As summer veered toward autumn, Herc became Andy’s near constant companion. Often, when Andy went out on his bicycle, Herc rode with him, sometimes wrapped around the handlebars, other times tucked into Andy’s drawstring snake bag.
Seventh grade is a tough year for kids, and for shy, insecure Andy, starting junior high could have been a nightmare. But now there was a difference.
The lonely boy of a year ago smiled now. He held his head high and stepped confidently into the crowded school hall, knowing that the other kids whispered of him, “He’s the guy with the snakes.”
I remembered what Andy’s teacher had told us on the last day of grade school: “Hercules has given Andy value in his own eyes. For the first time he has something no one else has—something others admire. That’s a new feeling for Andy. A good feeling.”
The snakes were a regular part of all of our lives now. When Hercules disappeared from the bathroom one day, after Andy had let him out to exercise, the whole family pitched in for the snake hunt. We found him in the closet, wrapped cozily around one of Andy’s sneakers.
And we all watched, fascinated, when Hercules shed his skin, slithering out with a smooth, fluid motion to leave behind the old skin perfectly intact, while his new scales glowed with youth and promise. Carefully, Andy collected the old skin and placed it in the shoebox where he kept his valuables.
We never learned what sent Hercules into convulsions that spring. As far as we could tell, nothing had changed in his environment. But one Friday afternoon, Andy ran to me screaming, “Hurry! Something’s wrong with Herc!”
Mabel and Sam lay quietly curled in their corner of the aquarium. But Hercules writhed and jumped. His tongue flailed the air wildly.
I grabbed my car keys while Andy wrestled Hercules into the snake bag.
Our veterinarian injected some cortisone, and it seemed to work. Gradually Hercules grew calmer.
Andy gently stroked his snake, and slowly Hercules reached up and flicked Andy’s cheek with his tongue. He flowed again into a graceful loop around Andy’s neck.
For several weeks thereafter, Hercules seemed fine.
But then the convulsions returned, and we raced to the vet for another shot of cortisone. Once again, Hercules recovered.
But the third time was too much. Although the cortisone quieted the massive convulsion, it was apparent as we drove home that Hercules was dying. His long, lean body lay limp in Andy’s lap. His scales, instead of catching the light, were clouded and gray.
He tried to lift his head as Andy stroked his back, but the effort was more than he could manage. His tongue flickered once, weakly, like a candle flame about to go out. And then he was still.
Tears rolled silently down Andy’s cheeks. And mine.
It would be another year before Andy blossomed, seemingly overnight, into the six feet of linebacker’s build that would carry him through high school. He went on to college, made good grades and, later, earned an M.B.A.
Andy never did raise baby boas, but Mabel and Sam stayed with us all through high school, bequeathed, at the end, to Andy’s biology class. They never took the place of Hercules, though.
In Andy’s top drawer, there is still a dried snakeskin. Before he left for college I suggested it might be time to throw it out.
Andy looked at me in horror. “Don’t you dare!”
He touched the skin gently. “Ol’ Herc . . . he was sure one splendid snake, wasn’t he?”
Yes, he was. He gave a shy, lonely boy the first intimation of all he was—and all he could be.
Barbara Bartocci
Angie’s Dog Always
The mountain folk didn’t know what to make of Dr.
Gaine Cannon at first. All they had heard was that the stranger had left a good practice in another state because he wanted to come up to an isolated community here in the North Carolina mountains and build a hospital. They were used to traveling twenty-five miles over one-lane dirt roads to the nearest clinic at Brevard. But only if it was urgent, because even if they could get there in time, the cost was out of the question for families living on three or four thousand dollars a year, like most did way back in the coves and hollows.
Cannon knew all that when he moved up to Balsam Grove, but he was of mountain stock himself and he cared about these people. Today, bouncing along in his black Jeep over the gravel road on his way home from his last call, he flicked on his windshield wipers as snow started to fall from a darkening sky. He was glad he had no more calls to make that day.
Walls were already raised for the Albert Schweitzer Memorial Hospital. Dr. Cannon had become fast friends with the great doctor during the summer he spent working with him at his hospital in Africa. The inspiration of Dr. Schweitzer kindled Cannon’s desire for a similar ministry to the people of Appalachia. He didn’t worry about his patients not having money to pay. He asked them to bring river stones for the walls of the hospital, or whatever they had—a home-cured ham from their smokehouse, or some fresh vegetables.
Now, the snow was falling faster. An old man walking beside the road raised one gnarled, arthritic hand to hail him, and Cannon slowed the Jeep.
“Evenin,’ Doc. Did you know Annie Neal’s little Angie is bad sick?”
“No, I didn’t, Rufus.”
“Yep. I jest heard it at the store.”
“Well, why in heaven didn’t her daddy come for me, then?”
“He’s up takin’ care of his Ma in Boswell this week. Think you could get over to see Angie, Doc?”
“I’ll give it a try. But if this snow gets much heavier, I can’t promise I’ll even see the turnoff to get up to their cabin.”
Doc Cannon turned the Jeep around and headed back into the mountains. He wished the Neals had a phone so he could call and ask them to put some kind of flag out where the road branched off to their cabin, but he thought he would recognize it anyway. He wasn’t too worried about getting stuck. The new snow tires on the Jeep should make it.
When he reached Jackson County it was snowing harder, and he couldn’t see any distance. The Jeep lurched through potholes and along deep rock-laden ruts on the dirt road. It was one lane and narrow, with a drop of several hundred feet to the left. He found himself leaning in toward the mountain, hugging the side of it with his Jeep.
He thought about Angie, hoping he wasn’t too late and that he had everything in his bag that she might need. He felt his isolation in this white world of snowy, swirling flakes. Where was the grove of wind-twisted trees on the left just before the Hughes turnoff? Had he missed it? He wondered if he would get there tonight or freeze to death instead.
A faint sound came from behind the Jeep. He heard it again and slowed to a stop. Through his open window came the barking of a dog, sharp, insistent. Then he saw him. He would have known that dog anywhere. He looked like a cross between a golden retriever and a large coon dog, a long reddish fringe of fur hanging from the underside of his snowy tail. It was Angie’s dog, standing beside the road. He backed up a little more. The animal kept barking, coming toward him a few paces, then striking out on a trail among the trees. Gaine cut the wheel recklessly toward the slope of the mountain and followed. He hoped to God this was the road.
Gratefully he felt the tires of the Jeep settle into shallow ruts, and he drove on, the dog always keeping about twenty feet ahead. Then, in a clearing, he saw the dark shape of the little house. What luck! The dog had led him right to it.
He knocked, and after a minute Angie’s mother opened the door.
“Doc! I near didn’t hear you out there. Come in.”
The air in the room was filled with the smoky scent of the wood fire, Dr. Cannon knelt down beside a golden-haired child who lay on a pallet of quilts. He placed his stethoscope against her chest. Eyes bright and face flushed, her little body almost burned his hand—pneumonia. Had he reached her in time? He gave her a shot. She stirred and then was up on one elbow trying to rise.
“Did you see him, Doc?” she asked excitedly.
He tried to ease her back down on the pillow. “See who, honey?”
“My Prince.”
Doc Cannon glanced questioningly at her mother.
“She meant her dog, Prince. It’s just the fever talking, Doc,” and she clasped Angie’s hand tenderly in hers. “Hush. You were dreaming. Now go to sleep.”
“But Momma,” Angie exclaimed. “I saw him waving his tail as he trotted along the road up to the house here, and then he came in the room and over to my bed. He licked my face. He did, Momma.”
Dr. Cannon smiled. “He’s a fine dog.”
Her mother put a finger up to her lips and gave Dr. Cannon a look of warning that puzzled him.
At the door of the cabin, Gaine Cannon handed Angie’s mother a paper packet of pills for the sick little girl.
“Is she going to be all right, Doctor?”
“Yes, I think she’s going to be okay, but you send for me, now, if she takes a turn for the worse. By the way, as far as I’m concerned, Annie, that dog ought to be given a medal. I had already missed the road that leads up here when I heard him barking. He led me all the way up to your cabin. I would have missed it for sure without him.”
The woman stared. “Doc, Prince was killed by a car almost a month ago.”
“Killed!”
“Yes, down on the highway. The child took on so, Angie’s Pa carved a wooden plank in the shape of a grave rock for Prince, and carved some words she wrote herself. Angie plumb loved that dog.” Annie looked out the door and up at the sky. “Snow’s stopped. Maybe you can see the marker. The grave is at the edge of the woods where you turn in to our place.” She paused. “Doc, you don’t think it really could have been Prince?” she asked quietly. “But he was the only dog I ever saw all the way up here, and there’s not another house for five miles.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, however you got here,” she said, “I want to thank you, Doc.” She thrust a jug of apple cider into his arms. “Take this for now, and I aim to see you get some river stones for your hospital.”
Though he was eager to get off the mountain before dark, he saw the marker and could not help braking. The makeshift memorial to the dog stood beneath a big tree.
Leaving the motor running, the doctor got out and plodded through the snow. He untied the bandanna scarf from his neck to flick the white flakes from the face of the board. The words he read were crudely carved:
PRINCE
Angie’s dog always.
Nancy Roberts
6
PETS AS
TEACHERS
By loving and understanding animals,
perhaps we humans shall come to understand
each other.
Dr. Louis J. Camuti
“It's always 'Sit,' 'Stay,' 'Heel'—
never 'Think,' Innovate,' 'Be yourself.'”
© The New Yorker Collection 1990 Peter Steiner from cartoonbank.com. All Rights Reserved.
Lesson in Love
It was difficult to feel vexed by a creature that burst into a chorus of purring as soon as I spoke to him.
Philip Brown
Some people call me a cat shrink. I call myself a feline behavior consultant. Over the years, I’ve helped thousands of people and cats to have happier lives together. Mr. Vinsley was one of my most memorable clients. Originally from England, he lived in a beautiful mansion in Kentucky.
A widower for twenty-five years, Mr. Vinsley had no surviving relatives, so he was used to a life of solitude. He spent his days reading, listening to music and walking around the grounds surrounding his house. He was comfortable being alone and was not interested in making friends or engaging in silly chatter with neighbors.
One cold winter morning, Mr. Vinsley found a large gray cat sitting on his car. Having no fondness for cats, he chased the cat away and assumed that was that! But every morning for the next week, the same gray cat sat on the roof of his Mercedes.
The weather continued getting colder. Even though Mr. Vinsley didn’t like cats, he hated the thought that the poor creature might freeze outside. Surely he must belong to someone—perhaps he has a collar, Mr. Vinsley thought. The next day he went outside, expecting to find the cat lounging on his car as usual. But there was no cat. Mr. Vinsley found himself checking outside every few minutes, waiting for the cat. All he wanted to do was to find the owner of this pesky feline or take it to the local shelter if it had no identification.
When the housekeeper arrived later that morning, she found Mr. Vinsley in the kitchen, spooning a can of tuna into a dish. Mr. Vinsley hurried outside and placed the tuna on the roof of his car, then went back to his warm house to wait. By late evening, he removed the tuna, now quite frozen, from the car.
“Have it your way, stupid cat,” Mr. Vinsley said as he went back inside the house and dumped the tuna in the garbage before going to bed.
At about 2:00 A.M., Mr. Vinsley woke up. He swears it was a terrible thirst that drove him out of bed and down the stairs to the kitchen. Along the way, he stopped for a quick peek out the front door—still no cat. But just as he was closing the door he caught sight of something limping toward him. Hobbling up the driveway was the gray cat. His fur was matted and his right front paw dangled helplessly in the air. Mr. Vinsley stepped out onto the porch and the cat stopped.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Mr. Vinsley said. “Come here and I’ll help you.”
The cat just looked at him, not moving.
Leaving the front door open, Mr. Vinsley went into the kitchen, where he dumped some leftover chicken onto a plate. He placed the food on the porch and leaned against the doorway. The old man and the cat just looked at each other. The cat was a tough-looking male who had obviously seen more than his share of fights. He was tall and large. Both ears were torn at the tips and his nose bore several scars.
Mr. Vinsley really hadn’t cared about anybody in a long time, and he didn’t know why he was so concerned about this cat now. There was just something about him. And here they were, two tough old guys so used to being alone that they didn’t even know how to ask for help.
A few minutes passed. Mr. Vinsley was shivering. The cat was watching him intently. Then warily, the old cat limped up to the porch, sniffed at the plate of food, then weakly hobbled past it and through the open doorway.
Amazed that the cat had come inside, Mr. Vinsley followed him in. After some hesitation, the cat allowed him to examine his injured paw. It would need medical attention in the morning. In the meantime, the scruffy old thing would spend the night in the kitchen. But as Mr. Vinsley bent down to scoop him up, the cat darted off on his three good legs. Before he could be stopped, he was clumsily hobbling up the stairs toward the bedrooms.
Cold and tired, Mr. Vinsley climbed the stairs too. He figured the cat would be hiding under a bed. But when he reached his bedroom, he found that the cat had decided that curling up at the foot of the bed would be much more comfortable.
“You could’ve at least chosen one of the guest rooms,” Mr. Vinsley commented.
But he was too tired to argue, so he crawled under the covers, stretching his feet out next to the cat. “Don’t get too used to this. You’re leaving in the morning.”
The following morning, on the way to his doctor’s appointment, Mr. Vinsley dropped the cat off at the vet’s.
It was at this visit to the doctor that Mr. Vinsley learned he had cancer. Depressed, he drove home, almost forgetting to stop at the vet’s. In fact, when he realized he was near the animal hospital, he considered just leaving the cat there for the vet to deal with. But he stopped anyway.
The cat had a broken leg, which was in a large splint. Mr. Vinsley paid the bill and left with the cat. He didn’t understand why, but he felt a tug at his heart as he held the cat. Despite his rough exterior, the cat was gentle. Wrapped in his new owner’s arms, his loud purr sounded like an old car engine.
Three weeks later, Mr. Vinsley’s health took a turn for the worse, and he
was confined to bed. The cat, by now named Dancer—because he moved so gracefully despite his heavy splint—only left his side to use his litter box and eat.
The friendship grew deeper. When Mr. Vinsley was well enough, the pair strolled around the grounds or sat in the sun. Dancer loved to sleep in Mr. Vinsley’s lap as he listened to classical music or read a book.
And another thing happened. Mr. Vinsley started chatting with his neighbors about pets. They’d share stories and advice. After all these years, Mr. Vinsley was caring about others again. Soon his neighbors became friends who would stop by for a cup of coffee or to play cards.
It was at this point that Mr. Vinsley called me. His doctor had told him he had less than nine months to live. He was not afraid to die, he assured me. After all, he had lived a good seventy-seven years and would face the end with dignity. All of his business was in order.
“There’s just one important thing left to do,” Mr. Vinsley told me sadly. “I need to take care of Dancer. Since I found him, we’ve been best friends. I need you to find him a home while I’m still alive. I want to know that he’ll be getting the love and care he deserves. I’ll provide for his medical and food expenses.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “I know anyone else would think I’m a foolish old man, worrying about some cat, but he’s been by my side through the tough times. He’s a wonderful friend, and I want to make sure he lives a good life without me.”
There was something so sincere and compelling about this man’s love for his cat that I couldn’t refuse. After a lengthy search, I found a potential home for Dancer with Ruth, a sweet but lonely widow.
When Ruth met Mr. Vinsley and Dancer, all three of them hit it off. Mr. Vinsley took great pleasure in telling Ruth all about Dancer’s likes and dislikes.
Eight months after I first met Mr. Vinsley, he was taken to the hospital. At Mr. Vinsley’s request, I drove to his house and collected Dancer’s things. As if he knew what was about to happen, Dancer was waiting for me in Mr. Vinsley’s room. He sat quietly on the bed. The housekeeper walked me to my car. She touched my arm and thanked me for helping Mr. Vinsley. There were tears in her eyes. She’d worked for him for fifteen years.