Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul (37 page)
Read Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
In 1926, Felix was the victim of an accident common to Chicago firedogs; he was struck and killed by a car at the scene of a fire. Felix’s long tour of service was recognized with the honors that the Chicago Fire Department reserves for thosewho die in the line of duty. Felixwas given awake in the firehouse, surrounded by an elaborate and expensive floral arrangement. A solid mahogany casket was donated by the owner of a local furniture company. As a sign of the great regard the workers at the company held for Felix, the casket was handcrafted with the highest workmanship: no nails were used in its production.
The entire neighborhood mourned the loss of their close friend. On the day of the funeral, all the schools in the neighborhood were closed so the children could attend the service. Six children, three boys and three girls, served as pallbearers. Tears streamed down their faces as they walked their friend to his final resting place. News media covered the event and took pictures for the newspapers. Televisions weren’t yet popular, but a newsreel showed the story in the local theaters.
Eight automobiles and over twenty firefighters traveled from the firehouse to the Palos Forest Preserve where the chief of Engine 25 had obtained a permit from the county commissioner to bury Felix. To mark his final resting spot, the men placed a granite headstone that simply reads:
Felix
No. 25. C.F.D.
There is no mention that Felix was a dog.
To this day, people still bring flowers to his grave in gratitude for his service. Felix made such a profound impact on the community that the residents coined an expression in his memory. For years, whenever they won at playing cards or a stickball game, adults and kids alike would exclaim that they had “won one for Felix.”
Today a statue of Felix stands outside the Palos Hills Library—a proud tribute to Felix and the Chicago Fire Department.
Trevor and Drew Orsinger
(Excerpted from
The Firefighter’s Best Friend
)
Beau and the
Twelve-Headed Monster
The bicyclists are clad in black Lycra shorts and tight-fitting, bright-colored jerseys. They ride in a disciplined pace line. Sweat glistens on lean forearms and bulging quadriceps. They talk and joke and laugh as they ride. It is just past six on a warm Sunday morning in July.
A mile ahead at the top of a short steep rise is Beau’s yard. Beau is a heavyset, sinister-looking black Labrador retriever who protects his yard and his family with unswerving diligence and a loud round of barking whenever strangers approach. If the threat is especially menacing, Beau supplements his barking with a swift hard charge that invariably sends the intruder packing. This morning Beau is stationed in his usual place under the porch. It is shady and cool there, and he can see all the territory he must defend.
The cyclists slow as they ascend the hill that leads to Beau’s yard. As they labor against gravity, the only sound is the
whirr
of the freewheels and the
hooosh
of hard exhalations.
Beau sees the cyclists as they crest the hill. He has seen cyclists before and takes pride in chasing them from his territory. But this is something new: a dozen cyclists moving as one. To Beau it is a twelve-headed monster with twenty-four arms and twenty-four legs. He has to protect his family. He has to be brave. He explodes from his hiding place under the porch and charges across the yard, hackles raised, fangs bared, barking his fiercest bark.
The cyclists are taken by surprise. It isn’t the first time they’ve been attacked by an unrestrained dog. They usually avoid a confrontation by outrunning the beast. But this dog is unusually fast and is very nearly upon them. It is too late to run for it. The cyclists reach for the only anti-dog weapons they have: water bottles and tire pumps.
When Beau reaches the edge of his yard, he hesitates for a moment. He isn’t supposed to go out of the yard, and the street is definitively off-limits. But this is a twelve-headed monster with forty-eight appendages. There is no telling what it will do to his family. He has no choice—he has to break the rules, and he clears the sidewalk and the curb with one great leap.
Among the cyclists is a man who has a Lab a lot like Beau. Instead of reaching for a water bottle or tire pump, he looks at Beau and says, “Hey, where’s your ball? Where’s your ball?”
A few minutes later one of the other cyclists says, “Man, I couldn’t believe it. He just stopped and went looking for a ball. It was amazing. How did you know he had a ball?”
“He’s a Lab. Labs are nuts about tennis balls. I had a friend once who swore he was going to name his next Lab ‘Wilson’ so all his tennis balls would have his name on them.”
The cyclists laugh and then fall silent. The only sound is the
whirr
of the freewheels and the
hoosh
of hard exhalations.
Beau is back in his favorite spot under the porch. He has a soggy green tennis ball in his mouth. If the twelve-headed monster with forty-eight appendages comes back, he’s ready.
John Arrington
©2005 Art Bouthillier. Reprinted by permission of Art Bouthillier.
©2003 Ann Alberts. Reprinted with permission of Ann Alberts.
One summer day my dogs and I were hiking along, making our way through the Cleveland Metro parks, when we came to a picnic area. Off to our left I saw several Port-O-Lets—those portable toilets shaped like telephone booths—and noticed that one was being used in a very unusual fashion.
Parked next to this particular Port-O-Let was a cart. It looked like some sort of sled-training cart with wheels used when there is no snow, but that was pure speculation on my part. In any case, the cart was not the unusual part. What was truly unusual were the four Siberian husky/Alaskan malamute–type dogs in harnesses, all hooked to one gang line that went directly into the door of the Port-O-Let, making it appear that they were out on a Port-O-Let/sled-riding mission. I can only assume there was no way to anchor the cart and the dogs while taking care of business, so the cart driver got the brilliant idea to just take the gang line into the Port-O-Let and hold on to the dogs while using the facilities.
Perhaps you’re thinking the same thing I was thinking when I saw this little setup. I began fishing in my pack for my digital camera to take a picture of the “Port-O-Let-pulling team” when my dogs started yanking on their leashes, almost toppling me over. I looked around to see what in blazes had set them off.
It was a squirrel that had decided to stop in the middle of the wide-open field to my left, pick up a nut and chew on it. The problem was that my three dogs and the four Port-O-Let-anchored sled dogs were hanging out in the very same field. So far the potty chain gang hadn’t seen the squirrel, but it was only a matter of time as my dogs were doing the if-we-weren’t-on-this-leash-we-would-kick-that-squirrel’s-butt dance with increasing intensity.
Sure enough, within seconds, the potty-pullers’ heads all snapped in the direction of my dogs, then in the direction of the squirrel. They appeared to have the same idea as my pack, who were still straining vigorously at their leashes. At that point, my dogs saw the sled dogs spot the squirrel, and some sort of dog tribal-hunting, nonverbal communication thing happened: every one of the seven dogs on either end of the field realized that it was a race to see which of the two groups could get to the squirrel first. My dogs redoubled their pulling efforts, and the four-dog sled team reacted as one, barking furiously and lunging full steam for the squirrel.
The dogs’ motion caused the Port-O-Let to spin about thirty degrees and rock like the dickens. Luckily it didn’t tip over, just teetered back and forth a time or two, then righted itself. But nothing was going to stop the sled team in their pursuit of the squirrel. They gave another huge yank. The Port-O-Let spun yet again, and from inside the green tower of potty privacy came a human screech, finally piercing through the dogs’ din. The screech had the immediate effect of slowing the port-o-pullers down, and they settled into a nervous stand.
Unfortunately, at this point, the squirrel realized that my dogs weren’t going to get him, and the port-o-pullers
couldn’t
get him, so he started doing some kind of nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-you-can’t-get-me dance, once more infuriating the port-o-pullers and driving my dogs crazy.
If you’ve ever wondered why dogsleds are built long and low to the ground, as opposed to square and tall— like, say, the shape of a Port-O-Let—you needn’t wonder any longer whether this is a design flaw. When the pulling and barking started up again, the Port-O-Let did its best to stay upright, rocking heavily back and forth. The dogs, sensing victory, forgot completely about the squirrel and started timing their pulls with the rocking. They gave one last enormous tug and yanked the Port-O-Let over. Toppling the tall green box seemed to give the dog team a sense of satisfaction; they immediately stopped pulling after the Port-O-Let crashed to the ground. The squirrel had finally gone, and with the dogs quiet, I could now hear a series of cusswords coming from the fallen Port-O-Let.
I figured I’d better head over that way and see if I could help. Sadly, the Port-O-Let had landed facedown, meaning the door was now the bottom—against the ground. I tied my dogs to a tree and ventured closer. I asked if the occupant of the tipped Port-O-Let was okay. A woman’s voice said yes—actually, she used far more colorful language, but for the purpose of this story, we’ll just say she said yes.
The Port-O-Let hadn’t fared as well. You could tell it was badly hurt because there was a lot of blue fluid leaking from it. I told the woman that I would have to roll the Port-O-Let on its side so we could try opening the door, and that she should find something to hang on to. A couple of good shoves later, the Port-O-Let rolled 90 degrees, exposing the door. The door opened and out crawled Mama Smurf. The poor woman was covered in the blue “blood” of the dying Port-O-Let.
Her dogs came running over and decided she needed a bath, which did not make her at all happy. At this point, she suddenly realized she had skipped Step 10 in the bathroom process—pull your pants up—and with a yelp, she quickly disappeared back into the Port-O-Let to finish. When she reappeared, she was in absolutely no mood to talk about her ride on the wild side (I didn’t blame her), so I told her the short version of what happened outside the Port-O-Let.
I helped her hook her dogs up to the cart, and off she went, glowing blue as she drove down the path and back into the Metro park woods. I had to laugh imagining the reactions of all the other people walking serenely through the park as they were passed by an irate Smurf and her merry band of blue-tongued dogs.
Dave Wiley
S
he was such a beautiful and sweet creature
. . . and so full of tricks.
Queen Victoria
Lucky was a dog of huge proportion—actually,
dis
proportion. His neck was thick, his head was skinny, and his eyes were too close together, giving him a slightly stupid expression. I once had a friend who described his horse as a “cross between a freight train and a wire gate.” When I found that big splotchy dog, stray and starving by the side of the road, I thought the description suited him, too. But in spite of his appearance, I brought him home to live with us.
Late one night I came home from work, driving up the long lane to our house in the country and—as usual— turned the car around in preparation for leaving the next morning. Lucky—also as usual—watched this routine, wagging mightily, and waited for me to open the car door. But this night, as I stepped out of the car, Lucky growled menacingly, barked and advanced toward me. I backed into the car seat and quickly closed the door against my big black-and-white, cow-spotted friend, who had now turned aggressive. In disbelief I contemplated the hundreds of cans of expensive dog food we had served him.
This is how he thanks me?
I sat there, safe in my metallic cocoon, puzzled. Then as my head cleared, I took heart and reasoned the dog was just playing a game and that it was silly to sit there in the dark. I pushed the door fully open. Lucky exploded, shooting up to display his full six-foot-plus “Bigfoot” imitation. Throwing his body weight across the door, he slammed it shut. Then standing guard, he never took his too-close-together eyes off the door again.
