Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (6 page)

As I looked at him, a picture of health and contentment, my mind went back to his mother. Was it too much to think that that dying little creature, with the last of her strength, had carried her kitten to the only haven of comfort and warmth she had ever known in the hope that it would be cared for there? Maybe it was.

But it seemed I wasn’t the only one with such fancies. Mrs. Ainsworth turned to me and though she was smiling her eyes were wistful. “Debbie would be pleased,” she said.

I nodded. “Yes, she would. . . . It was just a year ago today she brought him, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.” She hugged Buster to her again. “The best Christmas present I ever had.”

James Herriot, D.V.M.

Princess Was a Nuisance

She was only a mixed-breed scrap of a dog. Her colors were black and tan, but her eyes were what made me take her. They were warm and had gold flecks in them. Other than that, she was nothing unusual, or as my father put it, “A damn nuisance.” I called her Princess.

Dad preferred his hunting dog, a massive hound named Rudy, who followed him everywhere. Rudy had status; Princess was barely tolerated. At mealtimes, she would wait until Rudy ate, then settle for scraps. She slept beside my bed, content that at least one person loved her.

One day Princess started barking like mad near the railroad tracks that ran beside our house. We realized something was wrong when Dad said Rudy had gotten loose. We followed Princess, who led us to Rudy’s lifeless body beside the tracks. His neck was broken.

Dad stumbled back to the house in shock. The task of burying the huge dog fell to me. As I dug, Princess sat next to the body with a perplexed look in her eyes. When I lowered Rudy into the grave, she showed alarm. When I began to cover him with dirt, she became visibly agitated, so much so that I hurriedly unburied Rudy and made certain he was dead.

When I finished, Princess tried to unbury him. I chased her away. She tried again. I held her to me and told her through my tears that her friend was gone. An odd expression came over her features, and she walked over to the grave and lay across Rudy’s final resting place.

That night, I tried to get her inside, but she wouldn’t budge. I tried to get her to eat, but she ignored the bowl. Next day, the same thing. That night, a howling rainstorm roared in. She was still there the following morning and kept her vigil throughout the rainy day. I told Dad I was worried, but he said, “She’ll be in when she gets hungry and wet enough.” He clearly wasn’t concerned over what he considered an inferior animal. More important, he was doing his own grieving. Until then, he had not been able to even look at his pet’s grave.

The next morning, Princess was still in place. I ran downstairs, determined this time to drag her off. I stopped when I saw Dad emerge from the parlor carrying his buffalo-robe blanket. No one was ever allowed to touch that blanket. He told me to stay put. I watched from the window as he shook out the blanket above Princess’s soaked form, wrapped her up, and lifted her into his arms like a child. He told us to get towels and warm soapy water. My sister and I wanted to care for her, but he wouldn’t allow it. Never looking up as he worked on the bedraggled animal, he said the job was his alone.

He cleaned off the mud and dried her shivering body. Then he took her in his lap.

For a long time he sat there, tears running down his cheeks, the only sound in the room the rain beating on the windows. Finally, he said quietly that he had never known such loyalty from man or beast.

And so for as long as she lived, Princess sat at his feet, slept on his bed and ate from his plate—an honored member of our family.

Carol Ann Baum

A Horse and His Boy

When Wayne, my oldest son, turned two, I bought a four-year-old, black Appaloosa gelding named Sonny. The two quickly bonded. Even though Wayne was too small to ride Sonny, the two were inseparable. We installed a fence around our well-grassed sideyard and allowed Sonny to graze freely. He often came right up to the house. In fact, Sonny hadn’t been with us long when he ripped the screen off Wayne’s bedroom window. After that, I’d often find my son reaching out the window to pet Sonny or to give him food. And I’d even see Sonny’s black head inside the window, snoozing, while my son slept in his bed.

One day, I put Wayne to bed for his midday nap and busied myself with my vegetable canning. Time slipped past until I glanced at the clock. Wayne hated naptime and usually slept for only an hour or so. I suddenly realized he’d been quiet for nearly two. I walked to his bedroom and peered around the door. The bed was empty.

I called his name but heard no reply or noises of his playing. I searched under the bed and in his closet. I kept calling him and walking quickly through each room. Perspiration broke out on my neck as it suddenly hit me. Wayne was not in the house!

This was my worst nightmare. Our house was surrounded by wilderness. A wildcat frequently raided our henhouse and would view a small child as perfect prey. Rattlesnakes, copperheads and cottonmouths slithered through the thickets. If that was not enough danger, a fishpond nestled in the pasture just below the house.

I ran to the front door. It was still latched with a hook and eye far above my son’s reach. The back door was the same. I stood in stunned amazement for a moment, until I remembered Wayne’s open window. Fear rose in my heart as I pictured my toddler trying to climb out the window. The drop to the ground would have been more than five feet. Surely he would have hit the ground hard enough to make him cry. Why wouldn’t I have heard him?

Running out the door, I yelled for Wayne. Thankfully, he wasn’t lying beneath his window. But where was he? Sonny was lying in the middle of our yard, with his back toward me. As I looked at Sonny, he swung his head up and down, but never made an effort to get up. But Sonny was often lazy in the midday summer sun. Still each time I yelled for Wayne, Sonny swung his head up and down, more vigorously than before. I made a mental note that once I found Wayne, I’d have to put fly wipe on Sonny’s face. The flies must really be bothering him.

Yelling at the top of my lungs and beginning to panic, I raced to the fishpond. No Wayne. I ran to the barn, but again I didn’t find him. He had to be in the woods. I could travel faster and further if I rode Sonny. I raced across the yard to Sonny and dashed around his rump.

There, stretched to the four winds across Sonny’s four legs, lay Wayne, sound asleep. His head rested on Sonny’s front legs and one foot was propped on the horse’s hip, the other on one of Sonny’s back legs. Sonny lifted his head up and down once more before placing his muzzle across Wayne’s chest. Now I understood what all that head bobbing was about. Sonny couldn’t stand up without sending the child tumbling, and if he nickered, he’d wake the boy. Sonny had been doing everything he could to let me know Wayne was safely sleeping in his embrace.

I carefully picked Wayne up, carried him to his bedroom and eased him into bed. Sonny had already poked his head through the window by the time I got to the bedroom door. He whickered, and Wayne roused. I backed up so I could watch without being seen. Wayne went to the window and grasped Sonny’s mane. Sonny lifted his head, and Wayne wrapped his arms around Sonny’s neck. He was carried out through the window and slowly lowered onto the ground. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Another mystery solved.

When my husband came home, we discussed how we could stop another “window escape.” We replaced the screen and nailed boards across the window at intervals that were too close for Sonny’s head to fit through. The boy pouted, and the horse whinnied on the other side for a few days—until Sonny managed to get his teeth between the boards and rip off the new screen. His head still wouldn’t fit, but now he could at least get his nose between the boards.

With Wayne now safe in his room, I enjoyed walking by and seeing Sonny’s black muzzle thrust through the slats. And when my husband came home from work, often his first view of the house showed a huge, black horse pressed against the white boards with the lower part of his face disappearing inside the window.

Even when the cold weather forced me to close the window, Sonny remained outside with his face pressed against the glass, the comfort of a stable forsaken to be near his boy.

Alicia Karen Elkins

Greyfriars Bobby

I
n death they were not parted.

2 Samuel 1:23

Sometime in the mid-1850s, a Skye terrier came to live on a farm in the hills outside of Edinburgh, Scotland. Named Bobby, the little dog attached himself to Auld Jock, the farmer’s shepherd.

Auld Jock was a fixture in those Scottish hills, and soon he and Bobby became inseparable, tending the farmer’s sheep and traveling once a week to market in the capital. Market day always featured a special lunch at the Greyfriars dining rooms. When the Edinburgh Castle gun sounded at 1:00 P.M., Jock and Bobby left whatever they were doing and headed for the dining room where the man and his dog shared their meal . . . sometimes over the protests of the manager.

Within a couple of years after meeting Bobby, Jock’s age began to weigh on him, and he contracted tuberculosis. He headed into retirement, taking small quarters in Edinburgh. Forced to leave Bobby at the farm, Jock sadly bid his companion good-bye and moved to the capital alone.

However, the next day, when Jock showed up at the Greyfriars dining rooms at the sound of the one o’clock gun, he was astonished to see Bobby rushing in to join him. Bobby had escaped from the farm and run all the way down from the hills to make sure he kept up their market-day custom. Reunited, the two friends enjoyed their lunch, then returned to Jock’s rooms where the old man made plans to return the little terrier to the farm the next day.

It was never to be. Before he could return Bobby, Jock’s tuberculosis overtook him, and he died. Two days later neighbors found Bobby guarding the body, at first not allowing anyone to come near. Jock’s few friends arranged a simple funeral.

As the mourner’s procession moved through the streets of Edinburgh, a small, distraught dog trailed behind them, following the casket containing his friend to Greyfriars Cemetery. The cemetery used for the royalty of Scotland was the final resting place for Auld Jock.

When the funeral service ended and the mourners departed, Bobby remained, lying on the grave, forlorn, a lone dog mourning his adored master. However, such revered ground wasn’t for the convenience of dogs. James Brown, the sexton, spotted Bobby lying on the newly made mound and chased him from the hallowed ground.

But the next morning, when Brown started doing his chores, he again spotted a sleeping dog on top of the most recent grave. Bobby must have sneaked back to the grave as soon as the sky had turned dark and spent the night there.

Brown chased him from the cemetery again, but that night Bobby returned and lay down once more on his master’s grave. The next morning was cold and wet and when the sexton saw the faithful animal lying shivering on the grave, he took pity on him. He gave him some food, and though it meant breaking the cemetery’s rules, Brown allowed Bobby to stay near the grave. He even taught Bobby to hide on Sundays, when the churchyard had its largest number of visitors. To the church’s high-ranking patrons, having a dog in the cemetery would have been next to blasphemy.

For a couple of weeks Bobby kept lonely vigil, without a break, ignoring even his own needs. Then one day, at the sound of the castle gun, he showed up at the Greyfriars dining rooms. The innkeeper recognized him as Auld Jock’s dog and fed him. From that day forward, Bobby arrived at the inn every day at one o’clock to be fed.

Once he’d gained the sexton’s friendship and found a way to get regular meals, Bobby lived by the grave of the shepherd unhindered for nine years, until 1867, when the city began to round up all unlicensed dogs. Dogcatchers nabbed Bobby and took him to Edinburgh’s version of the pound.

When the terrier failed to answer the one o’clock gun one day, the innkeeper guessed what had happened. He rescued Bobby from being destroyed by telling the story of the faithful little dog to the city’s Burgher Court. The innkeeper’s plea brought Bobby instant fame, and none other than the Lord Provost of Edinburgh paid for the dog’s license. He even ordered a collar made with an inscription that read, “Greyfriars Bobby. From Lord Provost. 1867. Licensed.”

Sporting his new collar, Bobby had the run of the city. Still, he held to his routine, guarding his master’s grave and dropping by for lunch at the Greyfriars every day at one. Bobby’s fame and popularity spread until he no longer had to hide from visitors—in fact, many visitors came to the cemetery just to see him. More than one artist painted the dog’s portrait as he lay near his master’s simple grave.

In 1872, after maintaining his vigil over Auld Jock’s grave for fourteen years, Greyfriars Bobby, now old and feeble, died. The entire city mourned his death. In secret, the sexton dug Bobby a small grave near Jock’s then marked it with only a rosebush. If the church wouldn’t let dogs visit the cemetery, how could it allow a dog to be buried there?

Upon learning about the inspiring little dog, a Scottish noblewoman, Baroness Burdett-Coutts, commissioned a work to honor Bobby, which would stand on Candle-maker Row, outside the churchyard gates. A year after Bobby’s death, city officials unveiled the monument: a solid granite column, with water from bubbling fountains that poured into two basins; and on top, a bronze likeness of Bobby which faced longingly toward the gates of the cemetery.