Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (33 page)

Many people visit Jim’s gravesite every year, leaving flowers and coins in remembrance of the Wonder Dog whose mysterious powers won him lasting fame and honor and love.

Bryan Aubrey

[EDITORS’ NOTE:
The events in this story have been confirmed by eyewitnesses
and documented in numerous newspapers, magazines and other publications.
The editors have checked the author’s sources and are confident that
they are reliable
.]

“I told him to get down.”

Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. © 1999 Jonny Hawkins

Ding, Dong, Bell

The painted cowbell Martha Agrelius found at a local craft fair made an attractive addition to her front porch— especially when suspended over the old metal milk can she’d bought a few months earlier.

Salem, Martha’s cat, seemed to think so, too. He relished the sound the bell made when he leapt up onto the milk can and began swatting it with his paw.

Like Pavlov before him, Salem discovered that certain individuals could be conditioned to respond in a predictable manner to certain stimuli. After a while, he realized he didn’t even need to ring the bell to bring sixty-five-year-old Martha scurrying out to the front porch. All he had to do was stand on the milk can and reach up. On quite a few occasions, neighbors could also be induced to respond to his summons. All in all, the experiment in behavioral conditioning seemed to be enormously satisfying to Salem.

Shortly before Halloween, Martha asked her son-in-law to raise the bell by about twelve inches, firmly out of reach of Salem’s paws and the sticky hands of costumed children.

The following February, an ice storm coated streets, cars, trees and sidewalks with a slick, transparent glaze. On the day after the storm, Martha bundled up and ventured out of doors. But just as she was walking alongside the garage, she slipped on the ice and fell. Try as she might, she couldn’t raise herself up. She was sure she must have broken something. And she was bleeding, too. Traces of blood painted red webs in the cracked ice around her head.

It got colder and colder. No one came. Martha realized with a sinking feeling that because of the trees in her yard, no one would be able to see her from the street. She closed her eyes and began to drift into semi-consciousness. Everything was a blur, and she had no idea of how long she lay there.

Suddenly she was roused by a cold, moist touch on her cheek. She opened her eyes and moaned softly, before turning her head to gaze on Salem, who was standing up close to her face, eyeing her intently.

“Meoow,” the cat cried out. Martha was so cold she was unable to respond.

“Meoow” came again. Then Salem rubbed his face up against Martha’s. Still she could manage no response. Salem turned his attention to Martha’s hand, nudging it with his cold nose, trying to get her to pet him. Martha felt like crying, but she still could not move.

Looking out of half-closed eyes she watched as Salem gave up trying to get her to respond and stepped gingerly across the ice. He made his way to the front porch and leapt onto the swing suspended from the porch roof by a set of rusty chains. For a few moments the swing swayed beneath his weight. As the movement gradually ceased, Salem stepped from the swing onto the ice-covered top of the milk can, and positioned himself directly underneath the bell suspended just out of reach.

Motionless on the ground Martha was still able to watch what was going on. She hardly dared to believe what she thought must be in Salem’s mind. “Do it, Salem, do it,” she thought desperately to herself.

Salem steadied himself on the swing, bunched his powerful leg muscles and sprang. When he was at maximum height he shot out his front paw to swat the bell. He hit it squarely, shaking loose some snow and ice and raising a sort of clunk. Then as he came down he fell back onto the icy porch. Salem repeated this maneuver nearly a dozen times as Martha watched.

“Oh thank you, Salem, thank you,” she whispered to herself. Someone would surely hear the sound and come to the rescue. Sure enough, eventually a neighbor ventured outside to discover the cause of the repeated clanging.

In good time, Marthawas transported to a local hospital, where she was treated for a fractured hip and an injury to her left temple. Salem,meanwhile,was rewardedwith several bowls of warm milk, a weekly serving of gourmet food and a handsome plastic ball fitted with a tiny bell, which he swatted around the floor to his heart’s content.

Eric Swanson

The Cowboy

My mother acquired him as a skinny little puppy. He’d been neglected, starved of everything, including love, but he grew to be a fine dog. He was a redbone bloodhound, sleek and handsome, his coat a deep, rusty red. He had the hound’s musical bay, and a tendency to sleep through the heat of the day and roam at night. We called him Duke. He loved us all, but he adored my mother.

When Duke was about two years old, we lived in Tennessee, in a small motel on the outskirts of some easily forgettable town. Our front yard was two lanes of blacktop highway. Across this fast street was an immense cow pasture, and about forty yards in from the blacktop was a small creek covered by towering shade trees. We, the four young children, were forbidden to go there because of the bull, but it was hard to resist and we had snuck over a few times during that hot summer. We considered it safe if the cows weren’t out.

On this particular hot and muggy day, here and there, cows dotted the field and the hill. Normally, the sight of them would have ended our hopes of a dip in the stream, and we would have played in the sprinkler instead. But someone was washing a car so there was no sprinkler.

Even though the cows were out, we could not see the bull. We crossed the road and peered into the distance. He would not be hard to miss: huge, black and angry, an earthquake with each step of hard, heavy hoof. We leaned on the fence casually, watching the cows flick their tails at flies, waiting for the bull to make his presence known.

After about five minutes, Kim sat on the fence and speculated that the bull may have stayed inside because of the heat. We waited for Kim to make up her mind: She was the oldest at ten, and we deferred to her.

After a moment, Kim jumped off the fence and onto forbidden ground. We waited, breath held, but there was no roar of outrage and no shaking earth. We scrambled after Kim in order of age: me, the eight-year-old, then Jeff, who was six, and Donna last, an impish and pouty three. Duke raced ahead and scattered cows.

I was scared but excited. I imagined I was behind enemy lines; I had to blow up the dam and destroy the bridge. I pulled my invisible gun and slunk toward the trees, my eyes darting across the landscape. I barked an order at Jeff because I didn’t dare bark one at Kim, who strode imperiously ahead of our little column. Donna complained about the distance and asked where we were going.

Soon we were in the dark cool shade under the trees. The stream ran over stones and old branches, sluiced into deep, quiet pools. We entered quickly, pausing only to kick off socks and sneakers. The water cooled us, the earth squeezed between our toes, and the heat could not penetrate the darkness of the shade. We felt safe in that cool little pocket of the world. We built a dam, destroyed it, then built it again. We fought wars in which we won, and lost and won again. We scratched out plans of attack in the wet earth. We were captured and escaped.

We played like that for hours until we got hungry. Pulling socks over wet feet and stuffing them into sneakers, we prepared to head home. I called for Duke, who had not been seen for hours, but got no answer. We started across the field, four tired, hungry children.

We had covered about half the distance when I heard the bull, and my plodding stopped with my breath. I turned slowly and there he was: big, black and glaring. His head was lowered, and he struck the earth in front of him with one large hoof. The others saw him, too. Jeff sprinted for the fence with amazing speed, but Kim and I were slower: We were pulling Donna between us, half dragging her across the ground. It seemed that the more we pulled, the longer her little arms got.

We were running for our lives; we knew it because we could hear him, snorting and coming for us. And we could feel him in the tremendous shaking of the earth under our feet. There was no doubt in my mind: We would not make it. The field was too large and we were too small. There was a roaring and a rushing sound in my ears, blood propelled by fear. I could see the fence, so close, and yet I knew the bull was closer. Jeff was already over, and I envied him. I could be safe, too, but I would have to let go of Donna’s small hand. For one second, I contemplated it, but even at eight I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt. I gripped Donna’s hand harder and threw a glance back.

That was when I tripped. My foot went into a hole and I went down, pulling Donna and Kim with me. I hit the ground and dry grass and dust went up my nose. For a moment I lay still, sensing the speed of his approach, and wondering how much time I had before he reached me. I flipped over and saw him bearing down on us like a freight train. He was only fifteen yards away; in a moment, he would trample us into the ground. I already felt the pounding of each hoof reverberate in my body. He was looming. He was large. He would hurt me. Yet I could not close my eyes.

And that is why it still mystifies me that I never saw Duke. There was only the faintest impression of red, moving across the surface of my vision—a blur, a streak that seemed to hit the bull and flip him off his feet. He rolled over, and that was when I really saw Duke for the first time, rolling with him. They came to a stop, the bull on his side, his feet dangling and his eyes rolling wildly, a reddish froth around his mouth. Duke was standing over him, his muzzle latched onto the bull’s nose.

I grabbed Donna’s hand and yanked her to her feet. Kim and I practically carried her the ten yards to the fence. We were slow and I was limping, my ankle twisted by the turn in the hole. But Duke and the bull never moved. When we were safely over I called to Duke and he came at a dead run, as if he expected the bull to rush after him. But the bull remained lying there for a few minutes, dazed. He had been defeated; suddenly he wasn’t so huge or terrifying to me anymore. I was even a little sad to see that side of him disappear. He had been capable of causing such terror, but now he only snuffled through a bloody snout as he stumbled to his feet.

We didn’t tell my mother, of course. None of us wanted a month’s allowance docked and restriction to the motel courtyard to remind us who made the rules. And Duke seemed unaware of his role as our savior. He wagged his tail at our silent attention, drank water, laid in the shade and went to sleep.

Many years later, a cowboy explained to me that the reason they put a ring in a bull’s nose is to control him. “You twist that ring, that bull’s head will follow, and you can lay him on the ground with it before he’ll pull against you,” he said.

But I could have told him that, because I’d seen it done in spectacular fashion. We had a cowboy in our family— and his name was Duke.

K. Salome-Garver

The Cat Who Needed a Night Light

On a warm August day, a dainty little cat named Dolores was receiving a special award: the American Humane Association’s William O. Stillman award for bravery. The association gives the award to people who risk their lives to save animals from danger, and to animals who face down danger to save the lives of people. Either way, the winners are heroes, whether they’re take-charge, fearless sorts of people, or extroverted, devoted pets like Dolores.

Dolores hadn’t always been an extrovert. And she hadn’t seemed very devoted to anyone, either. In fact, she’d been what most people call the quiet type. When she first came to live with her owner, Kyle, Dolores rarely had anything to say. And most of the time, she didn’t like being touched.

Kyle didn’t know why Dolores was so standoffish. And he didn’t understand something else about her: why she always became upset whenever the lights were turned out. But Kyle didn’t care. Something about the cat’s quiet, unassuming manner appealed to him. So, at night, he just left all the lights on in the apartment where he and Dolores lived, even when it was time to go to sleep. And if Dolores wanted to keep her distance—well, he could respect that. Maybe, if he was patient, Dolores would someday decide to come to him, to talk to him, to be friends.

So for the next year, Kyle loved Dolores for exactly who she was. He let her keep her distance, and he didn’t ask for more than she could give.