“It’s okay, I’ve got ya, you’re safe,” I said, cuddling them in my arms. Apparently a wild raccoon, defending its territory, had attacked Clyde. He had a bloody shoulder that didn’t appear serious; Bonnie was fine.
July gave way to August, and August to September. Soon the days were getting shorter, and the raccoons were six-pound butterballs. I was fascinated by their creativity and intelligence. One evening after I banged their food bowls together, there was no reply. When I reported anxiously at the breakfast table that they hadn’t come in the night before, Daniel laughed at my concern.
“Now we’ll see if you’re as good a teacher as a mother raccoon.”
“I already know the answer,” I said. “By the way, what time did you get in last night?”
“About midnight,” he answered.
“Your eyes say later.”
“I’m not a baby anymore,” he shot back.
Outside, I beckoned the raccoons again, and this time they reported: effervescent Bonnie in a flat-out sprint, Clyde in a tagalong amble.
Near the end of September they were missing a week, and I suggested to Shirley that they were probably gone for good.
“You know it’s a mistake trying to hold on to anything that no longer needs you,” she counseled.
“Who’s holding on?” I protested. But when I continued scanning the woods, hoping to catch sight of them, I knew she was right. Reluctantly, I dismantled their pen, stored their bowls and put them out of my mind. Or tried to. But they had got more of a hold on my heart than I ever thought possible. What I had considered a nuisance had, in fact, been a gift; what I had labeled a burden, a blessing. Why is it, I asked myself, that with so many people and things, we only appreciate them fully after they’re gone?
One Saturday near the end of October, Shirley, Daniel and I were in the back yard raking leaves when I spotted a ringed tail beyond the gate that opens to the woods. “Look, Shirley,” I whispered. And though I had no idea if it was one of ours, I called, “Bonnie . . . Clyde.”
The magnificently marked animal rose on its hind legs and looked us over inquisitively. For a frozen moment, we faced off, statue-like. Then I called again, and the animal moved in our direction. It was Bonnie, and we went to meet her. Kneeling, I held out my hand, which she licked while I rubbed her neck. She purred her most satisfied rrrit, rrrit, rrrit.
“Go get a banana for her,” I suggested to Daniel.
“No, it’s time she made it on her own,” he replied firmly. “She’s a big girl now. Don’t do anything for her that she can do for herself.”
I looked at Shirley and winked. Tall, broad-shouldered Daniel wasn’t talking raccoons. He was talking parents. The object is to take care of them until they can take care of themselves, a haunting voice echoed. It was time to let go.
After rubbing Bonnie’s neck one last time, I stepped back. She sensed my release and bounded off joyfully in the direction from which she had come.
“Have a good life,” I called after her. Then she dipped behind a tree and was gone.
Fred Bauer
Things We Can Learn from a Dog
1. Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joy ride.
2. Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
3. When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
4. When it’s in your best interest, always practice obedience.
5. Let others know when they’ve invaded your territory.
6. Take naps and always stretch before rising.
7. Run, romp and play daily.
8. Eat with gusto and enthusiasm.
9. Be loyal.
10. Never pretend to be something you’re not.
11. If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
12. When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle them gently.
13. Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
14. Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
15. Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
16. On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
17. When you are happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
18. No matter how often you are criticized, don’t buy into the guilt thing and pout. Run right back and make friends.
Joy Nordquist
“You have just one more wish.
Are you sure you want another belly-rub?”
Reprinted with permission from Vahan Shirvanian.
Birds, Bees and Guppies
The sex education of a child is pretty important. None of us wants to blow it.
I have a horror of ending up like the woman in the old joke who was asked by her child where he came from and, after she explained all the technical processes in a well-chosen vocabulary, he looked at her intently and said, “I just wondered. Mike came from Hartford, Connecticut.”
I figured I had the problem whipped the day my son took an interest in fish. What better way to explain the beautiful reproduction cycle of life than through the animal kingdom? We bought two pairs of guppies and a small aquarium. That was our first mistake. We should either have bought four males and a small aquarium, four females and a small aquarium or two pairs and a reservoir. I had heard of population explosions before, but this was ridiculous! The breakfast conversation ran something like this:
“What’s new at Peyton Place by the Sea?” inquired my husband.
“Mrs. Guppy is e-n-c-e-i-n-t-e again,” I’d spell.
“Put a little salt in the water. That’ll cure anything,” he mumbled.
“Daddy,” said my son, “that means she’s pregnant.”
“Again!” choked Daddy. “Can’t we organize an intramural volleyball game in there or something?”
The first aquarium begat a second aquarium, with no relief in sight. “Are you getting anything out of your experiences with guppies?” I asked delicately one afternoon.
“Oh, yeah, they’re neat,” my son exclaimed enthusiastically.
“I mean, now that you’ve watched the male and the female, do you understand the processes that go into the offspring? Have you noticed the role of the mother in all this?”
“Yeah,” he said, bright-eyed. “You oughta see her eat her babies.”
We added a third aquarium, which was promptly filled with saltwater and three pairs of seahorses.
“Now I want you to pay special attention to the female,” I instructed. “The chances are it won’t take her long to be with child, and perhaps you can even see the birth.”
“The female doesn’t give birth, Mom,” he explained. “The male seahorse gives birth.”
I felt myself smiling, perhaps anticipating a trend. “Ridiculous,” I said. “Females always give birth.”
The male began to take on weight. I thought I saw his ankles swell. He became a mother on the twenty-third of the month.
“That’s pretty interesting,” said my son. “I hope I’m not a mother when I grow up, but if I am, I hope my kids are born on land.”
I had blown it. I knew I would.
Erma Bombeck
©Newsday, Inc., 1966
The Star of the Rodeo
As a very young child in Niagara Falls, New York, I was in and out of the hospital with serious asthma attacks. When I was six years old, the doctors told my parents that if they did not take me to a better climate, I would certainly die. And so my family moved to a tiny town high up in the mountains outside Denver. It was beautiful, but very remote. In the late ’50s, there were far more animals than people in Conifer, Colorado.
We kids were in heaven. My older brother, Dan, and I would pack food and sleeping bags, take two horses and our dog, and go camping for the weekend in the wilderness around our home. We saw a lot of wildlife on our trips— including bears, bobcats and even a few elusive mountain lions. We learned to be silent and observe the life around us with respect. One time, I remember waking up and looking straigh
t into the enormous nose of an elk. I lay perfectly still until the elk moved on. Blending with our surroundings, riding our horses for days at a time, we considered ourselves real mountain men. My parents knew that as long as the dog and the horses were with us, we would be safe and always find our way home.
I remember that Dan, three years older and stronger, always beat me at everything. It became a burning passion with me to win. I wanted so badly to be the star for a change.
When I was eight, Dad brought home a horse named Chubby. Chubby’s owner had suffered a heart attack and was told to stop riding. The owner thought that we would give Chubby a good home, so he gave the sixteen-year-old gelding to my parents for free.
Chubby, a smallish, charcoal-gray horse, had been a tri-state rodeo champion in roping and bulldogging. Strong, intelligent and responsive, he had tremendous spirit, and my whole family loved him. Dan, of course, got first pick of the horses, so I was left with a slower, lazier horse named Stormy. Chubby was probably too much horse for a boy of eight anyway, but I envied my brother and wished fervently that Chubby were my horse.
In those days, my brother and I entered 4-H Club gymkhanas with our horses every year. The year I was nine, I practiced the barrel race over and over in preparation for that year’s competition. But Stormy was a plodding horse and even while I practiced, I knew it was a lost cause. It was the deep passion to win that kept me at it— urging Stormy on, learning the moves for getting around the barrels and back to the finish line.
On the day of the gymkhana, my older brother stunned me by offering to let me ride Chubby in the barrel race. I was beside myself with excitement and joy. Maybe this time, I could finally win.
When I mounted Chubby, I sensed immediately that I was in for a completely different barrel race. With Stormy, it was always a struggle to get her moving from a standing position, and then a chore to keep her going. As we waited for the start signal that day, Chubby was prancing in place, alert and obviously eager to be running. When the signal came, Chubby was off like a rocket before I could react, and it was all I could do to hold on. We were around those barrels and back at the finish line in seconds. My adrenaline was still pumping as I slid off the horse and was surrounded by my cheering family. I won that blue ribbon by a mile and then some.
That night I went to bed worn out with the excitement and glory of it all. But as I lay there, I found myself feeling uneasy. What had I really done to earn that first place? All I could come up with was that I’d managed not to fall off and humiliate myself or Chubby. It was the horse that had won the blue ribbon, not me. I looked at the ribbon pinned to my lampshade and suddenly felt ashamed.
The next morning, I woke early. I got out of bed, dressed quickly and crept out of the house toward the barn. I pinned the blue ribbon on the wall of Chubby’s stall and stood rubbing his neck, feeling him lip my pockets, looking for the sugar cubes he loved so much. Then it hit me: this horse didn’t care about ribbons, blue or otherwise. He preferred something he could eat. Chubby had run that way yesterday, not to win, but simply because he loved to run. He truly enjoyed the challenge and the fun of the game.
With a new respect, I got a bucket of rolled oats, his favorite grain, and let him eat it while I got out the currycomb and gave him a thorough brushing. This horse had given me my blue ribbon, but more important, Chubby had shown me what it means to give yourself to what you do with your entire mind, body and soul.
My heart light once more, I vowed that for the rest of his days, I was going to make sure Chubby got his reward in horse currency: grain, sugar, brushing, the chance to run—and lots of love.
Larry Paul Kline
Life Lessons from Lovebirds
Recently, my husband and I were walking through a local mall near closing time, when we decided to stop and take a look around the pet store. As we made our way past the cages of poodles and Pomeranians, tabby cats and turtles, our eyes caught sight of something that immediately charmed us: a pair of peach-faced lovebirds. Unlike many other lovebirds we encountered there, this particular pair looked truly “in love.” In fact, they snuggled and cuddled next to each other the whole time we watched them. Throughout the next few days, my mind returned to the image of those two delightful birds. I admired their devotion, and felt their very presence inspiring.
Apparently, these birds had the same effect on my husband, because he showed up late from work one night shortly thereafter, clutching an elegant birdcage that housed those two precious creatures, and introduced them as new additions to the family. For days we wrestled with names of well-known couples, coming up with everything from Ricky and Lucy and George and Gracie to Wilma and Fred. But finally we decided on Ozzie and Harriet—a gentle reminder of a simpler day when love and togetherness between couples were not only a commitment, but a way of life.
And so it is with this in mind that I have watched these lovebirds and made the following observations about life and love:
1. If you spend too much time looking in the mirror, it’s easy to lose your balance.
2. Always keep a pleasant look on your face, even if your cage needs cleaning.
3. If your mate wants to share your perch with you, move over.
4. The real treats in life usually come only after you’ve cracked a few hulls.
5. It takes two to snuggle.
6. Sometimes your mate can see mites you didn’t even know you had.
7. Singing draws more affection than squawking.
8. It is only when your feathers get ruffled that your true colors really show.
9. Too many toys can be distracting.
10. When you have love in your heart, everyone around you will find joy in your presence.
Vickie Lynne Agee
3
PETS AS
HEALERS
There is no psychiatrist
in the world
like a puppy
licking your face.
Bern Williams
Cheyenne
“Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!” my father yelled at me. “Can’t you do anything right?” Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle.
“I saw the car, Dad. Please don’t yell at me when I’m driving.” My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn’t lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn’t do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seeme
d nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out onDick.We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was “God.” Although I believed a Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human beings on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn’t answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, “I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.” I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs—all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons— too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.