a senior citizen, I was concerned. Would we relate? Could I deal with the emotional distance between us? To top it off, once again Mom felt lonely and displaced. In an effort to ease her loneliness, Mom often drove the mile to our house to walk Honey. They were perfect for each other. Mom walked slowly, and by this time, so did Honey, also a senior citizen. Together they explored the trails that interlace our neighborhood. The gentle yellow dog brought out a softness in Mom. My mother babied Honey, sometimes sneaking her forbidden foods despite my protests. Although I considered Honey a family member, to me she was still a dog, but to Mom she was nearly human; as a result, we occasionally clashed over our differing “dog-parenting” styles.

It was about a year after Mom’s arrival that my husband, Steve, and I knew Honey’s end was near. Honey, now fourteen, could no longer curl up to sleep. Her joints were stiff, and though we gave her daily anti-inflammatory drugs, we suspected she continued to suffer. But we didn’t have the heart to put her to sleep. In spite of her physical ailments, Honey still fetched the paper daily and turned into a puppy at the prospect of a walk. Her enthusiasm for life masked what should have been obvious.

Then one sunny Tuesday in March, I finally understood that our stoic pet had had enough. She was clearly suffering, and I knew it was time. Before I could change my mind about doing what we had put off for too long, I called the vet. They made arrangements for Honey’s favorite veterinarian, Dr. Jane, to come in on her day off. Steve met me at the vet’s office and together we comforted Honey as she slipped away from this world.

Her loss affected me far more than I could have imagined. I moped around the house, restless and overcome by sudden bursts of tears. My grieving was heightened by the fact that just a few months before we had also become empty nesters. Without Honey to fill her customary space in our kitchen, our house now seemed bigger and emptier than before.

I resisted telling Mom that we had put her walking buddy to sleep. How could I cope with her emotional reaction, which I anticipated would be greater than my own? So, I hatched a plan: Steve had to work late on Thursday night. Mom and I could have dinner together; after dinner I would reveal my secret.

“Okay,” Mom said when I telephoned. “I’ll come over.”

“No, no,” I countered, realizing she would wonder where Honey was as soon as she walked through the door. “Why don’t you cook for us? I’d like to eat at your house.”

Mom agreed. I don’t remember the conversation we had or what we ate because the whole time I was distracted by the secret I was keeping. Finally, it was time to leave, and I still couldn’t tell Mom about Honey. Mom made herself cozy on her sofa. I said good-bye, pulled on my coat and was at the door when I forced myself to turn around.

Sitting stiffly near Mom with my coat on, I blurted: “Mom, we put Honey to sleep on Tuesday.”

“Oh, no!” Mom cried out. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

To my surprise,
I
was the onewho started to cry. Through my tears I explained why we had put Honey to sleep. With more honesty and vulnerability than I had ever shown to my mother, I blubbered, “I miss her so much.”

“But you carried on with her so,” she said, referring to our differences concerning Honey’s “parenting.”

“I know, but I loved her. We did so much together.”

Mom scooted closer to me on the couch. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. Then she cradled me while I rested my head on her chest and sobbed.

For the first time in forty-six years I experienced the calm reassurance of a mother’s love. Soaking up my mother’s tenderness, I marveled that it had its root in her relationship with Honey. And, although crying in my mother’s arms didn’t take away my pain, I was deeply comforted. I lost a loving companion that week, but I also gained something rich and beautiful. My mom and I finally made an emotional connection, which has continued to expand— thanks to Honey and her last and greatest gift.

B. J. Reinhard

*Name has been changed to protect privacy.

Puppy Magic

Since I began incorporating animals into my child psychotherapy practice fifteen years ago, my life as a clinician— and as a person—has been turned upside down. Surrounded by my dogs, birds, lizards and fish, I feel like a modern-day Dr. Dolittle. Though in my case, it’s not that I talk to the animals, but that the animals help me in my work communicating with children in need.

Diane,* a dark-haired five-year-old, small for her age, came to me with a problem. Although she was a chatterbox in the house and with her family, no one had ever heard Diane say a word to anyone outside her home environment. Not one word.

For years her parents had simply told themselves that Diane was shy. But after her first week at kindergarten, her teacher called her parents into school for a conference and informed them that Diane needed professional help. Not only was the little girl unwilling to speak, but also she appeared terrified.

Diane’s parents, concerned and upset by this evaluation, tried toworkwith Diane to overcome her selectivemutism. Yet nothing they said or did seemed to make any impression on her. Diane refused to talk—in fact, seemed incapable of speech—when she was outside her family circle.

Diane’s parents contacted me and I agreed to see her. It was a Friday afternoon when Diane and her parents arrived for Diane’s initial session. They were all seated in the waiting room when my six-year-old golden retriever, Puppy, and I walked out to greet them. I noticed right away that Diane sat with her head down, her eyes directed toward the floor in front of her. She made no move to look up or acknowledge our entrance.

Puppy, walking ahead of me, made a beeline for Diane. Because Diane’s head was bowed, Puppy was just three feet from Diane when the girl finally caught sight of her. Startled by the unexpected sight of a large golden dog, the girl’s eyes became huge and then her mouth curved slowly into a smile. Puppy stopped directly in front of Diane and laid her head in the girl’s lap.

I introduced myself and Puppy, but Diane didn’t respond. She gave no indication that she had even heard me. Instead, Diane began to silently pet Puppy’s head, running her hands softly over Puppy’s ears, nose and muzzle. She was still obviously nervous and apprehensive at being at my office, but she was smiling and seemed to be enjoying her interaction with Puppy. I was speaking quietly with Diane’s parents when an idea hit me.

I turned back toward the girl and the dog and spoke Puppy’s name quietly. When Puppy looked up at me, I gave her a hand signal to come toward me and continue back into the inner office. Puppy immediately started walking toward me. As Puppy walked away, I watched Diane’s face fall and her eyes take on a sad and disappointed look. I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted Puppy to stay with you. All you have to do for her to come back is say, ‘Puppy, come.’”

Diane’s parents stared at me, their expressions skeptical. For a few tense seconds, Diane sat debating what to do, her lower lip quivering. Then, in a soft voice, she called, “Puppy, come; please come, Puppy.”

Her parents’ gaze flew to their daughter and their jaws dropped in surprise. I gave Puppy the signal to go and she whirled around and ran over to Diane who slid off her chair to the floor, and kneeling, hugged Puppy tightly around the neck. We watched, Diane’s parents in tears, as Diane and Puppy snuggled happily together.

I knew that I had to seize the moment and sent Diane’s parents back into the office to wait for me. Sitting on the floor beside Puppy and Diane, I began to talk to Diane. I told her that I knew how hard it was for her to talk to people she didn’t know and how happy we were that she had been brave enough to call Puppy. Hoping to keep the miracle going, I asked her what she liked about Puppy. She hesitated a moment and then answered, “That she is soft. That she is funny.” As we talked, Puppy sat leaning against Diane, the little girl’s fingers laced through Puppy’s fur.

It was time for the session to end; I asked Diane to say good-bye to Puppy. She hugged Puppy again and said, “Good-bye.” Her voice was soft, but it was clear. She had made a remarkable breakthrough and had taken the first step in her journey toward being able to interact with the world outside her home. I was deeply pleased.

When Diane and her parents left, I sat in my office, stroking Puppy’s soft golden head. I knew that without her, the session would have gone completely differently. Puppy had worked her magic again.

Aubrey Fine, Ed.D.

An Angel in the Form of a Service Dog

H
e has told me a thousand times over that I am
his reason for being: by the way he rests against
my leg; by the way he thumps his tail at my
smallest smile.

Gene Hill

The start of my life in a wheelchair was the end of a very long marriage.

In 1989 I had a serious truck accident, which shattered my lower back. Though I was considered an incomplete paraplegic, as the years passed, my back got progressively worse. At the end of 1999, my doctor ordered me to use a wheelchair at all times. My wife walked out.

Suddenly on my own, I decided to relocate to California where the weather was warmer, there was more to do, and, most important, things there were more handicapped-accessible than in the rural area where I was living. Even so, adjusting to life in a wheelchair, alone in a new place, was no picnic. After six months in California, my doctor felt that a service dog would be an immense help to me and put me in touch with Canine Companions for Independence (CCI). I went through the application process, but when I was finally accepted Iwas told that Iwas looking at nearly a five-year wait. Disappointed but determined to make a life for myself, I continued to struggle through each day, at times becoming so tired that I’d be stranded somewhere until I found enough energy to continue.