“Peggy, there’s a flying squirrel in my coffee!” I yelled, laughing hysterically as my wife sprinted into the room. In an instant, Rocky had scrambled back onto my head and was preening himself, probably getting a caffeine buzz to boot.
I picked the newspaper back up, then quickly put it back down in a moment of reflection. We’ve all had those moments, when suddenly everything is brilliantly clear and sharp, and laced with humor and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I was overcome by the realization that I was an utterly unique being. Unquestionably— absolutely unquestionably—I was the only person in the world, perhaps in the universe, that had the amazing good fortune to have a flying squirrel in his coffee that morning.
By now, Rocky was sound asleep under my sweater. Unaware of my earth-shattering musings, he had curled up directly on a large scar at the base of my neck where my jugular vein, trapezoid muscle and 200 lymph nodes had been surgically removed.
Rocky—and God—were doing their healing magic once again.
Bill Goss
Finders Keepers
When my daughters reached the third and fourth grades, I occasionally allowed them to walk to and from school alone, if the weather permitted. It was a short distance, so I knew they were safe and no trouble would befall them.
One warm spring day, a small friend followed them home after school. This friend was different from any other friend they had brought home. She had short stumpy legs and long floppy ears, with a fawn-colored coat and tiny freckles sprinkled across her muzzle. She was the cutest puppy I had ever seen.
When my husband got home that evening, he recognized the breed—a beagle puppy, not more than twelve weeks old, he guessed. She took to him right away and after dinner climbed into his lap to watch TV. By now the girls were both begging me to keep her.
She had no collar or identifying marks of any sort. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about running an ad in the lost-and-found but I really didn’t want to. It would break the kids’ hearts if someone should show up. Besides, her owners should have watched her more closely, I rationalized.
By the end of the week she was part of our family. She was very intelligent and good with the girls. This was a good idea, I thought. It was time the girls took responsibility for another life so they would learn the nurturing skills they’d need if they decided to become mommies when they grew up.
The following week something told me to check the lost-and-found section in the local paper. One particular ad jumped out at me and my heart pounded with fear at what I read. Someone was pleading for the return of a lost beagle puppy in the vicinity of our grade school. They sounded desperate. My hand shook. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone.
Instead, I pretended I hadn’t seen the ad. I quickly tucked the paper away in the closet and continued with my dusting. I never said a word about it to the kids or my husband.
By now we had named the puppy. She looked like a Molly, so that was what we called her. She followed the girls everywhere they went. When they went outside, she was one step behind them. When they did chores, she was there to lend a hand (or should I say, paw).
Homework proved a challenge with her around. More than once the teacher was given a homework page that the dog had chewed on. Each teacher was understanding and the girls were allowed to make it up. Life was definitely not the same at the Campbell household.
There was only one problem with this otherwise perfect picture: my conscience was bothering me. I knew in my heart I had to call that number and see if our Molly was the puppy they were desperately seeking.
It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Finally, with sweaty palms, I lifted the receiver and dialed. Secretly I was praying no one would answer, but someone did. The voice on the other end was that of a young woman. After describing the dog to her in detail, she wanted to come right over.
Within minutes she was at my door. I had been sitting at the kitchen table, head cradled in my hands, asking God for a miracle. Molly sat at my feet the whole time, looking up at me with those big puppy-dog eyes—eyes the color of milk chocolate. She seemed to sense something was wrong.
A thousand thoughts crossed my mind before the woman rang the bell. I could pretend I wasn’t home or tell her, “I’m sorry, you have the wrong address.” But it was too late; the bell rang and Molly was barking. I opened the door, forcing myself to face my fear.
One look at Molly and the woman’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Here, Lucy,” she called. “Come to Mamma, girl.” Molly (Lucy) instantly obeyed, wagging her tail in delight at the sound of the woman’s voice. Obviously she belonged to the woman.
Tears stung at the back of my eyelids and threatened to spill over at any moment. I felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. I wanted to grab Molly and run. Instead I smiled faintly and asked her to please come in.
The woman had already bent over and scooped Molly up into her arms. She awkwardly opened her purse and stretched out a twenty-dollar bill toward me.
“For your trouble,” she offered.
“Oh, I couldn’t.” I shook my head in protest. “She’s been such a joy to have around, I should be paying you.” With that she laughed and hugged Molly tighter to her bosom as if she were a lost child and not a dog.
Molly licked her face and squirmed with delight. I knew it was time for them to go home. Opening the door to let the mout, I noticed a little girl sitting in the front seat of the van. When the child saw the puppy, a smile as bright as a firecracker on the Fourth of July exploded across her face.
My glance turned to a small wheelchair strapped to the back of the van. The woman saw me look at the chair and offered an explanation without my asking. Molly (Lucy) was given to the child to promote emotional healing after a car accident had left her crippled for life.
When the puppy disappeared from the yard, the little girl had gone into a deep depression, refusing to come out of the shell she was in. Molly (Lucy) was their only hope their daughter would recover emotionally and mentally.
“She formed a special bond with the puppy and Lucy gave her a reason to live,” her mother explained.
Suddenly I felt very guilty and selfish. God has blessed me with so much, I thought. My heart went out to this family that had been through such a terrible time. As they pulled out of the drive, the smile on my face was genuine. I knew I had done the right thing—that puppy was exactly where she belonged.
Leona Campbell
Seeing
Love is a language which the blind can see and the deaf can hear.
Donald E. Wildman
Barkley came to me when he was three years old, from a family who just didn’t want him anymore. They had badly neglected the big golden retriever and he was in ill health. After attending to his physical problems and spending some time bonding with him, I found he had a very sweet temperament. He was intelligent and eager to please, so we went to basic and advanced obedience classes and to a social therapy workshop to learn everything we needed to know for Barkley to become a certified therapy dog.
Within a few months, we began our weekly visits to the local medical center. I didn’t know what to expect, but we both loved it. After I made sure a patient wanted a visit from Barkley, the dog would walk over to the bed and stand waiting for the person in the bed to reach out to him. People hugged him tight or simply petted him, as he stood quietly wagging his tail with what seemed a huge laughing grin on his face. His mellowness made him a favorite with the staff, patients and even the other volunteers.
I dressed Barkley in something different every week. He had costumes appropriate for each holiday—he wore a birthday hat on his birthday, a green bow tie for Saint Patrick’s Day and a Zorro costume on Halloween. For Christmas he sported a Santa hat or reindeer horns. Easter was everybody’s favorite: Barkley wore bunny ears and a bunny tail I attached to his back end. Patients were always eager to see what Barkley was wearing this week.
About a year after we began visiting, I
noticed Barkley was having trouble seeing—he sometimes bumped into things. The vet found he had an eye condition caused in part by his lack of care when he was young. Over the next year, this condition worsened, but Barkley was remarkably good at functioning with his failing eyesight. Even I wasn’t aware how bad it had become until one evening when Barkley and I were playing with his ball out in the yard. When I threw the ball to the dog, he had a lot of trouble catching it. He had to use his nose to sniff it out on the ground after he repeatedly failed to catch it in his mouth. The next day I brought him to the vet and they told me that surgery was necessary. After three surgeries in an attempt to save at least some of his vision, Barkley became totally blind.
I was very concerned about how he would adjust to such a terrible handicap, but he acclimated to his blindness rapidly. It seemed that all his other senses sharpened to make up for his loss of sight. Soon he was completely recovered and insisted (by standing at the garage door and blocking my exit!) that he wanted to go along with me to the hospital and visit his friends. So we restarted our weekly visits, much to everyone’s great joy—especially Barkley’s.
He maneuvered around the hospital so well, it was hard to tell that he was blind. Once after Barkley became blind, someone asked me if Barkley was a seeing-eye dog. I laughed and told them that it was Barkley who needed a seeing-eye person.
He seemed to develop an uncanny ability to perceive things that were beyond the senses. One day, we went into a patient’s room and to my surprise, Barkley went over to the patient’s visitor, who was sitting in a chair by the bed, and nudged her hand with his nose. Barkley never made the first contact like that, and I wondered why he did it now. As I came up to her chair, it was only by the way the woman interacted with Barkley that I realized the truth. I don’t know how, but the completely blind Barkley had sensed that this lady was blind, too.
It was strange, but after Barkley lost his sight, his presence seemed even more precious to the patients he visited.
When Barkley received an award for performing over 400 hours of volunteer service, everyone told me, “It’s amazing what a blind dog can do!”
They didn’t understand that Barkley wasn’t really blind. He could still see. It’s just that now, he saw with his heart.
Kathe Neyer
Guardian Angels
“What are you doing here?” my wife, Joyce, exclaimed.
I found Joyce on our deck, gazing down ecstatically at a dog. It was a roly-poly, short-legged, blond-and-white Welsh corgi, ears up. He regarded Joyce with a delighted grin.
Uh-oh, I thought.
Our own two dogs, after reaching extreme old age, were buried on a little hill overlooking the pond. Now, on her walks in town, Joyce visited other people’s dogs— Spike the basset, Sophia the Samoyed, Pogo the black whatever. She would say, every so often, “Shouldn’t we get another dog?” But I had come to relish the freedom of doglessness.
Now this corgi had trotted onto our deck as if he owned it.
“He’s tubby,” I pointed out. “He obviously has a wonderful home, where they’re munificent with kibbles.”
We traced the corgi to new neighbors, a half-mile up the road. They were upset to learn their dog had wandered down the road, dodging cars. The corgi’s name, we learned, was Nosmo King, inspired by a “No Smoking” sign.
In the months afterwards, when I crossed the road to check our mailbox, I would sometimes look up the hill and see an animal silhouetted against the sky. A wolflike head, pricked-up ears. A coyote? A fox? It seemed too short-legged. It would gaze down the hill at me, as if mulling over what to do. Then it would turn and vanish back up the road. Only later did I realize it was a lonesome corgi, mustering the gumption to make another run for it.
On a morning when red maple leaves lay on the lawn, Joyce glanced up from her desk. Through her office’s sliding glass door, Nosmo grinned at her.
That day marked a change. Afterwards, no matter how his owners tried to confine him, several mornings a week Nosmo played Russian roulette with the road’s rushing chromium bumpers and showed up on our deck. He would stare in the glass door of Joyce’s office, grinning. Let in, he would roll belly up, his stubby legs waving in the air, mighty pleased with himself.
One of us would reach for the telephone. But we always found ourselves speaking to our neighbors’ answering machine. Since they worked, Nosmo was alone all day.
“If we don’t do something, he’s going to keep running down the road and he’ll be killed,” Joyce said.
“What can we do?” I said. “He’s not our dog.”
Whenever Nosmo appeared at our door, we would drive him home. He hopped into the car eagerly, ready for an adventure. But we would only imprison him in his house’s breezeway to wait for his owners to return. He would watch our receding car through the breezeway’s glass door, stricken. He had chosen us. We had turned him away. Looking back as we drove off, Joyce looked as stricken as Nosmo.
One day she made an announcement: “From now on, when Nosmo escapes and comes down, he stays with us until somebody is home at his house.”
So, every few days, Nosmo would show up. We would take him in until evening, when his owners returned. On his initial visits, he had shot us searching looks before venturing into a different room, unsure about the local regulations. Now he had the air of a nabob who had bought the place . . . and paid cash.
One evening Nosmo’s owners called us. They had to go away for two weeks. They asked, “Could you take Nosmo while we are gone?”
A few nights after Nosmo began his visit, I found Joyce looking worriedly at our foster dog as he slept on the rug.
“Do you think Nosmo looks right?” she asked. “He doesn’t chase sticks any more.”
It was true. He no longer raced back clenching a thrown stick in his teeth, eyes flashing, daring anyone to wrestle for his prize. Now when Joyce tossed a stick, he just watched, wistfully. Then he would sit dully.
“We have to take him to the vet,” Joyce announced.
After the examination, the veterinarian told us that Nosmo’s condition was serious. He had a herniated colon. He had already had one operation for this condition. Now he needed another operation, and it was no sure thing. But without surgery, he would slowly die.
When Nosmo’s owners returned, Joyce gave them the news. A few days later, she called them again to hear what they had decided. When she put the telephone down, she looked shaken.
“They’re afraid the operation is useless, and that they may have to have him put to sleep,” she told me.
Joyce slumped at the kitchen table, her chin resting on her hands. Her eyes welled with tears. Without the operation, Nosmo had little hope. And even with the surgery, Nosmo would always need extra attention. Since his family worked all day and he was alone . . .
“What more could you do?” I asked. “You’ve been Nosmo’s guardian angel. Joyce, he’s not our dog,” I said finally.
For a moment Joyce stared out the window at the end-of-summer fields, the grasses already turning gold and tan. And then she recited a line of verse, by Robert Frost. It was one of our favorites: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
After a moment, Joyce added her own line. “He chose us,” she said.
Joyce called Nosmo’s owners with an offer: “Let us do day care—we’ll be his nurses.”
After his successful operation, Nosmo became a dog with two homes. En route to work each morning, one of his owners dropped him off at our house. Every evening, on our way into town, we returned Nosmo to his owners.
Mornings Joyce took Nosmo for a long therapeutic walk. I would watch them from my office window, the concerned-looking woman, the little dog, wandering toward the meadow or into the pine woods across the waterfall.
“It’s beautiful here—I’d forgotten,” Joyce told me one day. “Now that I’m walking Nosmo, I’m appreciating my own backyard.”
Two years passed. And then Nosmo?
??s owners changed jobs and moved to a city apartment that allowed no dogs. Our day-care dog officially became our dog, full time.
One month after Nosmo became our dog, Joyce was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, acute leukemia, and abruptly went into the hospital. Every day I brought Nosmo to her window, so she could look out and see him grinning up at her. “My therapy dog,” she called him. When she finally came home, weakened but on the mend, Nosmo was there to greet her. He had no tail, but his entire body wagged with joy.
Joyce was hospitalized again, and then a third time. Each time she returned home, Nosmo greeted her by throwing himself on his back, waving his flipperlike legs in the air and grinning. Joyce could feel her spirits rising. She could almost feel her immune system stepping up. “Nosmo,” she would say, “you are helping me to recover.”
As I write, I am looking out my office window. On the back lawn, Joyce is throwing a stick, Nosmo is barking, running, leaping for the stick. He must secretly feed on TNT, he has so much pep. And Joyce is laughing. She, too, radiates life and energy.
I stand at my window, watching Joyce play with the dog, and I think about guardian angels.
I know they exist, for I have seen one with my own eyes. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen two.
Richard Wolkomir
A Real Charmer
Henry was fourteen years old when he received a gift: a four-foot-long boa constrictor. By the time I arrived on the scene, Henry was seventeen years old and George, the boa, was eight feet long. George was thriving, but Henry was declining.
I still smile when I recall the day the three of us met: It was the day I was interviewed by Henry’s parents for a nurse’s position. Henry had muscular dystrophy and was getting weaker, too needful to be cared for by his folks alone. While the parents studied my résumé, I walked into Henry’s room, knelt down and looked this carrot-topped boy in the eye. Taking note of his thin, twisted body strapped in the wheelchair, I said, “Hi, kid. Need some help, do you?”