I pointed to the dog. “Can you tell me about him?” The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.
“He’s a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.” He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. “You mean you’re going to kill him?”
“Ma’am,” he said gently, “that’s our policy. We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.”
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. “I’ll take him,” I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
“Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!” I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. “If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don’t want it!” Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples.
“You’d better get used to him, Dad. He’s staying!” Dad ignored me. “Did you hear me, old man?” I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad’s lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad’s bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father’s room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad’s bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad’s peace of mind.
The morning of Dad’s funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. “‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ I’ve often thanked God for sending that angel,” he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article . . . Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter . . . his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father . . . and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Catherine Moore
The Gift of Courage
This is courage . . . to bear unflinchingly what heaven sends.
Euripides
Mark was about eleven years old, skinny and slouching, when he and his mom first brought Mojo into the clinic where I worked. Baggy clothes dwarfed the boy’s small frame, and under a battered baseball hat, challenging blue eyes glared at the world. Clearly we had to earn Mark’s trust before we could do anything with his dog. Mojo was around nine then, old for a black Labrador retriever, but not too old to still have fun. Though recently it seemed that Mojo had lost all his spunk.
Mark listened intently as the doctor examined his dog, answered questions and asked more, while nervously brushing back wisps of blond hair that escaped the hat onto his furrowed brow. “Mojo’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” he blurted as the doctor turned to leave. There were no guarantees, and when the blood work came back, the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed. Mojo had liver and kidney disease, progressive and ultimately fatal. With care he could live comfortably awhile, but he’d need special food, regular checkups and medications. The doctor and I knew finances were a struggle, but the moment euthanasia was suggested, Mark’s mom broke in. “We’re not putting Mojo to sleep.” Quickly and quietly they paid their bill and gently led their old dog out to the car without a backward glance.
We didn’t hear from them for a few weeks, but then one day, there they were. Mojo had lost weight. He’d been sick, they said, and he seemed listless. As I led Mojo back to the treatment room for some IV fluid therapy, Mark’s little body blocked the way.
“I have to go with him—he needs me,” the boy said firmly.
I wasn’t sure how Mark would handle the sight of needles and blood, but there didn’t seem any point in arguing. And indeed, Mark handled it all as if he’d seen it a million times before.
“Oh, you’re such a brave old guy, Mojo,” Mark murmured as the catheter slipped into Mojo’s vein. We seldom had a more cooperative patient. Mojo only moved his head slightly during uncomfortable procedures, as if to remind us that he was still there. He seemed to take strength from the small, white hand that continually moved in reassurance over his grizzled throat.
This became the pattern. We’d get Mojo stabilized somewhat, send him home, he’d get sick again, and they’d be back. Always, Mark was there, throwing out questions and reminders to be careful, but mostly encouraging and comforting his old pal.
I worried that Mark found it too difficult, watching, but any hint that maybe he’d rather wait outside was flatly rejected. Mojo needed him.
I approached Mark’s mom one day, while Mark and Mojo were in the other room, “You know Mojo’s condition is getting worse. Have you thought any more about how far you want to go with treatment? It looks like Mark is really having a hard time with all this.”
Mark’s mom hesitated a moment before leaning forward and speaking in a low, intense voice, “We’ve had Mojo since Mark was a baby. They’ve grown up together, and Mark loves him beyond all reason. But that’s not all.”
She took a deep breath and looked away momentarily, “Two years ago Mark was diagnosed with leukemia. He’s been fighting it, and they tell us he has a good chance of recovering completely. But he never talks about it. He goes for tests and treatments as if it’s happening to someone else, as if it’s not real. But about Mojo, he can ask questions. It’s important to Mark, so as long as he wants to, we’ll keep on fighting for Mojo.”
The next few weeks we saw a lot of the quiet little trio. Mark’s abrupt questions and observations, once slightly annoying, now had a new poignancy, and we explained at length every procedure as it was happening. We wondered how long Mojo could carry on. A more stoic and good-natured patient was seldom seen, but the Labrador was so terribly thin and weak now. All of us at the clinic really worried about how Mark would handle the inevitable.
Finally the day came when Mojo collapsed before his scheduled appointment. It was a Saturday when they rushed him in, and the waiting room was packed. We carried Mojo into the back room and settled him on some thick blankets, with Mark at his side as usual. I left to get some supplies, and when I reentered the room a few moments later I was shocked to see
Mark standing at the window, fists jammed into his armpits, tears streaming down his face. I backed out of the room noiselessly, not wanting to disturb him. He’d been so brave up until now. Later when we returned, he was kneeling, dry-eyed once more, at Mojo’s side. His mom sat down beside him and squeezed his shoulders. “How are you guys doing?” she asked softly.
“Mom,” he said, ignoring her question, “Mojo’s dying, isn’t he?”
“Oh, honey . . .” her voice broke, and Mark continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
“I mean, the fluids and the pills, they’re just not going to help anymore, are they?” He looked to us for confirmation. “Then I think,” he swallowed hard, “I think we should put him to sleep.”
True to form, Mark stayed with Mojo until the end. He asked questions to satisfy himself that it truly was best for Mojo, and that there would be no pain or fear for his old friend. Over and over again he smoothed the glossy head, until it faded onto his knee for the last time. As Mark felt the last breath leave Mojo’s thin ribs and watched the light dim in the kind brown eyes, he seemed to forget about the rest of us. Crying openly, he bent himself over Mojo’s still form and slowly removed his cap. With a jolt I recognized the effects of chemotherapy, so harsh against such a young face. We left him to his grief.
Mark never told us anything about his own illness, or his own feelings throughout Mojo’s ordeal, but when his mom called months later to ask some questions about a puppy she was considering buying, I asked her how he was doing.
“You know,” she said, “it was a terrible time for him, but since Mojo’s death, Mark has begun talking about his own condition, asking questions and trying to learn more about it. I think that dealing with Mojo when the dog was so sick gave Mark strength to fight for himself and courage to face his own pain.”
I always thought Mark was being brave for Mojo, but when I remember those calm, trusting eyes and gently wagging tail that never failed no matter how bad he felt, I think maybe Mojo was being brave for Mark.
Roxanne Willems Snopek Raht
Saddle Therapy
One morning, as I lay in bed, I watched sparrows peck at the feeder outside my window, then flap their wings and soar away. Stricken with multiple sclerosis, a disease that destroys muscle control, I could barely lift my head. I wish I could fly away with you, I thought sadly. At thirty-nine, it seemed my joy-filled life was gone.
I’ve always loved the outdoors. My husband, Dan, and I had loved to take long walks near our home in Colorado Springs. But in my mid-twenties, my joints began to ache after our hikes. I thought it was just sore muscles.
Motherhood, a dream fulfilled with the adoption of Jenny, eleven, and Becky, thirteen, made me jubilant. But as eager as I was to be a great mom, I would just flop on the couch after work as a recreational therapist, too tired to help the girls with homework. I figured it was just exhausting being a working mom.
Then one morning I tried to reach for the coffeepot and couldn’t: my arm was numb. What’s happening? I thought in alarm. One doctor prescribed a pain reliever for bursitis. Another diagnosed tendonitis.
Then one day, I was out walking with my daughters when my legs buckled.
“Mom, what’s wrong with you?” my frightened, now seventeen-year-old Becky asked.
“I must really be tired,” I joked, not wanting to upset the girls—but now I was deeply worried. At Dan’s urging, I saw a neurologist.
“You have multiple sclerosis,” he told me.
All I could think of was a slogan I once heard: “MS— crippler of young adults.” Please, no! I anguished. Blinking back tears, I asked, “How bad will it get?”
“We can’t say for sure,” he said gently. “But in time, you may need a wheelchair.”
Though Dan tried to console me, that night I lay sleepless. How will I care for myself and my family?
That fearful question echoed in my mind over the next weeks and months. As time passed, I could walk only using a painful process of locking a knee and forcing the stiff leg forward with my hip muscle. Then, at other times, my legs grew numb, refusing to respond at all. I steadily lost control of my hands, until I could barely make my fingers work.
“It’s okay, Mom, we can help,” the girls would say. And they did.
But I wanted to be caring for them. Instead, I could barely get dressed and wash a few dishes in the morning before collapsing, exhausted, into bed.
The morning that I lay watching the birds, wishing I, too, could fly away, my heart felt heavy. Hope was dying in me.
Then I saw Dan come in, his eyes alight. “Honey,” Dan said, “I heard something amazing on the radio.” A nearby stable was offering something called therapeutic horseback riding. The technique reportedly helped with many ailments, including MS.
“I think you should give it a try,” he said.
Riding as therapy? It sounded impossible. Still, as a child in Iowa, I loved to ride. And even if it just gets me out of bed, it’d be worth it.
“I’m going to fall on my face,” I joked a few days later, as Dan helped me struggle on canes to the stables. I needed help getting onto the horse, but as I gripped the reins and began circling the riding arena, my body relaxed.
“This is great!” I exulted. When my ride was over, I told Dan I couldn’t wait to try again.
Each time I rode, my hips felt looser and my shoulders became more relaxed. I knew something was happening. At home, I didn’t feel hopeless anymore. I wasn’t tired all the time, I realized happily.
One afternoon, I told the riding-center volunteers I’d like to ride bareback, the way I had as a child. As I galloped across the pasture, the wind tossing my hair, I thought, For the first time in years, I feel free!
Then, as Dan helped me off the horse, something seemed different.
“I can feel my legs again,” I gasped to Dan. Dan watched, amazed, as I picked up my leg, then easily and smoothly placed it down again.
It had taken me thirty minutes with two canes to reach the stables from my car. But the return walk took less than three minutes—and Dan carried the canes!
“You did it!” he cheered. Tears of joy welled in my eyes.
Soon after, my daughters came home from college for a visit. I walked over and hugged them.
“Mom, look at you!” Becky cried. With an overflowing heart, I told them how the horses had healed me. My doctors cannot explain why the horse therapy works. All I know is that somehow, it does.
Today, I remain nearly symptom-free as long as I ride at least three times a week.
Each morning I bundle up and set off on a long, brisk walk. Breathing in the fresh mountain air around my home, I feel a special rush of joy. I’m so grateful God has given me back my life.
Sherri Perkins as told to Bill Holton
Excerpted from Woman’s World Magazine
Kitty Magic
Great golden comma of a cat,
You spring to catch my robe’s one dangling
thread,
And somehow land entangled in my heart.
Lida Broadhurst
After a meeting one night, I felt very tired. Eager to get home and get to sleep, I was approaching my car when I heard mew, mew, mew, mew . . . Looking under my car, I saw a teeny little kitten, shaking and crying, huddled close to the tire.
I have never had a fondness for cats. I’m a dog person, thank you very much. I grew up with dogs all my young life and cats always bugged me. Kind of creeped me out. I especially hated going into houses that had cat boxes. I wondered if the residents just ignored the awful smell. Plus, cats always seemed to be all over everything—not to mention their hair. And I was semiallergic to them. Suffice it to say, I had never in my life gone out of my way for a cat.
But when I knelt down and saw this scared little red tabby mewing like crazy, something inside urged me to reach out to pick her up. She ran away immediately. I thought, Okay, well, I tried, but as I went to get into my car, I heard the kitten mewing again. That pitiful mewi
ng really pulled at my heart, and I found myself crossing the street to try to find her. I found her and she ran. I found her again and she ran again. This went on and on. Yet I just couldn’t leave her. Finally, I was able to grab her. When I held her in my arms, she seemed so little and skinny and very sweet. And she stopped mewing!
It was totally out of character, but I took her into my car with me. The kitty freaked out, screeching and running at lightning speed all over the car, until she settled herself right in my lap, of course. I didn’t know what I was going to do with her, and yet I felt compelled to bring her home. I drove home, worrying the whole way, because I knew my roommate was deathly allergic to cats.
I got home very late, put the kitten in the front yard and left some milk for her. I was half hoping she would run away by the time morning came. But in the morning she was still there, so I brought her to work with me. Luckily, I have a very sympathetic boss. Especially when it comes to animals. Once we had a hurt sparrow in the office for weeks that he had found and nursed back to health. All day at work, I tried to find someone who would take the kitten, but all the cat lovers were full up.
I still didn’t know what to do with the kitty, so I took her on some errands with me when I left work. Again she freaked in the car and this time wedged herself under the seat. My last stop that afternoon was at my parents’ house.
Recently my father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He had undergone hormone treatment and the doctors now felt they had arrested the cancer. At least for the present. I liked to go there as often as I could.
That afternoon, parked in front of my parents’ house, I was trying to coax the kitten out from under the seat when she zoomed out of the car and into the neighbors’ bushes. There are a lot of bushes in that neighborhood, and I realized after looking for a while that it was a lost cause. I felt a bit sad but consoled myself that this area had many families with kids. Surely someone would find her and give her a good home, I told myself.