Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover's Soul
“It’ll be your contribution to the festivities,” she told him.
“Where’s my glasses?”
“Never mind. Just listen to me and sing.” But as often as Pat coached him, the bird simply looked at her and said, “Wow!”
A week before Christmas, she gave up. “All right, you stubborn creature, you probably can’t carry a tune anyway.”
Taking a beakful of seeds, Casey shook his head and flung them around his cage. Then he cocked his head and demanded in Pat’s voice, “Did you do that? Shame on you, you bad bird!”
On Christmas day, he inquired, almost plaintively, “What’s going on around here?” amid the noise of laughter and packages being ripped open, but all through dinner he was silent. When it was time for dessert, Pat touched a match to the plum pudding. The brandy blazed up. At that moment, with impeccable timing, Casey burst into: “Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock!”
With her health so much improved, Pat decided on a three-week vacation. Casey was sent to stay with Annie.
The day Pat was due back, Annie returned the parrot so he’d be there when Pat came in.
“Hi, Casey!” Pat called as she unlocked the door. There was no answer from the den. “Holy smokes, it’s cold out there!” she shouted. Still silence. Pat dropped her coat and hurried into the den. Casey glared at her.
“Hey, aren’t you glad to see me?” The bird moved to the far side of the cage. “Come on, don’t be angry,” she teased. “Shall we do the dishes?”
She opened the door of the cage and held out her hand.
Casey dropped to the bottom of the cage and huddled there.
In the morning, Pat tried again. And the next day, and the next. Casey refused to speak. But finally, on the fifth day, he consented to climb on her wrist and be carried to the living room. When she sat down, he shifted uneasily. “Please, Casey,” Pat pleaded. “I know I was away a long time, but you’ve got to forgive me.”
Tentatively, Casey took a few steps up her arm. “Were you frightened I wasn’t going to come back?” she said softly. “Darling Casey, I belong to you just as much as you belong to me.” Casey cocked his head. “I’ll never not come back.”
Step by step, Casey moved up her arm. After a while, he nestled down with his head on her chest. Pat stroked his head, smoothing his feathers with her forefinger. Finally Casey spoke. “I love you, Pat Myers,” he said.
Jo Coudert
Jake and the Kittens
It is a very inconvenient habit of kittens . . .
that, whatever you say to them, they always purr.
Lewis Carroll
From the beginning, Jake made his feelings clear about the subject of cats: they were best served on a plate, with a side order of fries!
Jake was our resident dog, a large dominant male, part Border collie and part Labrador retriever, with a little German shepherd thrown in. Jake was about two years old when he adopted us from the local animal shelter. He came into our lives shortly after I lost my beloved dog Martha to an unexpected illness. One day we went to the shelter searching for a shaggy-haired female (like Martha) to bring into our home. Instead, we found Jake, a shorthaired male, sitting tall, proud and silent in the middle of all that barking. We told the shelter worker that we wanted Jake to come home with us because we could sense he had a lot of magic inside of him. “That’s great,” she said. “Just don’t bring him back when he shows you that magic!”
Jake immediately became a cherished member of our family. He loved watching the birds we attracted to our yard with numerous feeders and birdbaths. He played with the puppy next door and other dogs in the park, but made it extremely clear that cats would never be allowed on his property, chasing any feline that came too close.
One day I found a litter of wild kittens in our woodpile. Although I had been a “dog person” all my life and had never had the privilege of sharing my life with a cat, my heart went out to these little furballs. They were only about four weeks old, and had beautiful gray-striped bodies and large, frightened eyes. Their mother was nowhere in sight. I put them into a box and brought them inside. Jake heard the meowing and immediately began to salivate. And drool. And pant. Every attempt to introduce him to the kitties ended in near disaster. It was clear we couldn’t keep the kittens in the house, even long enough to help find them homes. Our veterinarian told us, “Some dogs just won’t accept cats under any condition.”
A year after the kitty experience, I looked outside onto our deck and saw Jake with his ears up and his head cocked sideways, staring at the ground. There at his feet was a tiny kitten, sitting very still. Using soothing words to try and keep Jake calm, I moved in closer, hoping to prevent the ugly attack I felt sure was coming. The kitten had badly infected eyes, and it probably couldn’t see where it was or what was looming over it. But Jake just looked at the little creature, then looked up at me, and then back at the kitten. I heard some meowing, and discovered another kitten under the deck. So I scooped them both up and brought them into the house, depositing them into a box that would be their temporary home. I put the box in the garage and started making calls to all the animal people I knew, telling each the same story— my dog would never allow these cats into our home, and I needed to relocate them right away.
I bought baby bottles and kitten milk, and as I fed my two little bundles of fur, I told them how much I would have loved to welcome them into our family. But it could never be.
The next morning, we found three more kittens lying in a pile outside the door, huddled together for warmth and protection. So I took them in and added them to the box.
My heart was very heavy. Now we had five little kittens, all with infected eyes, who would be sent out into a world already crowded with unwanted little creatures. I spent the day making phone calls, only to be told over and over that no one had room for more critters. I knew I’d run out of options, so with tears in my eyes, I picked up the phone to make the call to the vet that would take the kittens out of my life forever. At that same moment, my eyes fell on Jake, calmly observing everything going on around him. There was no drooling, no panting. He didn’t seem upset or anxious. He was definitely interested, but not in a calculating, just-wait-until-I-get-them-on-my-plate kind of way. I felt something was different. Slow down, I thought. Don’t react. Just sit for a minute. Be still.
So I became still and I sat. And I heard a voice in my heart telling me what to do. I called our veterinarian and made an appointment to bring the kittens in and get their eyes checked. On the way home from the doctor, I went to a pet store and bought my first litter box. I came home and brought the box of kittens back into the house. Jake was waiting. The time had come, so I carefully put the babies on the floor of the kitchen and held my breath, ready to come to the rescue if necessary.
Jake walked over and sniffed each of the kittens. Then he sat down in the middle of them and looked up at me with a sweet, sappy grin on his face. The kittens swarmed over him, happy to find a big, warm body of fur to curl up next to. That’s when Jake opened his heart to the five little kitties and adopted them as his own. I wondered if he remembered a time when he, too, had needed a home. I knelt down to thank him for his love and compassion and tell him how grateful I was he’d come into my life. But it would have to wait until later—Jake and his kittens were fast asleep.
Christine Davis
“This is a song about love, betrayal and the day they brought home a kitten.”
Reprinted by permission of Randy Glasbergen.
We Are Family
When I broke up with yet another boyfriend, this time after a three-year relationship, I decided it was time for me to face the facts—I was just not lucky in love. Yet even though I had given up on men, I wasn’t ready to go without love in my life, so I decided to get a dog.
I found the perfect puppy after a careful search, and one hot June day, I brought home the little golden retriever puppy I’d named Cognac.
Like all puppies, Cognac was ador
able; immediately, I felt love and sweetness flowing in my life again. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?
A few days later, I received a call from a man who’d gotten my name through a computer-dating club. I had joined the club before the start of my last relationship and had never cancelled my membership. I hadn’t been very impressed with the people I’d met through the club’s services, but this guy, Brad, seemed nice enough on the phone, so when he asked me to meet him at the lake in a nearby park the next evening, I thought, I’ve got to walk Cognac anyway . . . sure, why not?
Brad had said he was no longer in the service, but that he had been an air force tech sergeant. That wasn’t the kind of guy I usually dated, but I had liked his voice on the phone and decided to keep an open mind. When I got to the park for our date, I looked around for a blond man with a buzz cut and a military bearing. There was no one like that at the park—the only blond man was a gorgeous guy with hair almost to his shoulders. I thought, Now why can’t a guy like that ask me out?
Then the gorgeous guy walked over to me and said, “Are you Jan?”
I immediately decided to give men another chance.
Cognac’s enthusiastic greeting made our introductions easy. He jumped up on Brad’s legs and ran in circles, wagging his whole body madly while trying to lick every part of Brad he could. We started to walk around the lake, and everybody we met fussed over the puppy. By the time we were halfway around the lake, Brad was holding Cognac’s leash, and he and I were chatting away like old friends.
At the end of our walk, we weren’t ready to say goodbye, so we found a café and picked an outdoor table so the puppy could be with us. From the very start, our relationship included Cognac.
Things went from good to better. One evening, three months later, Brad and I went to a restaurant that we liked for dinner. It was one of those places that have paper over the tablecloths and when they bring you the menu, they also bring crayons so that you can draw or write poetry while you’re waiting for your meal. Brad and I always played Hangman while we waited and that night, we were playing our usual game. As I guessed the letters and the words started to form themselves, a sentence emerged: Will you marry me?
I gasped and turned towards Brad, “Are you kidding?”
Brad looked nervous, but his eyes were shining and he smiled at me. “No, I’m not kidding—what’s your answer?”
I took a crayon and wrote a huge YES across the paper. We sat grinning at each other for a few minutes and then began to plan our wedding.
From the start, we were sure about two things: We wanted an outdoor wedding and we wanted Cognac to be a part of the ceremony.
The day of the wedding dawned perfect and clear. Our families and friends gathered near the natural spring that we’d chosen as the spot where we would say our vows. My bridesmaids were dressed in rich purple gowns. I had on my wedding dress, and my heart felt as if it were overflowing with love and joy. Yet I was slightly apprehensive, wondering if we had lost our minds expecting Cognac, now ten months old and goofy in the way that only young dogs can be, to handle his responsibilities as ring-bearer without creating chaos.
Cognac wore a white collar and a purple satin bow tie. My bridesmaids, who knew we had lost our minds having a dog at the ceremony, ran around with lint rollers, trying to keep their dark gowns free of golden hair—an almost impossible task.
Cognac’s job was to carry a heart-shaped basket containing our rings to Brad. The basket held a heart-shaped pillow to which Brad had secured our rings with pieces of wire. This would prevent a disaster, in case Cognac decided to go for a swim in the spring, basket and all, instead of delivering it to Brad as we’d planned. As I began to walk to the aisle, in preparation for following the bridesmaids, I panicked. I realized I needed another hand! I held my bouquet in one hand, Cognac on his leash in the other, but I needed to hold the basket as well. If I gave the basket to Cognac to carry, he would take it as the signal to run to Brad, just as he’d been trained and I’d be dragged after him—spoiling the effect I’d had in my mind for my appearance on the scene.
Somehow I managed to get to the aisle, unhook Cognac’s leash and put the basket in his mouth. He was off like a shot, racing toward Brad with his beautiful golden ears streaming behind him, as if he was hot on the trail of a speeding rabbit. There was a swell of laughter as our guests appreciated the dedication of our furry ring-bearer.
When Cognac reached Brad, he dropped the basket at his feet and, panting, looked up at Brad for approval. As Brad reached down to pick up the rings, a suddenly quiet Cognac solemnly raised his paw to meet my almost-husband’s hand—a canine “Way to go, Brad.”
Our guests, dog-lovers and non-dog-lovers alike, were completely undone and to this day, when anyone talks about our wedding they may not remember what year it was or what I was wearing, but they always mention the dog’s pawshake.
For me, it was the perfect start to our new life together. Just the way I always dreamed it would be—Brad and me . . . and Cognac.
Jan Paddock
Me and My Mewse
According to my dictionary, a “muse” is any of the nine Greek goddesses who preside over the arts. This means that, as a writer, I not only get to work in my pajamas, I can also claim my own goddess who will answer my prayers in times of literary distress.
Luckily, there’s no need, since I have Necco, a peach-colored tortoiseshell cat to serve as my own personal “mewse.”
The cat discovered us at the local animal shelter. We were looking for a quiet, neat pet to complement our boisterous dog, Emma. We found Necco instead.
As soon as we entered the shelter, she called to us in a noisy chirp that made it clear she required immediate attention. The yellow tag on her cage—the symbol showing that this was her last day—backed up her urgent request. When the cage door swung open, she stepped into my arms and settled back with a look that clearly said, “What took you so long?”
Six months old and barely three pounds, Necco wasted no time establishing herself as the one in charge of our lives. The leather chair was her scratching post. The Christmas tree was her playground. And the mantel, neatly decorated with a collection of brass candlesticks of all shapes and sizes, was where she discovered the Feline Law of Gravity: Cats go up; candlesticks come down. The first dainty swipe of a paw resulted in a satisfying crash. So did the second, third and fourth. By the fifth crash, Necco’s face bore the cat equivalent of a grin. She had discovered her purpose in life.
It happened that Necco’s skills reached their peak just as my life reached a low point. My twenty-year marriage had shuddered to a stop, leaving me with a ten-year-old daughter, Katie, and a large home to support on an advertising copywriter’s salary. Although I worked full-time, the pay was modest and I often found myself with more bills than paycheck. I soon realized I would have to work as a freelance writer just to meet expenses.
That meant getting up at 4:00 A.M.,writing for two hours, and then getting ready for work. Eight hours later, I would return home, fix dinner, help Katie with homework, clean the house and get ready for another day’s work. I fell into bed exhausted at 11:00 P.M. only to crawl out of bed when the alarm sounded at 4:00 A.M. the next day.
The routine lasted exactly two weeks. Despite gallons of coffee, I couldn’t seem to produce anything. I was cranky, frustrated, lonely and ready to admit defeat. Writing was hard. Paying bills was even harder. The only answer was to sell the house and get an inexpensive apartment. Unfortunately, that would mean more losses for Katie and me. Especially since no apartment in town allowed pets.
I hated the thought of finding another home for us all, and I especially hated the thought of telling Katie about the changes in store. Depressed, I slept right through the 4:00 A.M. alarm the next day. And the next and the next. Finally, I quit setting it.
That’s when Necco did a curious thing. Knowing that a sudden crash would make a human jump, she decided that the perfect time to make that crash was at 4:00 A.M. Her
bedroom bombing raid was timed with military precision. First she set off a small round of artillery in the form of two pencils and my eyeglasses. I rolled over and covered my head with the blanket. Then she moved on to an arsenal of notebooks and the alarm clock. Each crash forced me deeper under the covers. Finally, she brought out the big guns. A half-filled glass of water splashed to the ground. A hardbound book crashed beside me. How could I sleep with the world literally crashing down around my ears? My mewse said it was time to get to work.
Wearily, I made my way to the computer. Necco hopped up on the desk, seeming to feel her job wasn’t done yet. Sitting on a pile of unfinished story ideas, she watched with apparent satisfaction as I began to type. Whenever the words seemed slow in coming, she helped me along. Gliding across my keyboard with the grace of a goddess, she produced sentences like: “awesdtrfgyhub-jikpl[;’ dtrfgbhujni guhnj!” My translation? “I woke you up for a reason. Now, write!” I wrote. And wrote some more.
From then on, every day Necco got me up at 4:00 A.M. sharp, when the ideas were freshest and the world slept around us. With her watching over me as I wrote, I didn’t feel so alone. My goals didn’t seem so impossible. Slowly, over months of early mornings, stories were born, and polished, and sold.
Today the old house still surrounds us. Katie and I are both doing fine. And although both pets are treated like the cherished family members they are, whenever another story is sold, I give thanks to my muse—a little cat with a mischievous grin, who kept me company in my “darkest hours.”
Cindy Podurgal Chambers
Step-Babies
It had been scheduled. Muffie, our seven-month-old Lhasa apso, was to be fixed. But as luck would have it, we didn’t schedule it soon enough. Five months pregnant myself, I sat at the kitchen table staring at my beautiful pet and reprimanding myself for not doing something sooner.