We wanted to get Ginny and the kitten home right away so we could examine their wounds and treat them. Even though Ginny is no lightweight, Sheilah scooped her up and carried her to the car in her arms. I followed with the kitten.
As soon as we were safe in my apartment, Sheilah and I brought Ginny into the bathroom and turned on the light for a good look. My dog sat quietly letting us examine her without pulling her paws out of our hands, even though they must have been hurting.
There were pieces of glass stuck in the pads of Ginny’s feet. We lifted them out very carefully, making sure to get even the tiniest piece out, washed her wounds, and applied a styptic pencil. We then turned our attention to the kitten, which couldn’t have been more than a week and a half old. Gently, we brushed the glass off it, pulling out the pieces sticking in its flesh and examined its scratches and cuts. They didn’t appear to be too serious, so we went the soap-and-water and styptic pencil route with the little cat, too.
We got out the little bottle we use for nursing kittens and gave the baby a decent meal. The kitten drank until it was full, and then curled up and went to sleep between Ginny’s aching paws. It was already making itself at home.
Neither Sheilah nor I expected that baby kitten to live. Its wounds weren’t serious, but it just seemed too young to have much of a chance at growing up. There was feistiness in that little fellow, though, and he surprised us by thriving.
A few days later he was as lively as a kitten ought to be, and eating enough for six. I made up my mind there and then not to put him up for adoption, but to keep him.
I named him the Chairman. The Chairman and Ginny have a very special relationship. She seems to think he belongs to her, the way she fusses over him all the time. And he thinks he belongs to her, too. It’s almost as though the Chairman recognizes that he is Ginny’s living reward for her brave dive into that box of broken glass to save him.
Philip Gonzalez with Leonore Fleischer
Jim the Wonder Dog
In 1925, Sam VanArsdale, proprietor of the Ruff Hotel in Marshall, Missouri, purchased an English setter puppy born of pureblood champion field stock in Louisiana. The puppy was considered the least promising of the litter and was sold at a throwaway price. The dog was nothing special to look at as he had unusually big paws and an ungainly appearance. Sam decided to call him Jim.
Jim grew to be a fine companion for Sam. The dog was smart and good-natured, and Sam was pleased with his “bargain.”
One day, when Jim was three years old, he and Sam were walking through the woods. The weather was hot, and Sam said to Jim, “C’mon boy, let’s go and rest a little under a hickory tree.”
There were many types of trees in the woods, but Jim ran straight over to a hickory tree. Sam was a bit surprised. No doubt it was just a coincidence. On a whim, Sam said to Jim, “Show me a black oak tree.” When Jim ran to the nearest black oak and put his right paw on the tree, Sam was amazed. This couldn’t possibly be true.
“Show me a walnut tree,” he said, and Jim ran unerringly to the nearest walnut and put his paw on it. Sam continued with everything he could think of—a stump, hazel bushes, a cedar tree, even a tin can. Jim correctly identified them all. Sam could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes. How could a dog do such things?
Sam went home and told his wife what had happened.
She said flatly, “Sam VanArsdale, you can tell me, but don’t go telling anyone else.”
Sam persuaded his wife to accompany them back to the woods, where Jim put on a flawless repeat performance. She shook her head in amazement—Sam’s crazy story was true!
Over the next few days, Sam couldn’t help telling his friends around town what his smart dog could do. They smiled at him indulgently and moved off pretty fast.
One man did listen, although of course he was skeptical. Sam, noticing that the man had parked his car on the street a few yards away, told Jim to show the man which car was his. Jim went straight to the car and put his front paw on it.
Then another man gave Sam the license plate number of his car. Sam wrote it down on a piece of paper and put the paper on the sidewalk. He told Jim to identify the car. Without hesitation, Jim walked to the car in question.
After incidents like these, Jim’s reputation spread like wildfire around the small town. Soon he was demonstrating his powers in the Ruff Hotel for amazed crowds of up to a hundred people at a time. There seemed to be no limit to what Jim could do. When people were in the lobby, he could determine what room numbers they occupied in the hotel. He could identify people according to the clothes they wore, the color of their hair—in spite of the fact that dogs are thought to be color-blind—their profession, and, in the case of the military, their rank.
In addition, he could identify objects not just by name but by function. For example, at a command such as, “If we wanted to hear Amos and Andy, where would we go?” Jim would go to the radio.
Perhaps, the skeptics said, Sam was secretly signaling to Jim. Although none of Sam’s friends and associates questioned his integrity, knowing him to be a plain-speaking man who wouldn’t dream of deceiving others, one woman decided to test this theory. She had the clever idea to write an instruction for Jim in shorthand, which Sam did not understand. When Sam showed Jim the paper on which the instruction was written, and told him to do whatever it said, Jim went over to a certain man. The woman shouted, “He’s doing it!” Then she explained that the instruction was, “Show us the man with rolled socks.”
One year, at the State Fair in Sedalia, the editor of the Joplin Globe asked for a demonstration. Since they were near the bandstand where the musicians were putting away their instruments, Sam said, “Jim, show us who plays the tuba.” Jim went to the tuba player and put his paw on him. The citizens of the “Show-Me State” had to admit Jim had abilities far beyond the normal.
By this time Jim’s reputation had spread far beyond the small town of Marshall. Newspapers and magazines from all over the country sent reporters to cover the story. They went away, like everyone else, amazed. Jim became known as the Wonder Dog.
Jim’s feats aroused scientific and medical curiosity. He was examined by veterinarians at Missouri State University, who said that there was nothing unusual about Jim—physically, he was just like any other dog. They could offer no explanation for his uncanny talent.
Later that same day, Jim gave an outdoor demonstration at the university, attended by students and professors. Various professors gave him instructions in different languages.
In Italian, “Show me an elm tree.”
In French, “Point out this license number.”
In German, “Show a girl dressed in blue.”
In Spanish, “Find a man wearing a mustache.”
Not once did Jim err.
Sam watched the demonstration with quiet satisfaction. His bargain pup had become his dearest treasure, an extraordinary dog whom he loved and was proud of. But he had no explanation of how Jim could do all these things. When a friend at the demonstration asked him about it, he said, “All I know is that he has the power of doing whatever I ask him to do, and there seems to be no limit to his knowledge or ability.”
One man who was deeply impressed by Jim’s ability was Jack L. Jolly, a Missouri state representative, who invited Sam and Jim to Jefferson City for a joint session with the legislature. The politicians tried to trip Jim up. They gave him an instruction in Morse code. But Jim had no problem indicating the person they were calling for. Anyone who harbored any lingering doubts that Jim was simply reading his master’s mind, or responding to secret signals, had to put them aside, because Sam knew Morse code no better than he knew shorthand. Sam was as astonished as everyone else by Jim’s supernormal gift.
One day, some friends persuaded Sam to test Jim further. Could he possibly predict the future? Sam took an interest in the Kentucky Derby, so that year he wrote down the names of the horses on pieces of paper that he then laid on the floor. He asked Jim to select t
he horse that would win. Jim put his paw on one of the slips of paper, which was then put in a locked safe until after the race. It turned out that Jim had picked the winner. He repeated his success the following year, and so on for seven successive years.
Sam was not a gambling man and never attempted to profit from Jim’s abilities to foretell the future. He received many letters and telegrams requesting Jim’s predictions of winning horses. Some people offered to split the profits with Sam. But Sam never wavered. Nor was he interested in a lucrative offer from Paramount for Jim to work in movies for a year. Like the modest midwesterner he was, Sam said he didn’t really need the money and didn’t want to commercialize Jim.
As time passed, the bond between Sam and Jim grew. Sam’s love for Jim was that of a man for his greatest friend. And the dog’s ability to do anything Sam asked was just one facet of Jim’s deep devotion towards Sam. So when Jim died at the age of twelve in 1937, Sam was devastated. And indeed, the whole town of Marshall was stunned by the loss. Jim was buried in the Ridge Park Cemetery, where his small white headstone reads: Jim the Wonder Dog.
Many people visit Jim’s gravesite every year, leaving flowers and coins in remembrance of the Wonder Dog whose mysterious powers won him lasting fame and honor and love.
Bryan Aubrey
[EDITORS’ NOTE: The events in this story have been confirmed by eyewitnesses and documented in numerous newspapers, magazines and other publications. The editors have checked the author’s sources and are confident that they are reliable.]
“I told him to get down.”
Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. © 1999 Jonny Hawkins
Ding, Dong, Bell
The painted cowbell Martha Agrelius found at a local craft fair made an attractive addition to her front porch— especially when suspended over the old metal milk can she’d bought a few months earlier.
Salem, Martha’s cat, seemed to think so, too. He relished the sound the bell made when he leapt up onto the milk can and began swatting it with his paw.
Like Pavlov before him, Salem discovered that certain individuals could be conditioned to respond in a predictable manner to certain stimuli. After a while, he realized he didn’t even need to ring the bell to bring sixty-five-year-old Martha scurrying out to the front porch. All he had to do was stand on the milk can and reach up. On quite a few occasions, neighbors could also be induced to respond to his summons. All in all, the experiment in behavioral conditioning seemed to be enormously satisfying to Salem.
Shortly before Halloween, Martha asked her son-in-law to raise the bell by about twelve inches, firmly out of reach of Salem’s paws and the sticky hands of costumed children.
The following February, an ice storm coated streets, cars, trees and sidewalks with a slick, transparent glaze. On the day after the storm, Martha bundled up and ventured out of doors. But just as she was walking alongside the garage, she slipped on the ice and fell. Try as she might, she couldn’t raise herself up. She was sure she must have broken something. And she was bleeding, too. Traces of blood painted red webs in the cracked ice around her head.
It got colder and colder. No one came. Martha realized with a sinking feeling that because of the trees in her yard, no one would be able to see her from the street. She closed her eyes and began to drift into semi-consciousness. Everything was a blur, and she had no idea of how long she lay there.
Suddenly she was roused by a cold, moist touch on her cheek. She opened her eyes and moaned softly, before turning her head to gaze on Salem, who was standing up close to her face, eyeing her intently.
“Meoow,” the cat cried out. Martha was so cold she was unable to respond.
“Meoow” came again. Then Salem rubbed his face up against Martha’s. Still she could manage no response. Salem turned his attention to Martha’s hand, nudging it with his cold nose, trying to get her to pet him. Martha felt like crying, but she still could not move.
Looking out of half-closed eyes she watched as Salem gave up trying to get her to respond and stepped gingerly across the ice. He made his way to the front porch and leapt onto the swing suspended from the porch roof by a set of rusty chains. For a few moments the swing swayed beneath his weight. As the movement gradually ceased, Salem stepped from the swing onto the ice-covered top of the milk can, and positioned himself directly underneath the bell suspended just out of reach.
Motionless on the ground Martha was still able to watch what was going on. She hardly dared to believe what she thought must be in Salem’s mind. “Do it, Salem, do it,” she thought desperately to herself.
Salem steadied himself on the swing, bunched his powerful leg muscles and sprang. When he was at maximum height he shot out his front paw to swat the bell. He hit it squarely, shaking loose some snow and ice and raising a sort of clunk. Then as he came down he fell back onto the icy porch. Salem repeated this maneuver nearly a dozen times as Martha watched.
“Oh thank you, Salem, thank you,” she whispered to herself. Someone would surely hear the sound and come to the rescue. Sure enough, eventually a neighbor ventured outside to discover the cause of the repeated clanging.
In good time, Marthawas transported to a local hospital, where she was treated for a fractured hip and an injury to her left temple. Salem,meanwhile,was rewardedwith several bowls of warm milk, a weekly serving of gourmet food and a handsome plastic ball fitted with a tiny bell, which he swatted around the floor to his heart’s content.
Eric Swanson
The Cowboy
My mother acquired him as a skinny little puppy. He’d been neglected, starved of everything, including love, but he grew to be a fine dog. He was a redbone bloodhound, sleek and handsome, his coat a deep, rusty red. He had the hound’s musical bay, and a tendency to sleep through the heat of the day and roam at night. We called him Duke. He loved us all, but he adored my mother.
When Duke was about two years old, we lived in Tennessee, in a small motel on the outskirts of some easily forgettable town. Our front yard was two lanes of blacktop highway. Across this fast street was an immense cow pasture, and about forty yards in from the blacktop was a small creek covered by towering shade trees. We, the four young children, were forbidden to go there because of the bull, but it was hard to resist and we had snuck over a few times during that hot summer. We considered it safe if the cows weren’t out.
On this particular hot and muggy day, here and there, cows dotted the field and the hill. Normally, the sight of them would have ended our hopes of a dip in the stream, and we would have played in the sprinkler instead. But someone was washing a car so there was no sprinkler.
Even though the cows were out, we could not see the bull. We crossed the road and peered into the distance. He would not be hard to miss: huge, black and angry, an earthquake with each step of hard, heavy hoof. We leaned on the fence casually, watching the cows flick their tails at flies, waiting for the bull to make his presence known.
After about five minutes, Kim sat on the fence and speculated that the bull may have stayed inside because of the heat. We waited for Kim to make up her mind: She was the oldest at ten, and we deferred to her.
After a moment, Kim jumped off the fence and onto forbidden ground. We waited, breath held, but there was no roar of outrage and no shaking earth. We scrambled after Kim in order of age: me, the eight-year-old, then Jeff, who was six, and Donna last, an impish and pouty three. Duke raced ahead and scattered cows.
I was scared but excited. I imagined I was behind enemy lines; I had to blow up the dam and destroy the bridge. I pulled my invisible gun and slunk toward the trees, my eyes darting across the landscape. I barked an order at Jeff because I didn’t dare bark one at Kim, who strode imperiously ahead of our little column. Donna complained about the distance and asked where we were going.
Soon we were in the dark cool shade under the trees. The stream ran over stones and old branches, sluiced into deep, quiet pools. We entered quickly, pausing only to kick off socks and sneakers. The wat
er cooled us, the earth squeezed between our toes, and the heat could not penetrate the darkness of the shade. We felt safe in that cool little pocket of the world. We built a dam, destroyed it, then built it again. We fought wars in which we won, and lost and won again. We scratched out plans of attack in the wet earth. We were captured and escaped.
We played like that for hours until we got hungry. Pulling socks over wet feet and stuffing them into sneakers, we prepared to head home. I called for Duke, who had not been seen for hours, but got no answer. We started across the field, four tired, hungry children.
We had covered about half the distance when I heard the bull, and my plodding stopped with my breath. I turned slowly and there he was: big, black and glaring. His head was lowered, and he struck the earth in front of him with one large hoof. The others saw him, too. Jeff sprinted for the fence with amazing speed, but Kim and I were slower: We were pulling Donna between us, half dragging her across the ground. It seemed that the more we pulled, the longer her little arms got.
We were running for our lives; we knew it because we could hear him, snorting and coming for us. And we could feel him in the tremendous shaking of the earth under our feet. There was no doubt in my mind: We would not make it. The field was too large and we were too small. There was a roaring and a rushing sound in my ears, blood propelled by fear. I could see the fence, so close, and yet I knew the bull was closer. Jeff was already over, and I envied him. I could be safe, too, but I would have to let go of Donna’s small hand. For one second, I contemplated it, but even at eight I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt. I gripped Donna’s hand harder and threw a glance back.
That was when I tripped. My foot went into a hole and I went down, pulling Donna and Kim with me. I hit the ground and dry grass and dust went up my nose. For a moment I lay still, sensing the speed of his approach, and wondering how much time I had before he reached me. I flipped over and saw him bearing down on us like a freight train. He was only fifteen yards away; in a moment, he would trample us into the ground. I already felt the pounding of each hoof reverberate in my body. He was looming. He was large. He would hurt me. Yet I could not close my eyes.