As I continued the exam, he told me how he stumbled upon Dog’s high intelligence when he started teaching her simple tasks. He taught her these mainly in case of an emergency since he had heart and other health problems. He noticed how quickly she caught on and began teaching her more tricks. Her most famous were counting and solving math problems. They started “showing off” for family and friends, then Mr. Evans began taking her to nursing homes, schools and other small groups to perform.
“The people seem to enjoy it,” he said. “Everyone’s always asking how she does it. I tell them I don’t know, she hasn’t told me yet,” he laughed. “Maybe she can read my mind. I don’t know . . . but she gets the answers wrong when I’m not concentrating.”
When he first started telling me all this, I thought, Yeah, yeah, everybody thinks their dog is a genius. But I could now tell by the way his eyes lit up, and how Dog never took hers off him, that he wasn’t boasting, but doing what he always did: sharing this special animal and her stories with others. He sensed that I was genuinely interested and told me he would bring a video of her next time. He readily agreed to my recommended preanesthetic blood testing and treatment of the ears.
Mr. Evans brought me the videotape the next time he brought Dog in, which was for her annual visit. Later that day, a few members of the staff and I watched it. Although it wasn’t the best-quality tape, two things were evident: how much the small audiences enjoyed the performance and how Dog never took her eyes off her partner. Was she reading his mind? Or was she so adept at reading his body language that she was picking up on some subconscious cue he was giving her, something he didn’t even know he was doing—and isn’t that almost the same thing? However they did it, it was a result of both of them being completely in tune with and trusting each other.
Several months later, they were back in my exam room, both a little feebler. Mr. Evans wanted me to check those ears again. He thought she might be losing her hearing. She was also having some trouble getting around. “But so am I,” he chuckled as I carefully checked her over. Her ears were fine—just some wax, no infection—but her hips were arthritic.
The next time I saw them, Dog had to be carried into the exam room. Two years had passed since our first meeting. She was now thirteen and he was eighty-six. I dreaded this exam.
Before I even started, Mr. Evans looked straight at me with moist eyes and said, “Now, she’s been too good to me for me to let her suffer. I would never let her down like that.”
With that, I went on quietly with my exam. She was so weak. Laboring to breathe, her heartbeat was muffled and her eyes were dim. He agreed to leave her overnight so we could do more tests. He wanted to take the time to find out everything, but didn’t want to allow her to be uncomfortable any longer if nothing could be done. I said I understood.
X-rays, EKG and blood work confirmed congestive heart failure, which had also caused liver disease. After treating her with heart medication, she was breathing a little easier and able to eat and drink. Something told me, though, that she was just holding on—holding on for him . . . for now. I prayed that she wouldn’t die, not that night, not without him beside her.
I held my breath that morning as I entered the treatment room, trying to read my staff members’ faces for the answer to the questions I didn’t want to ask: How was Dog? Had she made it through the night? She was alive, but very weak. I had to call Mr. Evans. He seemed to already know what I had to report.
Mr. Evans patted her head as I injected the bright-pink liquid, tears streaming down my face, my hands shaking. I glanced at my assistant, hoping to find a steady face. No luck. Her eyes were pools of water. Dog’s leg, my hands, the syringe were now nothing but a blur. She took one last, deep, long breath.
Mr. Evans’s son John carried out the large box. For the first time, James Evans looked old to me. I wondered how he would be without her.
Later that afternoon, John Evans called to let us know that his father had passed away—he had suffered a heart attack while Dog’s grave was being dug. I couldn’t believe the pain that hit my own heart. I don’t know how long I stood, stunned, before taking another breath.
I felt responsible. I had ended Dog’s life, and because of that, Mr. Evans’s life had ended, too. But then I realized they wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The family knew this, too. They had Dog’s body exhumed and cremated. And they placed her ashes with her best friend.
I am grateful to Dog and Mr. Evans. They did more for me as a vet than I did for them. For at those times when I feel discouraged, dealing with the aftermath of a person’s neglect of a pet, I remember Dog and Mr. Evans, and my confidence in the bond is restored.
Andrea B. Redd, D.V.M.
3
ON COURAGE
Even the tiniest poodle or Chihuahua is still a wolf at heart.
Dorothy Hinshaw Patent
Calvin: A Dog with a Big Heart
Blinded in a Nazi concentration camp at the age of twenty-one, I arrived in America with my wife in 1951. We worked and raised two sons; now, at eighty-two, I have five grandchildren. For most of those years, I depended on a white cane as my mobility aid. I envied my blind friends who had guide dogs—they had so much more freedom of mobility than I did. My problem, although I was reluctant to admit it, was that I had a fear of getting too close to dogs.
In spite of my fear, the day I retired I decided to apply for a guide dog at the Guiding Eyes for the Blind Guide Dog School. I so wanted the freedom a dog could give me, I had to make the attempt.
When I arrived, Charlie, the training supervisor, had a few cheerful welcoming words for the twelve of us beginning the May 1990 class. After the welcoming ceremonies, I took Charlie aside and said, “I would like to have a guide dog, but because of my negative experiences with dogs, I am not sure I could ever bond with one.” Charlie, curious, asked me if I minded telling him about my negative experiences.
“I am a Holocaust survivor. In one of theNazi concentration camps I was in,” I explained, “the commandant had a big, vicious German shepherd. Sometimes when he entertained guests and wanted to show how cruel he could be, or how vicious his dog was—or both—he told a guard to bring a group of prisoners into his courtyard. Once, before I was blinded, I was in that group. I watched as he chose one of us to stand apart. Then he gave the dog the command, ‘Fass!’ meaning, ‘Fetch!’ With one leap, the dog grabbed the victim by the throat. In a few minutes, that man was dead. The dog returned to his master for his praise and reward, and the audience applauded the dog for a job well done. More than four decades later, nightmares about this still torment me,” I confided to Charlie.
After a moment of reflection, Charlie said, “No human being is born evil; some become evil. No dog is born vicious; some are trained to be vicious. Give us a chance to prove to you that the dogs we train and the one you get will guide you safely, love you and protect you.”
His words strengthened my resolve. I was determined, I told Charlie, to give myself a chance. Should I fail, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. Charlie called a meeting of his staff to reexaminemy file and decided Calvin would be the right match for me. Calvin was a two-year-old, eighty-pound chocolate Lab. Following our four-week training period, I went home with Calvin and found myself struggling to forge a bond with him. I was in the process of learning to love him, and although I understood the helpful role Calvin was to play in my life, I was still cautious around him, never fully relaxing and accepting him. This struggle affected Calvin as well. During this period, Calvin ate, but lost weight, and the vet told me it was because the dog could sense my emotional distance. I often recalled Charlie’s words: “No human being is born evil, and no dog is born vicious. . . .” My instructor called me several times, offering advice and giving me encouragement.
Slowly but surely, Calvin and I began to break down the invisible barrier between us. Finally, after about six months—twice as long as the average human/guide dog team—I began to trust Calvin more fully.
I went with him anywhere I needed to go and did so with confidence.
Any lingering doubts I had about Calvin were dispelled one day as we stood at a busy intersection, waiting to cross the street. As we had been trained, when I heard parallel traffic start tomove, I waited three seconds, then gave the command, “Calvin, forward.”When we stepped off the curb, a motorist suddenly and unexpectedly made a sharp right turn, directly in front of us. Calvin stopped on a dime, slamming on the brakes! He had reacted exactly as he had been trained to react in such a situation. Realizing that he had saved us both fromserious injury, I stepped back onto the sidewalk, crouched down, gave Calvin a hug around the neck and praised him for a job well done.
It was the turning point in our life together. After that, the love between us flowed freely and Calvin blossomed.
Out of harness, Calvin became as playful and mischievous as any other dog. When my granddaughter Hannah, a one-year-old just starting to get steady on her feet, came to visit, Calvin let her painstakingly position herself to grab his silky ear. Then he moved deftly to the side, his tail wagging a mile a minute, as Hannah reached in vain for him. Calvin’s game made Hannah squeal with delight.
Calvin also formed a loving relationship with my wife, Barbara. She was coping with several chronic physical conditions and was homebound, and they became inseparable pals and playmates. At her periodic visit to the doctor, he noticed that her blood pressure was lower than it had been for a long time. Barbara asked the doctor if Calvin’s companionship could have anything to do with her lowered blood pressure. “Most unlikely,” he replied. “I’ll change your prescription, though, since your blood pressure is better. Come back in two months.” The blood pressure stayed down. The doctor, although unconvinced, grudgingly accepted that Calvin’s companionship might have had a favorable effect. Barbara and I had no doubt. The facts spoke for themselves.
Time and time again, Calvin proved he had a big heart, big enough for Barbara and me: He not only gave me the extra measure of independent and safe travel I had craved for many years, he also became a beloved member of the family.
Yes, Charlie, you were right. “Give us a chance,” you said. “Your dog will love you, guide you, protect you.” Calvin did all that and then some.
Max Edelman
Fate, Courage and a Dog Named Tess
What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
Dwight D. Eisenhower
I had just picked up my young niece Hannah from school when I first saw the confused dog darting in and out of traffic at a busy intersection. She was a lanky German shepherd, and I cringed as I watched several cars swerve or stop to avoid hitting her. She appeared to be lost, and Hannah immediately began begging me to intervene. I resisted. I was in a hurry to get home to cook dinner for Hannah and her parents and brother. I had a schedule to maintain, and right then, helping a stray dog was the last thing I wanted to do.
However, as soon as I was able to, I turned around. As we approached the intersection from the opposite direction, we saw her again. She had moved out of the street and was now making friendly advances to everyone walking by, only to be ignored or shooed away by people in a hurry to get home at the end of their workday. With a hopeless sigh, I pulled over and parked my car.
“Okay, Hannah,” I said. “This is what we’ll do. I’ll open the car door and give her one chance to get in, but if she doesn’t, we’re going home. I won’t try to force her.”
I got out, opened the door and made a halfhearted call to a pup more than fifty feet away. At the sound of my voice, she pricked her ears, looked directly at me and came running in our direction. In an instant she was in the car, wagging her tail and showering us with doggy kisses as if she’d known us forever. I couldn’t help but laugh. What a sweet dog! And miracle of miracles, she was wearing a chain collar that I hadn’t noticed before. Even though she didn’t have a name tag, surely someone was missing her. A phone call or two, and with any luck, I’d be able to return her to her family. This might not be so bad after all. I took her home firmly believing she would soon be out of my life.
A week later, after running ads in the paper and making repeated phone calls to the local Humane Society and rabies control, I finally resigned myself to the hard reality that whoever had placed the collar around her neck didn’t want her back. I lived in a small house and already had two dogs, so keeping her wasn’t an option. I decided I would find her a home where she would be cared for and appreciated by a loving family. My first step was to make an appointment with my vet, who pronounced her in perfect health, although obviously underweight. I named her Tess and began to teach her about in-house living, knowing she needed some better manners to increase her appeal.
With lots of food and grooming, she filled out and her scruffy coat began to glisten. She thrived under all the attention. Within six weeks she was completely housebroken and beautiful. I wrote a story about her and convinced the editor of our local paper to run it in the weekend edition. The story was typed and ready to be dropped off at the newspaper office the next day, and I felt certain we were spending one of our last evenings together.
Just as I was getting ready for bed, the doorbell rang, and because it was late, I answered wearing pajamas, thinking it was probably a neighbor wanting to borrow something. Instead, much to my dismay, an unkempt man stood before me, asking to use my phone. No way I wanted this guy in my house, but I offered to make a call for him if he would supply the number. Without another word, he opened the storm door and pushed his way into my living room. My mind raced. Why in God’s name hadn’t I checked to see who it was before opening the door? My two dogs—an English springer spaniel and a shih tzu—and Tess, all stopped their effusive greetings, sensing, as I did, that this guy was trouble. The three of them looked at him, then looked to me for some sign that things were okay.
But things were definitely not okay. I was too terrified to speak or move. I stood frozen, waiting, trapped in a dangerous situation from which I feared there was no escape.
Suddenly, the German shepherd I had taken in to save from a life on the streets stepped between me and this stranger who threateningly stood before us. Tess was only eight or nine months old, big, but still very much a pup, and yet, there she was, head down, hackles raised, emitting a low-pitched, menacing growl as she glared at the intruder. For maybe five long seconds we all stood there, motionless. Then, very slowly, the man took one backward step. He raised his hand slightly as he implored me to hold my dog, and he carefully backed out of my house and down the walk.
At last, finally able to move, I shut the door, locked it and turned to hug my friend, the stray dog I had rescued—and who, now, had rescued me. Magically, with the danger gone, she transformed herself back into the wiggling, tail-wagging, pain-in-the-neck pup I had come to know. The next morning I called and canceled the appointment I had to drop off the story about her. Tess didn’t need a home; she already had one. Two dogs had become three, but the lack of space didn’t seem nearly as important as it had before.
Since that night Tess has never once growled or shown the least bit of hostility to any other human being, and, although her muzzle is now graying, she still often acts like the pup who, without hesitation, bounded into my car—and my life—eleven years ago. I have learned a lot from Tess, especially on that memorable night when she taught me about fate and courage. But most important, she showed me how a random act of kindness can bring blessings to your life.
Susanne Fogle
In Her Golden Eyes
An animal’s eyes have the power to speak a great language.
Martin Buber
My six-year-old daughter, Mariah, held on to my hand as we walked through the animal shelter. We wanted to pick just the right puppy for her sister Vanessa’s twelfth birthday. I scanned each cage, noticing all the pairs of needy brown eyes staring back at us. It was neediness for love and a happy home—things the girls and I also hungered
for since their father and I had divorced.
“Here are our newest arrivals,” the volunteer said. He led us to a cage where three puppies were sleeping. They were the size of small bear cubs with beautiful fur.
“What kind are they?” I asked, stooping down to take a closer look.
“They’re chow mixes,” the boy said. “I’ve never seen such awesome-looking dogs.”
My heart quickened as the pup in the middle suddenly yawned and looked up at us. She was breathtaking, with oversized paws and silvery-black wolf markings on her face. Most of all, it was her eyes that struck me. They were so gentle and sweet. As golden as her fur. Something told me that she was the one.
As long as I live, I’ll never forget Vanessa’s face when we surprised her with her new companion. It almost made the pain of the last several months disappear.
“I’m going to name her Cheyenne,” Vanessa beamed.
In the coming days, Cheyenne accomplished exactly what I was hoping for. Instead of the children feeling homesick for the life we’d lost, they spent time playing with their new puppy. Instead of feeling depressed over missing their daddy, they romped and laughed for hours. It gave me hope that they would make this very difficult transition a bit better—if only something would help me do the same.
It was on a late April afternoon that things took a horrible turn. The girls were in the backyard playing with Cheyenne while I went to the store. When I got back home and pulled into the driveway, a pickup truck came speeding down our street. I got out of my car, keys in hand, and saw that Cheyenne had gotten loose. She ran past me in a blur.
“Cheyenne!” I called out. “No! Get back here!” But it was too late. She chased after the truck, caught up to the front tires, and was flipped in the air before landing with a thud on the side of the road.
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Page 10
