Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul (5 page)

One day, when they called the dog’s family to report his whereabouts, the family said they weren’t coming to get him. They’d had enough; the dog was on his own. Fortunately, the neighbors called a friend who was a volunteer at the shelter where I also volunteered as dog-intake coordinator and breed-rescue liaison. She took him home and then called me.

As I drove up to my friend’s house, I saw her sitting on the porch with her children. The dog was sitting on the porch, too, but wasn’t interacting with any of them. Instead, he was scanning the street and sidewalk with nervous eyes.

He was a stunning dog, in spite of his worried expression, rough coat and emaciated frame. I was told he was a little over a year and a half, still a pup by German shepherd standards. He was very tall and would be an imposing creature once he filled out. I had never handled a dog his size and was intimidated at first. But, aside from being agitated at the strangeness of his surroundings, he seemed perfectly friendly and readily jumped into the back of my car.

My plan was to take himto the vet for an examand then take himto the shelter or arrange for himto go to the nearest German shepherd rescue group. But first I thought I’d stop and show him to my husband, Larry, as he’d grown upwith German shepherds and loved the breed. (Over the years, I’d heard
many
stories about his favorite dog, Marc; none of our rescued mutts could compare.)

When I opened the back door of the car and the shepherd leaped out, he immediately loped over to my husband. After a cursory sniff, he lost interest and began exploring the parking lot where we stood. We watched him, and I could tell Larry was impressed. He turned to me and said, “I want him.”

I was surprised. We already had three dogs—an occupational hazard of volunteering at an animal shelter—and Larry often complained that the household dog population was too high. Plus, this dog was
huge
—it would be like adding two more dogs to our menagerie! But I didn’t argue; I was pleased that Larry wanted a dog for himself.

So Beau joined our family. It wasn’t easy at first. He had physical problems that made it difficult for him to gain weight. He was too skinny, yet couldn’t digest any fats. His digestion was, to put it mildly, finicky. All that was certainly difficult, but his behavioral problems were even more troubling.

To our dismay, we soon learned that Beau had been “reverse house-trained.” He consistently messed in the house and then stood by the door, waiting to go outside. We figured out that his first family had not given him regular opportunities to visit the great outdoors. Then, when he made the inevitable mess inside, they would get mad at him and throw him out the door. He was an intelligent dog and made the obvious connection: Go to the bathroom and then you get to go outside. We had quite a time convincing him it actually worked better the other way.

But what was worse was his utter lack of interest in people. He loved the other dogs, but had no use for the two-legged members of his new family. In my experience, German shepherds were just like that. I thought of them as “big, impersonal dogs,” and didn’t feel hurt by Beau’s coldness. Not Larry. Hewas deeply disappointed by Beau’s aloof disinterest. It was the antithesis of his experience with Marc, whose devotion to Larry had been the stuff of family legend.

Over time, Beau got the hang of being housebroken and established his place within our canine foursome. His physical problems also gradually cleared up, and he eventually tipped the scales at 108 pounds. He was such a handsome dog that people constantly stopped us in the street to comment on his beauty.

Sometimes when I would see him lying sphinxlike in a patch of sun or running in the fields near our house, my breath would catch. He resembled a lion or some other majestic wild animal—his physical presence was simply magical. But still, his heart remained shut. He had no love to give to us. And when he looked at us, there was no spark of joy in his eyes. The lights were on, but no one was home.

What could we do? We did our best to love him and hoped we might reach him someday.

Then one day about four months after we got him, I glanced at Beau and was startled to see that he was following Larry closely with his large brown eyes. He seemed to be studying him—learning what actions signaled a chance to go for a ride or presented the possibility of a walk, treat or a scratch behind the ears. It was as if he suddenly realized that people had things to offer him— things that might not be half bad.

His interest in all things Larry began to snowball. Swiftly, it became Beau’s mission to keep an eye on my husband at all times to make sure he didn’t miss any opportunities for doggy fun or excitement.

Larry didn’t let him down. He knew what big dogs liked to do and where they liked to be scratched. He threw balls and sticks and took Beau to interesting places. Beau soon started whining if Larry left him behind. And when Larry finally returned from those solo jaunts, Beau was beside himself with joy. The floodgates of Beau’s love had opened. The dry disinterest fell away and his heart began to bloom.

Today we call him Velcro Beau, because he sticks so close to Larry’s side. Every day when Beau wakes up, he stretches his long body luxuriously and then finds one of us to give him his morning rubdown. He lays his ears flat against his head and shyly pokes his large nose against an arm. This beautiful big dog, overflowing with affection, lets us know he is ready for some serious lovin’.

I am grateful that although he is clearly Larry’s dog, he has included me in the circle of his love. Often, while rubbing his large chest, I lean over and touch my forehead to his. Then he lifts his paw, places it on my arm and sighs with pleasure. We stay that way for a while, just enjoying our connection.

When we finish, Beau jumps to his feet, his eyes sparkling and his large tail waving wildly. It’s time to eat or play. Or go to work with Larry. Or have some other kind of wonderful fun.

To our delight, that skinny, worried dog has become an exuberant and devoted companion. Beau knows that life is good when you live with people you love.

Carol Kline

A Christmas for Toby

On Christmas morning, 1950, my parents gave my sister, Alyce, my brother, Chuck and me a black Lab puppy named Toby. I was seven and the youngest.

Toby, just two months old but large for his age, bounded out of his carrying cage, a red ribbon around his neck. Excited, he wagged his mighty tail wildly, and before we knew it, he had knocked over the Christmas tree. Ornaments went flying in every direction. Then Toby’s tail got wrapped in the wiring. He dragged the tree across the floor and proudly presented it to my mother.

Mom stood stock-still, squinted her eyes and opened her mouth wide, but no sound came from her. She just stared at Toby through half-opened eyes as his tail continued a vigorous thumping against the wood floor. With every thump, more ornaments fell from the ravaged limbs of the tree, landing in shattered, colorful piles. Finally, Mom opened her eyes wide and yelled, “The tree is ruined!”

“No, Mom. We’ll fix it. It’ll be like new, but with fewer ornaments,” I said soothingly, fearing she would banish Toby from the family. Mom stood motionless as Alyce, Chuck and I untangled Toby’s tail from the wiring. I held the squirming pupwhilemy brother and sister reassembled the tree and propped it up against the wall in the corner of the living room.

Dad tilted his head from side to side. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he said as he rubbed his chin. “It’s really not leaning all that much. Could have been worse. Toby’s just excited, Mother.”

We all studied the tree, forgetting about Toby, whom I had lowered to the floor.

“What’s that sound?” Mom asked as we surveyed the room.

“Toby’s in the packages!” Chuck shouted. He pointed to the stack of wrapped Christmas presents. “He’s tearing the ribbons.”

I grabbed Toby again and took him outside to save him from himself—and the need to look for a new home.

A year passed. We all survived the loss of at least one shoe to Toby’s teething. Despite his mischief making, Toby became a belovedmember of our family. He grewto be the biggest black Lab anyone in our town had ever seen.

A few days before Christmas, Toby became ill and we rushed himto the animal hospital. The veterinarian thought someone had poisoned Toby during one of his unauthorized outings.

I began to cry. “Can we see Toby for just a few minutes?” I sniffled. “He’ll be so lonely without us, and it’s almost Christmas.”

“Sure,” he said. “But be careful not to excite him.”

We stood around Toby’s kennel. He looked much smaller than the mighty dog we so often caught gliding over the fence. His eyes were sad. His breathing was loud and unsteady.

Dad stuck his large hand through the cage’s meshing so he could touch Toby. Tears filled all our eyes when Dad said, “You’ll be all right, boy.”

Toby lifted his head for a moment, and then dropped it back with a heavy thump against the floor. I heard that thump all the way home as we rode in silence.

The next day, when the bell rang signaling the end of class at Park Hill Elementary, my third-grade schoolmates rushed from the building into the cold December air, eager to start the Christmas holiday. I trudged in silence behind, neither feeling the joy of the season nor wanting to talk to anyone.

My walk home was filled with thoughts of happier moments when Toby would run to meet me at the end of the driveway each day after school. He’d jump up to lick my face, forcing me to the ground as he tugged at my coat sleeve. Toby only released his grip so he could carry my book bag between his powerful jaws as he marched to the door. He never asked me about my grades or if I had been chosen for the school play. And he never cared if I wore the latest clothing craze.

When I entered the house, I found everyone sitting around the kitchen table. No one was talking. Their heads were bent, their eyes directed at the center of the empty surface.

I dropped my book bag. My eyes stung. “What’s the matter? Has something happened to Toby?”

Mom stood and walked to me. “No, dear.” She circled her arms around me in a comforting hug. “Toby’s alive. But we have another problem. It’ll take a family decision. Take off your coat and come sit with us.”

I did as Mom instructed, but worry didn’t subside. “What’s the problem, then? I mean, what could matter if Toby’s okay?” A sour liquid rose into my throat.

Dad took my hand. “The vet says that Toby will need to stay in the hospital for another few days.”

“That’s not so bad. Why’s everyone so unhappy? Will he be home for Christmas?”

“Slow down.” Dad raised his hand. “Let me finish.” He got up from the table to get a cup of coffee from the pot simmering on the old gas stove. He took a sip and turned to us. “The vet isn’t positive Toby will recuperate. If we decide to leave Toby in the hospital, we’ll have to pay a large bill. There’ll be no Christmas presents.” He took another sip of the hot brew before he added, “We can’t afford both. You know, there really is no Santa.”

It had been a long time since I believed in Santa Claus, so this news didn’t come as a surprise. “I knew that. But, I still don’t see what the problem is.” I looked at Alyce and Chuck, who had said nothing. “You two can’t want presents instead of Toby. It wouldn’t be Christmas without him. We’ve got to try.”

Alyce wrapped her leg around the chair leg. Chuck rubbed the worn spot on the tabletop and spoke first. “I was hoping for a new bike . . . but, it wouldn’t be any fun riding it if Toby wasn’t following, barking to make me go faster.”

Alyce kept her head lowered toward the empty table. “I really can’t think of anything I would want more than Toby,” she said.

I jumped from the table. “It’s settled then. Tell the vet we’ll do whatever it takes to give Toby a chance.”

The next two days crawled by. Then the day before Christmas, the vet called to tell us that Toby was going to be okay and was ready to come home.

“Hooray!” I whooped. “We get Toby—again—for Christmas.”

For the first time in nearly a week, everyone laughed. Then we all piled into the family Ford. Unlike the silent trip when we left Toby at the hospital, we chattered all the way there, each sharing a favorite Toby story. A few of the more memorable tales brought a scowl to Mom’s face, especially the one about last year’s smashed Christmas tree.

Though the ride to the hospital seemed interminable, the minutes before Toby’s arrival in the waiting room seemed even longer. Finally, the door swung open and out walked Toby, wearing a red ribbon around his neck. He was slower than he had been last Christmas, but he had the same mischievous glint in his eyes.

We all rushed to Toby, hugging and kissing him. His mighty tail thumped in happy response. Mom leaned over, and holding Toby’s face between her hands, whispered, “Merry Christmas, Toby.”

Tekla Dennison Miller

Blu Parts the Veil of Sadness

A
black-and-white border collie came to our
house to stay,
Her smiles brushed life’s cobwebs away.

Only Blu knows of her life before she was tucked into a small space with wired walls labeled “Animal Shelter.”We had been without a dog for a couple of months when Blu’s telepathic message, “I need a loving family,” reached the ears of our teenage daughter Christine.

At the time, our family of six had a home in the country. Our small acreage bordered the Plateau River outside of Casper, Wyoming. Resident pets included an assortment of aquarium fish, laying hens and a few silky chickens that resided in the chicken coop. The 4-H bunnies nestled in their hutch. A Manx cat, dressed in dolls’ clothes, often accompanied our younger daughters during their imaginary adventures. And last but not least trotted Smokey, our two-year-old quarter horse.