Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (36 page)

We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Yet, we still would live no other way. The life of a horse, often half our own, seems endless until one day. That day has come and gone for me, and I am once again within a smaller circle, still unable to believe that this evening I will not see Prince against the setting sun, head lowered, eyes half closed, tail a golden fall. He was, and is again, a prince to us.

Irving Townsend

Hondo

T
he one best place to bury a good dog is in the
heart of his master.

Ben Hur Lampman

The years have aged Hondo; the winter has taken its toll. Spring snows thaw and summer flowers bloom, but for Hondo, only one season remains.

Our old black Lab has been unable to climb the deck for three days. He sleeps in the shady grass beneath a tree. We have carried his rug onto the grass, and he rests there. The cast-iron skillet that has been his food dish for more years than I can remember is next to him. But this morning he no longer tries to lift his head. He will not drink; he cannot eat.

I bring a currycomb up from the barn and sit on the grass next to Hondo. He has not completely shed his winter coat. Clumps of dusty gray fur come loose. We talk. I pretend he hears me, holding his head in my hands and kissing his forehead. I lift a paw and gently touch the cracked, hard pads of his feet.

Our lives revolve around his dying. We are given the weekend, days we can be home together. I pull a clump of Hondo’s hair from the comb and toss it into the breeze. The wind snatches the hair, carrying the clump away, past the driveway and into the tall grass.

Vivid scenes of Hondo over the years come to mind— Hondo sitting sentry in the front yard for two days, waiting for my husband Mark to return from fighting forest fires; Hondo and my daughter, Sarah, lying curled up together, like two leaves from a single tree; Hondo and Matt, my son, splashing together in the shallow stock pond, lunging at slick tadpoles.

And the two of us? The puppy I once cradled in my arms taught me to follow the deer trails, to listen to the call of the red-tailed hawk, to catch the smell of sage in the moaning wind. I learned to appreciate the smell of freshly turned earth, of damp fibrous roots, of sodden wood alive with insects.

The rain comes, large single drops that splash against the windows and the leaves of the trees. They fall on Hondo but he does not move, only blinks his eyes. I go down to the barn again and find an old horse blanket and lay it on top of him. He wags his tail and blinks again.

Mark helps me carry the picnic table to the lawn. We carefully set it over Hondo, making a shelter for him.

“Should we carry him inside?” I ask Mark.

“I think he is where he wants to be.”

Later, looking through the window, the rain has stopped and I see Mark sitting on the grass next to Hondo. The horse blanket moves slightly as Hondo lifts his tail. Mark rests his hand on Hondo’s head. He rubs behind the ears. They sit, man and dog, best of friends, constant companions.

During the course of the day Matt and Sarah stop to sit beside Hondo, each in turn, in their own time. Matt lies down next to him. Sarah lifts the blanket and strokes him.

By bedtime Hondo is sleeping quietly beneath the horse blanket, which covers all but his head. Our private good-byes have been spoken, our private tears shed.

Twinges of guilt tug at me, thinking maybe we should bring Hondo inside to sleep by our bed. But somehow we cannot confine him to four walls. We cannot bring ourselves to hide the stars from his eyes. We want the moonbeams to guide him to the heavens and the night crickets to lull him to sleep.

Dawn comes. Light pink colors the eastern sky. Dewdrops perch upon the grass blades. I sit on the wet grass in my nightgown. Hondo has just taken his last breath. I lay my head upon his massive chest, where his devoted heart now lies still, and I breathe his familiar dog-scent one last time.

When the sun has risen, and the early-morning songs of the chickadees and the robins and the bluebirds have quieted, I pull the old horse blanket completely over Hondo and go in the house.

Later, we carry Hondo to the grave.

“Mom, I want to pick some flowers for him,” Sarah says. She scoots away in search of anything wild and pretty.

Matt wants to find a stick. “Would that be a good thing to bury with him?” he asks.

“Yes, Matt,” Mark answers with a quavering voice, “a very good thing.”

Sarah returns with wild dandelions, a few long purple asters, lots of white yarrow, two bluebell stalks and red clover blossoms.

“How are these, Mom? They’re the prettiest I could find.”

Matt returns with a smooth weathered stick about twelve inches long.

“It’s perfect,” Mark nods his head.

The four of us circle Hondo’s grave and hold hands. Out loud, we take turns saying a short prayer.

“Dear God,” Matt asks simply, “please take Hondo to heaven and make him young again.”

We place a large heavy stone on top of the mound of dirt, and Sarah tucks her remaining flowers under the rim of the rock.

It is done.

We turn to go, walking shoulder to shoulder, lost in our own memories. As we pass the corner of the barnyard, Mark slows his pace and turns away. I hear a gut-deep, heartrending sob escape his tough exterior. Mark is leaning on the corner post of the fence that surrounds the barnyard, great sobs shaking his manly frame, and though I have seen tears discreetly spill from Mark’s eyes before, this is only the second time I have ever seen such anguish escape him.

The next few days were as illusive as shadows. Then one late afternoon, fog enveloped the ranch. Mark and the kids were gone, so it was my night to do chores. I went to bring in the sheep and followed the fence, eventually coming to where they grazed. Like a shepherd’s staff, my voice reached through the fog and urged them on until finally the grayness of the barn emerged—a port in the storm.

Once the sheep were safely corralled, I eased my way up the path. I searched the fog, wanting Hondo to glide through it and stand by my side. My hand reached out instinctively to pet his glossy blackness but found nothing to cling to—only the whiteness, and my grief.

Then, very quietly at first, I heard myself call him—a thin, high-pitched wail floated across the field, lengthening and thickening in the fog.

Hooonnndooo.

The ridge caught my cry, held it for a moment, then returned it to me—softer, partly absorbed, not totally mine any longer. And from somewhere in the white, colorless distance, a coyote answered.

Page Lambert

A Gentle Good-Bye

S
he was, if possible, dearer in her decrepit old
age than in her radiant youth. . . . Calmly she
accepted her infirmities, depending upon me
with implicit faith.

Eileen Gardner Galer

Several years after my mother was widowed, she decided a cat would be the perfect companion. Since I shared my home with two cats, I was considered the feline expert. When my veterinarian told me about a litter of six-week-old kittens that had been dropped off on his clinic steps, I helped my mother pick out the perfect kitten, whom she named Cameo. From that point on, the sun rose and set on this black and white cat, who, unlike my cats, could do no wrong. Cameo quickly became my mother’s pride and joy.

For the next eight years, Cameo lived as an only cat. Since Mommala and I lived near each other, we frequently exchanged visits and cat-sitting chores. When I visited Mommala accompanied by my golden retriever guide dog Ivy, Cameo would go into hiding as soon as we entered the apartment. After being unharnessed and unleashed, Ivy would go looking for a playmate, but Cameo would retreat further under the bed.

During my frequent travels, my two cats stayed at Mommala’s house, and the three cats established a comfortable relationship. However, when Mommala traveled and Cameo came to stay with us, her shyness caused her to spend much of the time behind the stove or on the closet shelf. Frequently, the only sign of her presence was the emptied food bowl I set out for her at night while keeping the other cats enclosed in my bedroom. Although Ivy was gentle with cats, Cameo never learned to be comfortable around her.

At Mommala’s death, Cameo’s world turned upside-down. I had told Mommala that if anything happened to her I would adopt her beloved cat. Because I had recently married and moved from New York to California, Cameo’s first hurdle was a coast-to-coast flight. To my delight, she traveled with hardly a meow in the carrier I placed under the empty seat next to me. Ivy, like most guide dogs, occupied the space for carry-on luggage under the seat in front of me. Following our arrival in Fresno, Cameo had to adapt to a strange new world, including one new cat and my husband’s guide dog, Kirby. It had been bad enough dealing with one golden retriever, but now there were two of these playful creatures to reckon with!

As anticipated, Cameo went undercover for three weeks. It was her passion for food that eventually drove this timid creature out of hiding and into family life.

As a blind cat lover in a multi-cat household, I identify each cat by a distinctive-sounding collar bell. For Cameo, I selected one with a tiny tinkle that seemed to go perfectly with her petite and cuddly persona. The day I heard the tinkle of her bell hitting the food bowl, I knew we were entering a new phase of togetherness.

Whenever I sat in my favorite lounge chair listening to a book on tape and knitting, I knew immediately when it was Cameo who chose to share my lap. After a while she would butt her head into my hand indicating it was time to stop these other activities and begin brushing her. Delighting in being groomed, Cameo rewarded me with purrs and kneading paws. Occasionally, I felt her body stiffen, and I’d know one of the dogs was approaching.

During the first few months Cameo was with us, when Ivy or Kirby approached, she jumped off my lap and leaped onto a table, counter or the refrigerator. Soon realizing that dogs, although large, could easily be dominated by a powerful hiss or smack, she no longer relinquished lap time and administered doggy discipline as needed.

Over the next few years, Cameo coexisted peacefully with her canine and feline siblings. When the alarm clock went off in the morning and the dogs were invited to join us, she learned to make room in the bed for the canine corps. As time passed, she thought nothing of jumping over a dog for a cuddle from a favorite human.

When progressive loss of vision forced Ivy’s retirement from guide work, and my new guide-dog partner, Escort, entered the family, Cameo met this challenge with newly acquired feline aplomb.

Escort, a young, playful and energetic golden retriever, was put in his place by hisses, spitting and, if needed, a smack on the nose. Like Ivy and Kirby, he learned that this small creature could readily communicate her desire to be left alone, particularly when she occupied my lap.

Although Cameo and my beloved guide dog Ivy lived together for six years, they could not be called friends. They resembled siblings, who, for the good of other family members, had agreed to live together but basically ignore each other’s foibles.

During the year of Ivy’s retirement, her health continued to deteriorate. The day came when the quality of her life had worsened to the point where I knew our partnership had to end.

I made the dreaded call asking our veterinarian to come to the house to euthanize my friend, helper and companion of eleven years. When the doctor arrived, my husband, our friend Eve and I sat on the floor in a circle around Ivy to provide comfort in her last moments. At this time, Cameo was fast asleep in her favorite chair. What happened next showed me a totally new and unexpected side of her personality.

She awoke with a start, and the sound of her tinkling bell alerted me she was on the way. Jumping over Eve, she joined the circle. Purring loudly and rubbing up against her human companions, she provided the comfort we so desperately sought in this emotion-laden situation. She seemed to adopt the role of grief counselor. At one point she flung herself into my arms, sending me a clear message that she felt my pain and was there to comfort me. No more aloof feline reserve for her.

And as Cameo walked back and forth between us all, it was obvious that she was no longer indifferent to her long-term house partner. Several times she stopped and licked Ivy’s face, something she had never done before. As I held Ivy in my arms and reached out to touch Cameo, I felt Cameo’s tiny paw touching Ivy’s large paw. Cameo seemed incredibly attuned to the importance of touching the old dog, who was now totally blind.

But Ivy could still hear, and it comforts me to realize that the last sounds my treasured teammate heard as she slipped quietly into a gentle death were my murmured endearments and Cameo’s soothing purrs.

Toni Eames

Banjo

T
he final cause of dogs having such short lives
. . . is in compassion to the human race; for
if we suffer so much in losing a dog after an
acquaintance of ten or twelve years, what would
it be if they were to live double that time?