Luckily, the vet was still open and they took her right in. I kept watching Cheyenne’s side, willing her to keep breathing as the vet put her on the examining table.
“The front leg appears to be the worst of her injuries,” he said, pinching between her toes with a silver clamp. “The nerves have been damaged and she doesn’t have any feeling. I’m afraid we’ll have to amputate.”
The day of Cheyenne’s surgery was the longest day of my life. Nothing prepared us for what we would see once we went to pick her up. In the bottom cage, Cheyenne lay panting and blinking sleepy eyes, the entire right side of her body shaved clean from her stomach to her neck. A huge white bandage was wrapped around the shoulder area where her leg used to be. A plastic tube was also taped to the area to help the surgical site drain. She looked totally miserable. Tears slid from my eyes as I saw Cheyenne’s tail give a faint wag.
That night we all camped on the floor to sleep next to Cheyenne. As she moaned in agony and lay on her side unable to move, I kept trying to picture her as she used to be: running, playing, jumping up on the bed to snuggle down next to me. I felt frightened and uncertain, wondering how she would ever be that same carefree pup again. In a way, I understood the kind of trauma she was going through. One day you were happy, then life just shattered, inexplicably, leaving you in a world of pain.
Vanessa and I took shifts for the first few nights. We’d keep watch, try to comfort her, give her pain pills and feed her vanilla ice cream from a spoon. She’d doze, but usually she was too uncomfortable to sleep. Every few hours, we’d carry her outside and help her stand so she could go to the bathroom. We were exhausted, but nothing was more important than Cheyenne coming back to us—even if she would never be the same again.
On Monday I had to take care of her myself when Vanessa went to school. Mariah kept busy with her coloring books while I constantly hovered over Cheyenne. I changed her bandages and made sure she wasn’t trying to bite at them. I stroked her head and kept telling her how strong she was. Seeing her so miserable and watching the blood ooze from her drainage tube broke my heart over and over again. I missed her sweet eyes looking at me with love instead of so much suffering.
“You’re a survivor,” Iwhispered in her ear. “We need you, so you have to get better. Those children are depending on you, so please . . . don’t give up. Fight and get through this.”
As I said these things to her, something struck me deep inside. The same words applied to me. It had been a nightmare since the divorce, the pain so deep that I wanted to curl up and die; I didn’t see myself able to stand on my own. But weren’t the children depending on me, too? Didn’t I have to fight and get through this? Tears ran down my cheeks as I lay my face against Cheyenne’s muzzle. It was so soft and her breath fanned my skin. Breath that reminded me how precious life was.
“I’ll make a deal with you, girl,” I said. “If you fight and get through this, I’ll fight my way back, too. We’ll learn how to walk on our own together.”
From that day on, things steadily improved. Cheyenne looked more alert and comfortable, daring to take her first steps, while I started crying less and smiling more. A healing was beginning to take place and it felt so very good. One day at a time, one step at a time, Cheyenne and I were making it together.
“Look, Mom! She’s doing it! Cheyenne’s walking on her own!” Vanessa pointed as Cheyenne wandered about the yard one week later. She managed just fine with the front leg missing. In fact, it seemed as if she didn’t miss it much at all.
Mariah clapped happily. “Just like her old self!”
I thought about that a moment and had to disagree. “Actually, sweetheart, I think Cheyenne’s going to be better than she used to be. She’ll be stronger because she’s a survivor now. Just like us . . . better than ever.”
In that instant, Cheyenne stopped and looked at me. The gleam was back in those golden eyes. We both had a new life to look forward to, one precious step at a time.
Diane Nichols
Ballerina Dog
One April afternoon a few days after my twenty-first birthday, my parents announced that they were ready to give me—their live-at-home, frazzled, college-student daughter—a belated birthday present.
Wheelchair-bound since birth, I propelled myself from my bedroom into the living room where my parents anxiously waited.
“Bring it on! Good things come to those who wait,” I joked, as I closed my eyes and extended my hands waiting to feel the weight of a beautifully wrapped gift.
“Why are you holding out your hands?” my dad laughed. “Your gift isn’t coming in a box this year.”
“Huh?” I opened my eyes to study the glee stamped on both of their usually calm faces. “I know! It must be that handicapped-accessible van I’ve been praying for!”
“No, it’s not a van, but it’s almost as good,” my mom chuckled. Then she said more seriously, “Jackie, we know you were devastated when Buck passed last year. We all were. He was a great dog. But we think our house has been void of doggy joy long enough. It’s time to hear puppy noises again.”
“So today, right now, in fact,” my dad broke in, “we’re going to a place where you’ll be able to select the puppy of your choice.”
“But,” I stammered, but there was no time for protest as he scooped me out of my chair and into our car. My parents chatted to each other while I sat in the back, desperately trying to quell overwhelming waves of sadness.
Sadness because not so long ago, this trip would have seemed incomprehensible—a betrayal. After all, it had been only seven months since Buck lay on my cold bathroom floor drawing his last breaths. Seven months since I slid from my chair onto the floor, gently caressing his gray-streaked black-and-white fur, as his spirit passed from this world to the next. Sobbing, I vowed to him and to myself that I would never get another dog . . . but now here I was, about to break that promise.
Finally, my father turned to me and asked, “It’ll be nice to hear the pitter-patter of paws again, won’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said flatly, trying to conjure up the excitement he’d expected. But I couldn’t. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I wiped them away quickly as my father, unaware of my tenuous emotional state, continued.
“When we get there, should we make a beeline to the shih tzu puppies? I know they’re your favorites.”
My favorite was Buck, I thought, not his breed. Buck, my constant companion, who climbed up on my lap and, like a salve, soothed my spastic, palsied muscles in a way that no drug ever could.
“Buck is irreplaceable!” I wanted to scream, but I held back, opting for something kinder. “Breeds don’t really matter. It’s their heart that counts. I’ll look at them all.” I paused, then continued as we pulled into the parking lot, “Who knows? I may not find any and walk out empty-handed.” I wanted to prepare my parents for this possibility.
“I doubt that,” Dad smiled at me, as he plopped me in my chair and headed toward the building, “but we’ll see.”
A chorus of barks and howls heralded our arrival, as a friendly employee offered to show us the available puppies. My parents accepted, but I lagged behind, gazing at the other dogs, shimmying and shaking, pleading to be released from their four-walled prisons. I smiled, but held myself in check, determined to keep my vow. Until . . .
Until I saw my father’s face shining like the noonday sun. “Over here,” he called to me.
Intrigued, my heart began to race, as I pushed toward the pen where my parents stood. Struggling to get a better look, I hoisted myself up, my legs tightening with the effort. There, nestled in the pen, were two angelic shih tzus. The male, a fluffy caramel and white pup, was gregarious and charged right at me. His smaller sister, a beautiful midnight-black-and-white puppy, was more demure, waiting for me to lean in a bit, before licking my nose. Aww, she looks like Buck, I said silently, my heart beginning to soften. Then suddenly, before I knew what was happening, my resolve toppled. I was hooked.
 
; “Well, it looks like we won’t be going home empty-handed,” my mother said, as if voicing my thoughts.
“Wonderful.” My father was pleased. “Which one?”
I was leaning toward the male; he was obviously the alpha and far more playful. Yet the girl was so tiny, her ebony eyes captivating and sweet.
I held them both, the male against the center of my chest, while the female lay curled in the warmth of my lap. It was nearly closing time as the male nibbled the ends of my hair, and the female slept serenely against my atrophied legs. Still, I was hopelessly undecided.
The employee, observing my deadlock, lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “Look, if I were you, I’d take the boy because the female’s disabled. Her legs are deformed; she stands like a ballerina in first position.”
Stunned at his insensitivity, my eyes widened. Hadn’t he seen my legs or the wheelchair I sat in? I wondered.
Noticing my expression, the employee continued, “I don’t mean to upset you, but she’ll need constant care. And the last thing you probably need is another pile of doctor bills.”
Wanting to prove him wrong, I placed her on her feet. Instantly, her two bowed legs scissored, as she strained to keep her balance. Yet, despite her valiant effort, her tiny disabled legs faltered and she tumbled onto her side.
“See her legs cross?” he said quietly. “She’s our little ballerina dog.”
My eyes glistened as I listened to her tiny panting. I knew her struggle far too well. I recalled those times when I had used all my strength to stand upright—and that glorious second when I stood tall—only to come crashing down. I wanted to take her, but the employee was right: could I really afford her care?
“Okay . . . I’ll take him,” I said sadly.
As we were saying our good-byes to the little female, she struggled back up. Her eyes bursting with determination, she pushed her brother out of the way and then carefully placed one foot in front of the other, as she began her slow, steady ascent across my lap and up my shirt. She wobbled and stumbled but didn’t stop until she rested against my heart.
Laughing and crying at the same time, I whispered, “I hear you, ballerina dog. You’re coming home with me.” Contented, she closed her eyes, knowing her mission was complete. We would manage whatever care she needed; it would all work out.
“Excuse me, sir,” I announced loudly, “there’s been a change of plans. I’m taking Ballerina Dog.”
Jackie Tortoriello
The Dog Who Loved to Fly
Copper’s yearning to fly was apparent from puppy-hood. You wouldn’t expect a dachshund to want to spend his life airborne, but from the day he cleared the rail of the playpen that was supposed to keep him out of trouble while I was at work, to his last valiant effort at leaving the Earth, there was no stopping him.
It was Copper’s soaring spirit that made me choose him as my first dog. The rest of the litter was cute in the traditional puppy way. Copper, however, would have nothing to do with touching noses or cuddling up next to me. He managed to drag himself up on top of the sofa, and before anyone could stop him, off he jumped. He landed with a “poof!” as the air escaped from his tiny belly. Seven-week-old dog legs aren’t meant to support skydiving. I knew that, but he didn’t.
I’m not big on following rules either, so Copper was the obvious choice for me. I whispered in his little ear, “I like you, flying dog. Do you want to come home with me?” He stared at me intently as if to say, Okay, but don’t expect me to obey Newton’s Law of Gravity!
Copper’s pilot training began the moment we arrived home. He surveyed the landscape, identified the highest elevations and spent his days scampering up and flying down from everything he could. For months, every floor in the house was covered with pillows, blankets, towels and anything soft I could find to cushion his landings.
One day when he was about five months old, I came home to find Copper standing in the middle of the dining-room table with that look on his face that said, Fasten your seat belts and hang on for the ride! I ran as fast as I could toward him to catch him, but he hit the ground before I could yell, “No flying in the dining room!”
From that day on, I put the dining-room chairs upside down on the table every morning before I went to work. When friends and neighbors asked why, I’d just shrug and say it was an old German custom.
I wished Copper could be happy doing regular dachshund stuff—sniffing the carpet, rolling in strange smells, barking at squirrels and learning to be disobedient in two languages, but it just wasn’t in him. “What am I going to do with you, flying dog?” I’d ask him every night when I got home from work. I got him a dog tag shaped like an airplane and prayed that he was strong enough not to get hurt in his airborne escapades.
One day when he was five, Copper jumped up on the back of the couch and flew off. When he landed, he hurt his back. I rushed him to the vet, who said he’d blown a disc and would need surgery. My heart was broken. If I had been a good dog-parent, I thought, I’d have found a way to stop him from flying.
Copper pulled through the surgery with a wagging tail and that same rebellious spark in his eyes. And now that he had a reverse Mohawk from the surgery, he looked even more independent. The last words I heard at the vet were, “Don’t let him jump off things!”
I tried, really I did. For three weeks, whenever I wasn’t with him, I kept Copper in a crate. He gave me a look that said, How can you take away my freedom, my spirit, my reason for living? And he was right; I had grounded not only his body, but his spirit as well. So as he got stronger, I started letting him out of the crate. I gave him a stern warning to behave himself, but he and I both knew he wouldn’t.
As the years went by, Copper found it harder to get around. When he got too old to easily clamber onto the sofa with me, I built him a ramp. Of course, the first thing he did was to use it as a springboard to fly from. And he was just as proud of himself as he ever was.
Then at age thirteen, Copper’s entire back end became paralyzed; he couldn’t jump at all. I don’t know who was sadder that Copper’s flying days were over, him or me.
The vet couldn’t find anything wrong, so I got Copper a K-9 cart, a little wheelchair for dogs. “Now, Copper,” I said, “I looked for a little cart with wings, but they just didn’t have one. So I guess you’ll just have to stay on the floor like a real dog from now on.”
A few minutes later, while I was in the kitchen cooking dinner, I heard a noise in the living room. I ran in and saw Copper at the top of the ramp, with that look in his eye. Before anyone could stop him, he turned andwheeled down the ramp at full speed, his ears flying behind him.
Copper could still fly. I should have known better than to doubt his soaring spirit. And once he landed his new “aircraft,” he wheeled back up the ramp and took off again, as elated by his accomplishment as the Wright Brothers must have been.
Copper flew up and down that ramp with his wheels spinning behind him for almost three more years before he escaped the bonds of Earth once and for all.
Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant
Locked In
April afternoons are warm in suburban Philadelphia, and the temperature inside a parked car rises quickly. Ila, my two-year-old daughter, was strapped into her car seat, pink-cheeked and sweaty. D’Argo, my ten-month-old chocolate Lab, was bounding from the front seat to the back, barking and panting. Helpless, I could only stand and wait.
They had been locked in the rented truck for fifteenmin-utes when the police car finally pulled into my driveway.
“No spare key,ma’am?” the young officer asked. The only key I had was attached to the remote door lock control, which was lying on the driver’s seat, along with my purse, the after-school snack for the older kids, my book, the mail and the dirty dry cleaning. I had tossed everything onto the seat, buckled Ila into her car seat and shooed D’Argo into the passenger side, closing doors as I went. Just as I reached the driver’s side door, I heard the clunk of the door locks. D’Argo
was standing on the driver’s seat, tail wagging and his oversized puppy paws on the remote.
“It’s a rental,” I explained. “The agency doesn’t keep spares, but the agent is trying to get a new key cut. He said he’d send it right over.”
One hand on the nightstick in his tool belt, the officer circled the truck, trying all the doors, tugging at the lift gate. D’Argo trailed him from window to window inside. They came face-to-face at the front passenger window. D’Argo, his nose pressed against the window, wagged his tail and drooled, leaving large globs of spit and nose prints on the glass.
Two more officers arrived. After a quick briefing, the older, heavier officer took a long metal tool with a flat hooked end from the trunk of his squad car. He wedged it into the gap between the driver’s side window and door and slid it slowly in and out, trying, unsuccessfully, to jimmy the lock. Then he attacked the keyhole with a screwdriver, succeeded only in making a few gouges in the metal and gave up. “These new cars, like Fort Knox,” he muttered. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I called the car-rental company again. They were “still working on it,” my friendly rental agent said. I pressed my face against the window, shading my eyes to see through the tinted glass. D’Argo had flopped down next to Ila’s car seat, his long body stretched out across the seat and his big brown head resting in her lap. Ila’s face was flushed and shiny. Drops of sweat rolled down her cheeks and her blond curls were dark and matted against her forehead. Ila looked up into my face.
“Mommy! Uppie!” she said, holding up her arms. Her wide blue eyes leaked tears.
“Mommy will get you out as soon as she can,” I said, straining to sound calm and cheerful. Her face crumpled.
“Mommy! Mommy! I wan’ you!” she wailed. She twisted and strained against the car seat, crying harder, legs pumping, arms reaching. D’Argo jumped into the front seat and joined in, baying with a low, guttural moan.