Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (34 page)

Then, one May evening, everything changed. The night started like any other. And, at evening’s end, Kyle checked—as usual—to make sure all the lights in his apartment were on. Then, he went to sleep.

Sometime later he woke with a start. Something was jumping on his head! Paws were scratching his face! And, when he opened his eyes, his apartment was no longer brightly lit; instead it was filled with black smoke. But he could see who was doing the jumping and scratching: Dolores.

The little cat was all Kyle could see. But she was enough.

Together, the two made their way to the only available exit from the apartment—the back door. Kyle felt his way along the walls. At the same time, he felt for Dolores with his feet and followed her. Finally, the pair reached the back door. Kyle pulled on the knob to open the door, only to have the knob fall off into his hand. The door remained firmly shut.

Making his way to the door had taken every bit of strength and oxygen Kyle had, and he collapsed to the floor. But, once again, he felt those insistent paws scratching his face. Kyle mustered his last bit of strength to hurl himself against the door, break it down and run outside to fresh air and safety. Once there, he looked around for the cat who’d saved his life.

She wasn’t there.

With sickening clarity, Kyle realized that Dolores was still inside the apartment. He ran to one of the firefighters.

“My cat’s still inside my apartment!” he exclaimed. “Can you find her?”

The firefighter promised to try.

Now all Kyle could do was wait. He knew Dolores’s chances weren’t good, but still—maybe, just maybe, she would be found alive.

An hour or so later, the firefighters brought the blaze under control. And one firefighter brought Kyle a bundle wrapped in a towel. Kyle held his breath. Inside the bundle was Dolores—eyes seared shut, hair singed, but alive.

The firefighter explained that Dolores had collapsed just inside the door and that a fireman had stumbled on her when he entered the apartment. After removing her from the apartment, paramedics gave the cat CPR and oxygen before bringing her to Kyle.

The fire changed Kyle’s life dramatically. He’d lost all his clothes, furniture and other possessions, and had to go live with his mother for a while. His cat had changed, too.

The once-quiet Dolores was now a talker who meowed and purred almost constantly. Even more surprising was her new desire to be touched and cuddled—preferably while she was lying on Kyle’s lap.

Now, just four months later, Dolores was being recognized for her bravery. But Kyle knew he’d gotten a bigger prize. He’d never asked for more than Dolores could give—and then found she was willing to give him everything she had.

Susan McCullough

Flight over Little Egypt

March 18, 1925. Though only five years of age, I well remember the day the great tornado swept over “Little Egypt,” as the southern tip of Illinois was called. The little coal-mining town in which we lived lay directly in its path. Our house trembled as if it had convulsions, bricks from the chimney tumbled about wildly, the roof ripped apart and the windows blew out. The howling wind sounded as if a dozen locomotives were roaring past. We huddled in the kitchen as the roaring filled our ears and seemed to shake our very bones.

The huge, dark funnel swept devastatingly across the ground. The “mother cloud,” the cloud above the funnel, was a turbulent, boiling mass of blackness. In its wake lay death and destruction.

Suddenly it was over. The quietness felt unnatural and an eerie, uneasy feeling gripped us. “Children, please stay where you are,” said Mother, her voice barely audible. “I’ve got to look outside.”

Reluctantly, we obeyed. Opening the door, my mother stood transfixed as she gazed upon the awful scene. Debris lay everywhere. The street was impassable. People, some obviously in shock, milled around like cattle, unsure of what to do. The strange silence was suddenly broken by a subdued, pitiful whining at Mother’s feet.

Trembling violently, a wet and frightened little poodle lay wedged between the door and the screen.

“My stars,” my mother said, bending over. “Wherever did you come from?”

The bedraggled little dog timidly wagged his tail and began licking Mother’s hand.

Jacky, as we named him, accepted our large family without reservation. We in turn lavished our love upon the displaced but lucky little poodle.

Almost immediately we realized Jacky was an exceptional dog—a very smart one. Surrounded by masses of curly hair, his dark inquisitive eyes sparkled with life. He often followed us on his hind legs from room to room or all around the yard begging for a biscuit. Actually one could say he skipped along. His balance and agility were hard to believe. And we were sure he understood every word we said.

“I wish he could talk,” said Marshall, my older brother. “I’ll bet he has a story to tell. I’d like to know where he came from. He sure isn’t from around here because no one has asked about him. I’m glad. I couldn’t stand to give him up now.”

Jacky made friends with almost everyone, especially if they drove a car. He loved to go for rides. The strange thing was he wanted to ride
on
the car, rather than in it. Whenever a car pulled away he jumped up on the hood. After riding a few blocks, he’d jump off as the car slowed down or stopped, and then he’d run right home, a pleased look on his intelligent face.

The little dog had been a part of our family for about two years when a hobo knocked at the back door and asked if we could give him something to eat. The request wasn’t at all unusual. In those days, many hobos stopped at our corner. Mother brought a plate of food to the porch where he waited.

As he sat down to eat, we boys gathered around him. He began telling us about all the places he’d been and the many things he’d seen. We were spellbound by his tales.

All of a sudden he stopped. We looked in the direction he was staring, and there stood Jacky. For several moments they looked at one another. Then a huge smile came across the old hobo’s face.

“You little rascal,” he said, calling him by some strange-sounding name. “What are you doing here?”

The little dog became hysterical with joy. He was all over the hobo, barking and jumping as if he would never stop. There was no doubt he knew the hobo and knew him well. After caressing and talking to Jacky, the old hobo uttered a brief command. Immediately, Jacky controlled his enthusiasm and lay down obediently at the old man’s feet.

“Boys, where did you get this dog?” asked the hobo.

“We found him lodged between the door and the screen during the big tornado of ’25,” said my brother.

“Yes, sir. It adds up,” said the hobo. “I was with a circus in Missouri in March of ’25. That was sure some blow. The big tent was ripped to shreds. Everything was demolished. Cages and animals flew every which way. Some of the animals were recovered, a lot of ’em weren’t. I don’t hanker to go through anything like that again. No sirree.

“This poodle was the number-one top show dog. He’s so valuable he was insured for hundreds of dollars. Lucky dog, he is. Blowed all that distance and not gettin’ hurt.

Just how far is it to Missouri from here?”

“It’s sixty miles to the Cape. That’s the first town in Missouri,” answered my brother.

“Boy, I been most everywhere and I done seen a lot of things, but I ain’t never seen a miracle before. This little dog proves they do happen. I can hardly believe it,” he said, shaking his head in amazement.

We were trying to take in the fact that our little dog had been blown at least sixty miles by the tornado, when suddenly the hobo asked, “Do you have a barrel hoop, boy?”

“Sure, I’ll get you one,” said my brother. Running quickly to an old barrel he lifted off one of the steel bands. He dashed back and handed it to the hobo.

From beneath his old battered hat the hobo’s blue eyes sparkled. A smile broke through his heavy gray beard.

“Watch this,” he said. “‘Less you boys been to a circus you ain’t never seen anything like this.”

He walked out into the yard and held the hoop a couple of feet above the ground.

“Get ready,” he said to Jacky, again using that strange-sounding name. Jacky trembled with excitement. On command he sprang forward and leaped through the hoop—forward, then backward. As commands continued, he hurled through the hoop, turning end over end. He danced on his hind legs, then on his front legs. My brothers and I stared in awe as the knowledgeable old hobo put Jacky through his circus tricks.

“He’s a little rusty on some of ’em, but he sure ain’t forgettin’ any of it,” said the hobo. “Sure is great bein’ together again. Brings back memories, don’t it little friend?” he said fondly as he patted Jacky’s head.

Then with a forlorn look about him, he straightened up.

“I guess I best be goin’,” he mumbled and headed slowly towards the gate. Without hesitation, Jacky followed at his heels.

“Jacky, come back!” all three of us called. But it did no good. Tears trickled down our cheeks. We knew we had lost him.

Then the hobo paused. Looking down at Jacky, he said, “Our circus days is over, friend. Over and done. And the tramping life’s no life for you. You best stay here.” Jacky stood, watching the hobo walk away, still poised to follow.

Reaching the gate the man stood motionless for several seconds, then slowly turned around. “Boys, a circus dog never forgets the big top,” he said. “You’d better lock him in the house till mornin’. I’d hate to see you lose him.”

So we did. Jacky lived with us for many years, and although he was the smartest dog we ever had, we could never persuade him to perform his circus tricks again. We figured he’d taken the hobo’s words to heart and put his circus days behind him once and for all.

G. Edgar Hall

“He must be very secure in his masculinity.”

© The New Yorker Collection
1993 Mike Twohy from
cartoonbank.com
. All Rights
Reserved.

8
SAYING GOODBYE

F
or the soul of every living thing is in the
hand of God . . .

Job 12:10

“Well, in or out?”

Reprinted by permission of Benita Epstein.

The Christmas Angel

When my daughter Rachel was six years old, we went to the local shelter, looking for the perfect cat. We liked a lot of the cats we saw there, but we were especially taken with a mother and her kittens. All the kittens were entirely jet black, except for one. She had a small white tip to her tail, like one bright light in the night sky. We brought her home and called her Star.

Starry was a charmer. Rachel admired her proud manner and enjoyed even more the secret knowledge that it was all an act. Starry could only appear aloof for so long before leaping up into Rachel’s arms to be cuddled and stroked. As time went by, Rachel and Starry adopted certain routines. At night when we watched TV, Starry crawled into Rachel’s lap, and stayed there, purring contentedly. Starry always rubbed her face along Rachel’s chin, ending the love fest with a gentle nip on Rachel’s nose. Sometimes I couldn’t help but feel the injustice of this. I was the one who took care of the cat, feeding, cleaning, grooming—yet, Starry was clearly Rachel’s cat. Eventually, I came to love watching their cozy bond.