Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  As soon as the rescue team picked up Adam, the old dog collapsed. A trooper carried Adam back home, while his mother, sobbing with relief, carried Brandy. She was so grateful to the old golden retriever that Brandy spent the rest of her days with them. Brandy lived to the ripe old age of seventeen.

  But this story doesn’t end with just one life saved. In Brandy’s honor, Adam’s mother, Sara Whalen, founded Pets Alive, a rescue sanctuary in New York that takes in unwanted animals, including those designated to be euthanized because they are old, blind, incontinent or perhaps not cute enough to be adopted. While she can’t save them all, Sara feels comforted that she can help at least some of them. She knows that if someone had put that old retriever to sleep, she could have easily lost the light of her life: her son.

  Today, thirty years later, there are more than three hundred animals in her care, including birds, potbellied pigs, old horses retired from the carriage business and unadoptable pets from rescue groups across the country. The woman who used to think an old, abandoned dog wasn’t any of her concern found that every life has value and has become a beacon for thousands of animals in need.

  Audrey Thomasson

  Nothing That Can’t Be Fixed

  “Oh, no! Look out!” I shouted as I watched the truck in front of me narrowly miss the little black dog on the highway. Startled, my children, ages one and two, looked at me from their car seats.

  Cringing, the dog ran away, limping on one leg. It made it to the shoulder of the road and then turned to stare hopefully at my car as I drove past. I didn’t feel that I could stop with the children in the car, but something in that earnest stance stayed with me well after the stray was out of sight.

  Stray dogs were a problem in the rural community where I lived. My husband, a veterinarian, often spoke about the plight of these forgotten animals. Most did not survive long. If they were not killed on the roadways, they died of starvation or disease.

  I kept thinking about the black dog as I drove home. Then I made a decision to do something I’d never tried before. I dropped the children off at home, asking a neighbor to watch them, then drove to my husband’s veterinary clinic. I found him inside and began to tell him about the injured dog.

  “If I can catch it, would you put it to sleep?” He didn’t seemvery pleased withmy plan, but he knew the dog was probably suffering. There were no animal shelters in our area, and we both knew there was no way for us to keep the dog—besides having two small children, we had no yard or place for a pet. My husband thought for amoment, then answered quietly that he would do what I asked.

  Armed with a blanket and some dog biscuits, I drove back along the highway. I found the dog once again on the shoulder of the road. I pulled over and parked, grabbed some biscuits and stepped out of the car. When I walked to where the dog lay, I got my first good look at just how miserable such an existence can be.

  The little black dog was painfully thin. Its hair was missing in patches and roughened, raw skin showed through the bare places. A tooth caught on an upper lip gave the dog’s face the appearance of a snarl. One eye seemed to be gone, and the dog’s leg had been injured. It was so hungry that it was gnawing on the bottom half of an old turtle shell it held between its paws.

  Kneeling down in front of it, I fed it the treats until they were gone. Then I carefully picked up the dog and set it on the blanket in my car.

  During the drive back to the veterinary clinic, I kept telling myself that what I was doing was the right thing. This animal was badly injured and starving. A quick, painless euthanasia was better than the fate that awaited it otherwise.

  I glanced down at the dog and saw it studying me. The look in that one brown eye was unnerving.

  Just don’t think about what’s ahead, I told myself.

  My husband was waiting for me when I pulled back into the parking lot. He opened the car door, picked up the dog and carried it into the clinic. Reluctantly, I followed him inside.

  Instead of taking the dog to the kennel area, he carried it into the exam room. There, he started looking over his newest patient.

  “It’s a young female, about a year and a half old. She has mange, that’s why her skin looks so bad. Probably hit by a car, but this leg’s not broken. Her jaw is fractured, though, and starting to heal itself. This eye needs some corrective surgery and the other eyelid needs to be closed . . .”

  While my husband continued to examine the black dog, she sat quietly on the table. Her gaze never left my face. Why was she staring at me? Did she understand why I had brought her to this place?

  His examination completed, my husband turned to me. He looked at me meaningfully and said, “There’s nothing here that can’t be fixed.”

  I looked once more at the dog. She was still watching me with her single brown eye. I felt heartsick about this dog’s sad life, but the decision had to be made, and I was the one who had to make it.

  It’s been twelve years since that day. I think about it often, especially on days like today when I’m sitting in the yard watching my hens peck around in the grass. My orange cat stretches lazily in a sunny spot on the patio. The summer’s last hummingbirds are fussing about the feeders.

  An old dog leans against my leg. She lays her gray muzzle, once so black and shiny, on my knee and looks up at me. I give her silky head a pat. Now I understand the expression in that solitary brown eye. And I answer her, “I love you, too, Daisy.”

  Pamela Jenkins

  Ana: From Rescued to Rescuer

  Ana’s early life was a long series of painful—and unfortunately, all-too-common—experiences. Like many golden retrievers, Ana started out as an adorable high-energy puppy, but when her energy and high prey drive began to take a destructive turn, it soon drove her human family crazy. Instead of training her, they eventually booted her out of the house to a doghouse in the backyard. This, of course, made things worse. She was the type of dog who desperately needed a job to do. Now, with even less attention and direction, Ana began to dig and bark. When she destroyed the irrigation system for the plantings in the family’s backyard, that was it! Ana was given away and soon was passed from one home to another. Fortunately, she was rescued by a responsible woman who recognized Ana’s need for a job. This special dog eventually found her way into my life, starting the train of events that would lead to the creation of one of the most successful disaster search-and-rescue training programs in the country.

  When I retired after a long career as a physical-education teacher, my husband and I moved from the suburbs of Los Angeles to a small town in the mountains of Southern California. There I decided to pursue all the interests and dreams I had put on hold during my working life. One of these was to have a highly trained dog for rescue work. I started in wilderness search and rescue, but soon decided that, given my age and personality, disaster search-and-rescue work suited me better: The search area in a disaster situation is clearly defined, the need is certain and heavy packs are not necessary.

  Immediately after the bombing in Oklahoma City, my canine partner, a black Lab named Murphy, and I were deployed there. Working at theMurrah building, I sawfirst-hand how vital search-and-rescue teams were. Unfortunately, there simply weren’t enough trained teams available. When I returned home, I decided to do something about the shortage.

  At that time search-and-rescue dogs took between three and five years to train, and the expensewas prohibitive. An idea began to percolate inmy head: if assistance dogs could be trained in nine months to a year, why couldn’t a search-and-rescue dog be trained in the same amount of time?

  I began making inquiries and eventually found a trainer who I believed could take a year-old dog and within a year turn the pup into a search-and-rescue dog. The next hurdle would be to find appropriate dogs to train. After a phone call to my friend and mentor, Bonnie, who was deeply involved in assistance dog training, the whole thing really started rolling. When I told Bonnie that I needed dogs for this new program, she said, “Oh! I think I have th
e perfect dog for you.”

  Ana had been given to Bonnie in the hope that the highly intelligent dog could be trained as an assistance dog. Bonnie knew quickly that Ana wouldn’t make a good assistance dog—she was a fast learner and had the right attitude, but wasn’t mellow enough. When I asked Bonnie where I could find dogs to train as search-and-rescue dogs, it clicked in her mind: Ana would be perfect!

  And she was.

  When I drove to Bonnie’s to pick up Ana, Bonnie led me out to a large fenced paddock where at least twenty-five golden retrievers were all playing happily together. She opened the gate and let the dogs into a big barn area where they began to run together in an enormous golden circle around the barn. I noticed that one, and only one, of the dogs had stopped to pick up a stick and now galloped merrily around us holding the stick firmly in its mouth. Bonnie smiled at me and said, “Wilma, can you pick out the dog I have in mind for you?”

  I hazarded a guess. “The one with the stick?”

  Bonnie’s jaw dropped. “That’s her!” she said. It was a lucky guess, but my stock sure went up with Bonnie that day.

  I took Ana home with me. She was a wild thing! As Ana flew around the room, leaping over the couch and the coffee table, my three sedate Labs watched her, then looked at me with expressions that said, You’ve got to be kidding. She’s going to live here?

  It took the next month for me to teach Ana basic manners. During this time I found two more goldens for the program. The three dogs started their training. Ana was superb. Everything was there: She loved to learn, and her intensity, which had spoiled her chance of success as an ordinary family pet, was one of her strongest traits. She never gave up, but would try, then try again—and keep on trying until she mastered something. When their training was complete, the dogs were ready to be matched with handlers.

  Ana was matched with Rick, a Sacramento firefighter who was one of three handlers selected by the California Governor’s Office of Emergency Services, Fire and Rescue branch. Rick was a precise man, physically quick, strong and wiry. Ana had the same agile quickness, and the trainer felt that their personalities would work well together.

  Back in Sacramento, the two learned to live with each other. Ana’s need to always have something in hermouth— dirty laundry being her item of preference—didn’t sit well with Rick, who loved neatness and order. Eventually, the two worked it out: Ana learned to restrict her “mouth item” to one of her own toys, and Rick made sure the toys were always available.

  Rick and Ana earned advanced certification from the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) within seven months—an amazing accomplishment. As the years passed, dog and handler continued their training and bonded closely as a working team.

  Rick and Ana were members of California Urban Search and Rescue Task Force 7 deployed to the World Trade Towers on September 11, 2001. Here is an excerpt of the journal Rick kept of his experiences with Ana at Ground Zero:

  Tethered to our sides as they moved through the dust and smoke twelve hours a day, the dogs were full of energy. These canines more than proved their value as a vital tool in the search efforts at Ground Zero.

  The firefighters were amazed at the canines’ skill . . . at one point, we had to walk down an I-beam that was at a steep angle. Ana had no problem. We then had to make our way across the twisted steel and metal that had once been the World Trade Towers. Ana gracefully maneuvered the twisted terrain as if it were another day in the park. I know that her trainer would have been very proud to see her student fly across the debris.

  Reading these words, it’s clear that Ana was a special gem—she only needed polishing and the right setting to shine.

  The little idea I had so many years ago has developed into a successful disaster search-and-rescue dog training foundation. Many dogs have followed the trail Ana blazed. More than sixty of them have gone through our program and have been placed with handlers all across the country, including at the Capitol in Washington, D.C., and in Mexico as well.

  Many, like Ana, who were doomed to unhappy lives or worse, have instead gone on to become an invaluable resource to their communities and to the nation. The rescued have indeed become the rescuers.

  Wilma Melville

  Scouting Out a Home

  We didn’t have the space or the energy to take in any more animals. Richard and I and our three dogs and three cats were already cramped in our small, rented home. The last year had brought the deaths of my father and grandmother, a move to a new city, the start of my career as a veterinarian, the purchase of our first house and plans for our wedding. I was exhausted and emotionally drained, which explains how Annie ended up at the shelter that first day.

  Richard, a park-service employee, arrived at work to find two dogs—a young golden retriever and a small, black terrier—gallivanting around outside the old house in the woods that served as his office. Both dogs were very friendly, readily coming to him for an ear rub and a check of their collars. They didn’t have any kind of identification, so Richard decided to give them a little time to see if they would head home on their own. For several hours he kept an eye on them through his window, but they showed no inclination to leave. The dogs could only get into trouble if they hung around for much longer, so Richard brought them into his office and called me at the veterinary clinic.

  “Hi, honey, we’ve got a situation here.” Richard went on to explain.

  At the other end of the line, I groaned. “Look,” I said. “The kennel is completely filled with patients and boarders, and we’re still having trouble finding homes for our available adoptees. My boss will kill me if I let you bring them here, and you know that we can’t handle any more dogs at home.”

  “Well, what do you think I should do?”

  “The best place for them is probably the shelter,” I replied, feeling a little frazzled. “If their owners want them back, that would be the first place they’d look.”

  Richard could tell I was in no mood for an argument and agreed to make the call to animal control. The officer told him that it would be afternoon before she could pick up the dogs. Several hours and a shared lunch later, Richard shepherded them out of his office and reluctantly handed them over.

  That evening over dinner our conversation centered around the two dogs. Richard had grown attached to them in the short period of time that they had spent at his office. I was beginning to feel a little guilty for not trying harder to find a way to fit them in at the clinic. We concluded that we had probably done the right thing under the circumstances but hated to think aboutwhat the future could hold for the two good-natured dogs.

  A week later I was wrapping up the morning appointments at the clinic when the receptionist called to the back, “Dr. Coates, there are two dogs waiting at the front door.”

  I sighed. Walk-in appointments at one o’clock. There goes my lunch break.

  “Okay, Royann, please put them in room one and tell the owners that I’ll be right in.”

  “No, Dr. C, you don’t understand. It’s just two dogs, no people, and now they’re starting to head for the road.”

  “Go get them,” I shrieked through the intercom as we all went running for the front door. The clinic is situated on a busy four-lane road that has been responsible for many of our trauma patients. Thankfully, before I could even make it past the reception area, Royann was steering the dogs through the front door. I stopped short. Before me was a golden retriever and a slightly scruffy black terrier.

  “I may be crazy,” I said “but I think these are the dogs that were at Richard’s office last week.” The clinic staff was aware of the story, and looks of disbelief passed all around. If these were the same dogs, what had happened to them at the shelter? I guessed that they had somehow escaped. But what were the chances that they could have found both Richard and me, in a town of thirty-four thousand people, when our offices are separated by five miles?

  Needing to know if these were the same two dogs, I brought them home with me after
work. As I pulled to a stop in the driveway, my own three dogs, Owen, Duncan and Boomer, sensed that I was not alone in the truck. The sounds of five dogs barking brought Richard to the kitchen door.

  “Hey, babe,” I hollered over the din. “I’ve got some folks here I think you might know.”

  He made his way to the back of the truck and peered through the fogged-up window of the shell. “What? How?” His stunned expression gave me my answer.

  We let them out of the truck to investigate their new surroundings, and they scampered around the yard, tails wagging. I smiled with relief thinking how lucky they had been to escape harm during their recent escapades. The circumstances were too eerie to ignore, and Richard and I decided that they could stay with us until we figured out a long-term solution.

  The next morning I left for work with the newcomers still in the fenced yard. Our three dogs stared forlornly out of the front windows of the house as I drove away. I promised to come back at lunch for some supervised introductions and play.

  Returning home a few hours later, I could hear dogs barking but was a little surprised when nobody greeted me at the gate. As I pulled up to the kitchen door, I could hear that all the noise was coming from inside the house. A search of the yard proved that the gates were just as I had left them—the two dogs must have gone over the fence. My heart sank as I realized that they had vanished. We had been given a second chance to help, but now that opportunity was gone along with the dogs.

  Several weeks passed, during which time we started moving to the farm that we had recently purchased in a nearby town. All our free time was spent traveling between the two houses to renovate and clean. Memories of the two itinerant dogs were beginning to fade, and I no longer expected to see them around every corner.

  One Saturday morning, I began to pull away from the housewith a load of boxes and furniture. I stopped the van at the base of the driveway and glanced to the left to check for traffic. In the distance I could just make out a small black dog trotting purposefully down the side of the road. Not wanting to get my hopes up, I slowly got out of the van for a closer look. As she got nearer, she picked up speed and ran to a stop in front ofme. Jumping up, she put her front feet on my thighs and gave me a look as if to say, I choose you. This amazing little dog had somehow made her way back to us for the third time, and I was elated! But where was her friend? The two had been through somuch together; I couldn’t imagine that anything but the worst would have caused their separation.