“Okay. I think I have what I need,” I said, attaching the paper to my clipboard. “Oh, one last thing. What’s your name?”
“April. April Larkin.”
I followed April’s directions without getting lost. As I got closer to Aldercroft Heights, I could see that the homes I’d passed the day before were now gone. All that remained standing were the chimneys. As I wound up the steep hillside, my gut told me what I’d find. There was no way April’s kitten could have survived this inferno.
April had told me her house was exactly one mile up from the horseshoe curve. I watched my odometer. Eighttenths. Nine-tenths. I was getting close to the devastation. Too close. What I saw made me want to close my eyes. I stopped the van and covered my mouth with my hands.
The house was gone.
I leaned my head back against the car seat and stared at the ceiling. Tears ran down my cheeks. This was hard . . . really hard. I don’t know how long I sat there. But before I left, there was something I knew I had to do. I’d have to look for the kitten. Unfortunately, there wouldn’t be a live kitten to place in April’s arms. She had told me she’d wait at the Red Cross shelter until I returned. How could I tell her the kitten had died, much less that her whole house was gone?
I knew I didn’t want April to see whatever remained of the kitten when she returned. I had to find it and bury it. I got out of the van and forced myself forward.
Through my boots I could feel the heat from the blanket of ash as I wandered through what had once been a home. I used my shovel to poke my way through the rubble. There was so little left, a teacup handle, a twisted metal frame, a chipped ceramic vase—but no kitten. My search seemed futile.
I was on my way back to the van when I heard something. I stopped, but all I recognized was the sound of an approaching helicopter and the persistent wind. After the helicopter passed over, I remained by the van, listening. Hoping. Was it a kitten I’d heard? I suspected not. It had to have been my wish for a miracle that teased my ears.
No! I was wrong. Somewhere nearby there was a cat, crying for help.
About then the helicopter was passing overhead on its return trip to scoop more water out of Lexington Reservoir, to douse the southern flank of the fire.
“Get out of here! Move!” I screamed in frustration at the noisy ’copter. “Move!”
It seemed an eternity before it was quiet enough to be able to hear the faint meow again.
“Here, kitty kitty kitty!” I called frantically before the helicopter returned. “Please, where are you?” I moved in no specific direction, hoping to hear again the meow that would lead me to the cat.
There it was . . .
The cry for help was coming from the dried-up creek bed across the road. I dropped my shovel and ran, tripping over blackened bricks and mutilated pieces of metal. At the charred edge of the creek I stood still and listened. My heart was beating fast and my hands were shaking.
“Here, kitty kitty kitty!”
“Meoooow.”
Across the creek was the wasted remains of an aluminum ladder, lying almost submerged in ash. The sound had come from there. When I reached the ladder, I gasped. There, huddled next to the first rung, was the tiniest soot-covered kitten I’d ever seen. With the bluest of eyes, it looked up at me and meowed.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here.” I reached down and carefully picked up the kitten. Holding it in midair in front of me, I saw that her whiskers were singed and her paws burnt . . . but she was alive.
“Is your mom going to be glad to see you,” I said, as I cuddled the kitten in my arms. Several times I moved her close enough to kiss her dirty pink nose. I could feel her fur dry my tears. The kitten continued to meow, but it was a relieved meow. She knew she was safe.
When I got into the van, I grabbed an extra bandanna and poured some water on it. I laid the damp cloth across my lap and placed the kitten on it. Immediately she started to lick the bandanna, sucking up some of the moisture. It had been three days since she’d had anything to drink or eat. I waited to feed her, not sure how much I should offer her.
As we descended from the Heights, the kitten began to purr. I stroked her forehead, and tiny blotches of white fur began to appear through the black coating. She had started to groom herself but I tried to discourage her. Ingesting that much soot couldn’t be good for her. Within a few minutes, the kitten was asleep.
As I got closer to the Red Cross shelter, I began to practice how I was going to tell April about her house. How do you break that kind of news to someone?
April was waiting, as promised. As she ran to my van, I held the kitten up so she could see it, and for a while I forgot the house in Aldercroft Heights. I just wanted to savor the joy of this reunion.
“Agatha!” she screamed. “Agatha!”
April was hysterical when I handed the kitten to her through my open window. She couldn’t talk. Instead she laughed and cried, and held the kitten tightly against her chest. Agatha just purred.
As all this went on, I got out of the van and waited for the inevitable question. When April began to calm down, I decided it was time to tell her.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am that I found Agatha,” I said, then hesitated. “I just wish there might’ve been some way I could have saved your home, too.”
“It’s gone?”
I nodded. “I’m so sorry, April. There’s nothing left.” I couldn’t hold back my tears.
April Larkin freed an arm and pulled me toward her.
“You saved what was important,” she whispered. “You saved what was important.”
Her words still echo in my heart.
Terri Crisp and Samantha Glen
Pepper’s Place
Love stretches your heart and makes you big inside.
Margaret Abigail Walker
As we turned the key to open our little pet shop for the day, we heard the persistent ring of the telephone. I ran for the phone while my husband acknowledged the excited greetings from the cockatiels, canaries and puppies. It wasn’t uncommon to receive an early morning phone call, but the voice of this caller seemed different. The voice was raspy, and I detected an air of sadness. The elderly caller did not have a question, but rather a story to tell.
“You see,” the gentleman explained, “my wife and I were just sitting down to breakfast alone. We used to have a schnauzer whose name was Pepper.” The man went on to share how Pepper had been with them every morning for the past sixteen years as they ate breakfast, drank their coffee and read the morning paper. “He was a member of the family,” the man said. Pepper had been with them when their last child left home. He was there when the man’s wife became ill and was hospitalized. Pepper had always been there—until this morning.
He went on, “Time passes more quickly than we realize, and time isn’t always kind.” It happened that Pepper had developed a severe case of arthritis. They waited out the winter, they waited for spring, they waited until yesterday. Pepper was in constant pain, needed to be helped outside, and the man and his wife couldn’t watch his suffering any longer. So together, he and his wife, Ruth, and their veterinarian made the decision to “let Pepper go.”
His voice cracking, he said, “He was the best dog, and today is our first day alone, and we’re having a hard time of it.” They didn’t want another dog. No other dog could begin to replace Pepper, but they were just curious. “Do you carry schnauzer puppies? Male puppies? Salt-and-pepper male schnauzer puppies?”
I said that we did, in fact, have two male salt-and-pepper schnauzer puppies on hand. “You do?” the aged voice asked incredulously. Not that they would ever or could ever replace Pepper, and besides, “Ruth has an appointment so we won’t be coming this morning.” We said good-bye and hung up.
The shop filled with people, and soon thoughts of Pepper and his loving family were replaced with the hectic activity of attending to the customers and the attention-seeking residents of the pet shop.
We were still b
ustling about at mid-morning when two elderly gentlemen came in the door. I knew the one man instantly. His face, weathered and sad, mirrored the voice I heard that morning on the phone.
He introduced himself. “My name is Bill,” he said. “Ruth went to an appointment.” He explained that he and his neighbor had decided to go for a ride (thirty-five miles) and “just happened over this way.” They wondered if they could just take a quick look at a schnauzer puppy while they were here.
I brought out both of the puppies. They wagged their tails and wiggled their roly-poly bodies as they chased each other and tumbled over our feet. They put on their best “take-me-home” faces when Bill’s neighbor, picking them up, wondered out loud, “Bill, how could you ever pick just one?” He put them back on the floor, and we continued watching their puppy antics.
Bill seemed reluctant to pick up either of them. He finally yielded to the little one that had contentedly sprawled across his feet, chewing on his shoelaces. He picked him up with the tenderness and wonderment of a young father picking up his first child, and he cradled the puppy against his chest.
“Well,” he explained to the puppy, “I can’t take you home. Ruth would probably throw us both out.” But once in his arms, Bill couldn’t put the puppy down. We talked about the weather, his children, our children, and finally, as polite conversation does, it began to wane. There was nothing left to say, no more postponing the inevitable. Bill concentrated on the pups, saying, “Ruth isn’t going to like this. Ruth isn’t going to like this at all.”
We watched as Bill looked from puppy to puppy. At last, shaking his head, he asked with a grin, “If I take this guy home and Ruth kicks us out, would you have a doghouse for us tonight?” With his decision made, I helped Bill to the counter with his puppy, while his brother was returned to his cage to wait for another chance to be adopted.
The brother puppy had never been alone before, and he made us all painfully aware that he did not enjoy his new only-child status. Bill, standing at the counter, watching the remaining puppy expressing its displeasure, remarked, “It’s no good to be alone.”
Bill paid for his purchase, and then he and the neighbor left with the puppy affectionately secured in Bill’s arms. Smiles and back-slapping congratulations accompanied them out the door. With a warm feeling, we returned to our day’s chores, as visions of the elderly couple enjoying the new puppy danced through our minds.
Within minutes the door opened again. It was Bill, shaking his head. “We started up the road, and I just couldn’t do it. . . .” His voice trailed off. “It’s no good to be alone. Ruth’s going to be boiling mad at me, and I’m going to need that doghouse tonight for sure. But I’m going home with the brother pup, too. It’s just no good to be alone!”
The day ended as it had started, with a ringing phone. It was Bill and Ruth. They were just calling to let us know that Bill wouldn’t be needing the doghouse after all. “Well,” he said, “Ruth loves the boys and taking them both home was the best decision I’ve ever made—on my own, anyway.”
We heard from Bill and the “boys” just last month. Bill’s voice had an uplifted lilt and a smile in it. “The boys are great and are even picking up a taste for toast and eggs. You see,” he explained, “Pepper left some pretty big shoes to fill. That’s why it takes two.”
Dawn Uittenbogaard
Sparkle the Wonder Dog
I met Gene Wilder while we were making the movie Hanky-Panky together. I had been a fan of his for many years, but the first time I saw him in person, my heart fluttered— I was hooked. It felt like my life went from black and white to Technicolor. Gene was funny and athletic and handsome, and he smelled good. I was bitten with love and you can tell it in the movie. The brash and feisty comedienne everyone knew from Saturday Night Live turned into this shy, demure ingenue with knocking knees. It wasn’t good for my movie career, but it changed my life.
Up to that point, I had been a workaholic. I’d taken one job after another for over ten years. But just looking at Gene made me want to stop . . . made me want to cook . . . made me want to start a garden . . . to have a family and settle down.
But Gene was in no hurry to make a commitment. We were together on and off for the next two-and-a-half years. My new “career” became getting him to marry me.
During that time, Gene took me to France. It was a marvelous vacation and I learned to love France as much as Gene did.
But not long after our trip to France, we broke up. Gene said he was suffocating, that my needs were smothering him. I was heartsick, filled with love and with nowhere to put it. I decided to get a dog. I love dogs, but Saturday Night Live and New York City and my career weren’t conducive to having pets. My cousins in Detroit used to raise and show Yorkshire terriers, so I made a desperate call to them to help me find a dog that was female, already housebroken and small enough that I could travel with her.
They found Sparkle. Glorious Sparkle with her coal-dark eyes and gray-blond hair, and her nose like a tiny black button.
Sparkle was a perfect life-form, so little, only five pounds. I designed her haircut ‘cause I didn’t like the way Yorkies look ordinarily, so I had her clipped very short on her body and her head cut square like a little bear with Dumbo ears. I put various bows and barrettes in her hair to keep it out of her eyes, and she always seemed pleased with the process.
I became one of those people who show you endless pictures of their dog, and all the pictures look alike.
I took her on television with me when I was afraid to go alone. She was on the David Letterman show where she did a Stupid Pet Trick: she took a bow on command. She did it on camera perfectly right the first time and they did an instant replay of it.
Sparkle always went through things with me. She loved me no matter what I did. I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; they give unconditional love. For me they are the role model for being alive.
Gene and I were split up for about five weeks, and when we got back together it was under new conditions because there was Sparkle—it wasn’t just me, it was me and Sparkle.
The next summer, we went back to the south of France and took Sparkle with us. The French people love dogs. They went crazy for ours. She not only opened doors; she opened their faces and their personalities. Sparkle was allowed to go everywhere with us. She ate in the restaurants sitting on her own chair. She got a real chance to go out and see other people, and she was treated like a queen. I called it the dog’s holiday.
When we returned, I had a lot of work. But I still had plenty of time to involve Gene in endless conversations about commitment and meaningful relationships and child-rearing and meaningful relationships and commitment. He was still fighting for independence and I was all for smothering suffocation.
It wasn’t long before Gene and Sparkle and I were on our way for our holiday in France again. We were taking an early morning flight and because we had the dog, they put us in a private passenger lounge to wait. I put Sparkle down on the floor and she was running around being cute when I saw her sniffing something in a corner. When I knelt down, there were these little turquoise pellets spilling out of a box on the floor. The box clearly said RAT POISON. I gasped—I didn’t know if Sparkle had eaten a pellet or not. Gene said, “She wouldn’t eat that,” but I was frightened. What if she had eaten one?
We called the poison center and gave them the number on the box and the name of the poison. “Get her to a vet immediately,” said the voice on the other end. I just picked up Sparkle, said to Gene, “I am going to the vet, I will meet you in New York later,” kissed him good-bye and ran out. My luggage was already on the plane, which was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes.
I flagged down a limo that was just dropping somebody off. I was panicked now—the hysterical mother—screaming, “Get us to the nearest vet!”
We found Airport Cities Animal Hospital in Inglewood, and I rushed the dog in. The vet was just getting to work and putting on his coat when I ran in yelling, “
My dog ate rat poison!” I was white as a ghost but Sparkle was wagging her tail. He was a wonderful vet; I gave him the information, he called the poison center and they told him what to do. He gave Sparkle an injection that caused her to throw up a turquoise pellet—she had eaten one. If I hadn’t spotted that box, Sparkle would have gradually gotten ill and then died, and we wouldn’t have known why.
I stayed the whole day in the vet’s office holding Sparkle. The injection had made her anxious and she trembled all day. She had to go on a program of injections for two weeks, in case any pellet had dissolved and gone into her system. The vet let me take her home. I still had to take her back every day for the injections, so when Gene called me from his stopover in New York, I said to him: “You go on to France. You need the holiday and there is nothing you can do here. I’ll take care of Sparkle now and when you get back, everything will be fine.”
Gene did go, but he went thinking, Well, she has definitely grown up. I wouldn’t let him out of my sight before then, and this was me acting in a very responsible way.
When Gene came back from France, he gave me an engagement ring. Our cousin Buddy refers to it as the time when Sparkle tried to commit suicide because Gene wasn’t marrying Gilda. He believes that Sparkle’s “suicide attempt” was what turned Gene around and made him actually ask me to get married.
So you can see why I owe a great deal to that dog.
Gilda Radner
Pet Love
Animals have always been a way of life with my family. I never thought of myself as an “only child” because our pets were my playmates and confidants. I cannot remember any family high spot, or crisis, or joy, or sorrow that didn’t include whatever pets we had at the time. More than once in my life I have dried my tears on soft, silky ears! This was never more true than when my husband, Allen Ludden, died.
Life does not come equipped with an instruction manual, and neither does death. Allen and I had worked together on and off during almost eighteen years of marriage, but in our private life we were always very much a team. As well as lovers, we were each other’s critic, editor, fan and friend. While we had had two long years to get used to the idea, when he died I was shattered. My first instinct was to crawl away somewhere to mourn in private, and to some extent I suppose I did. But there were two other gentlemen in my life, my dogs, Timmy, a coal-black miniature poodle, and Sooner, a Labrador-golden retriever mix. They missed Allen, too, but were not about to let me just wither away.