In the early morning of April 20, 1949, the British warship Amethyst was anchored in China’s Yangtze River. The crew included a small black-and-white cat named Simon.
All seafaring ships need cats. Mice and rats love to live on ships, creeping in on hawser cables, jumping aboard from docks, coming in along with freight shipments. Mice and rats damage ships, raiding the food storage areas and chewing fabrics to make nests for their young. They also carry viruses, which can be passed on to crew and passengers by mosquitoes or fleas that bite infected rodents and in turn bite a person. Having Simon on board was better than 100 rat traps.
That April morning, the captain was waiting for daylight to continue his voyage up the dangerous river. The Chinese Nationalists, in control of the river, had forbidden all night traffic. Civil war was ready to explode at any moment, and the captain of H.M.S. Amethyst had been ordered to sail upriver to Nanking to protect the British embassy there.
Shortly after dawn, before the Amethyst could escape, the Yangtze river became a war zone. Explosions shook the air. Shells screeched over the ship, and one rocket and then another crashed into the ship. When the shelling stopped a short time later, many British sailors lay dead on the Amethyst’s deck. A large number of crew members were wounded, including Simon. The disabled Amethyst was trapped right where she was, and it looked as if the British ship would be stranded for political reasons for quite some time. When the captain checked their stores of food, water and fuel, he found supplies enough for about two months. Surely they would be able to escape before then, he thought.
Life on the Yangtze settled into a dull, hot, humid procession of boring days of sweat and ship repair. Simon recovered from his injuries sufficiently to continue his duties as chief rat-catcher.
One day during this time, the ship’s doctor saw Simon limping past the sick bay on his way to the hold to look for rats.
“Why don’t you come in here and visit these chaps?” the doctor asked, and held the door open. Simon walked inside, where row on row of cots each held an injured lad.
“I’m going to try something,” the doctor told his attendant. He picked Simon up and carried him over to a bed in the corner, where Seaman Mark Allen lay with his eyes closed. The boy, who was only sixteen, had lost both legs below the knee in the shelling. For four days, since regaining consciousness, he had refused to talk or eat or even open his eyes.
The doctor set Simon on the boy’s bed. Simon sat looking at him, but the boy’s eyes remained closed. The doctor moved Simon onto the boy’s chest and placed the limp hand on the cat’s back.
“Somebody’s here to see you, Mark,” said the doctor.
Mark opened his eyes just a little. When he saw Simon’s steady gaze, he opened them further. The corners of his mouth quirked ever so slightly.
“I have a cat at home,” he said. “But I’ll never see him again.” He pushed Simon away and turned his face into his pillow.
The next day the doctor took Simon to see Mark again and left him sitting on Mark’s bed. Simon crawled up on Mark’s stomach and began kneading, as he often did before settling down. Mark opened his eyes. His thin hand reached out and stroked Simon’s rough fur. The boy began to sob.
The doctor hurried over. “Cook’s got some good vegetable soup in the galley. How would you like me to get you a bowl of it? Simon will stay here with you.”
Mark nodded ever so slightly. He stroked Simon, who settled down by him and began purring.
From that day on, Mark began eating and gaining strength. Simon visited every day. By the time a month had passed, Mark was able to get around the ship in a wheelchair.
Day after day passed; the days turned into weeks. The thermometer rose to 110 degrees Fahrenheit every day below decks. Between the heat and the severely limited rations, life on the ship became almost intolerable.
The crew looked thin and pinched about their mouths as their energy deserted them in the sweltering heat. Only one sailor kept up his daily activities with spirit and good will: Able Seaman Simon. He patrolled the ship, visited the sick, killed mice and rats, and made life bearable for his fellow shipmates. He never complained about the heat or his health.
On July 19, the temperature reached 110 degrees on the decks and 118 degrees in the engine room. Even Simon walked the decks very slowly. They wouldn’t be able to last much longer. Their stores were almost depleted and there was barely enough water to drink, a terrible hardship in the unrelenting heat. The ship was fixed now, but they were held hostage by the warring Chinese and could not sail without again risking serious damage to the ship and her crew.
By the start of August, they couldn’t stay where they were any longer. They decided to make a run for it under cover of darkness. It was a serious gamble, but they had no other option.
A combination of weather conditions, some cleverly executed deceptions and sheer good luck enabled the ship to escape. On August 3, the Amethyst, free at last, sailed down the China coast to Hong Kong. Hundreds of British citizens waited on the docks to cheer the ship as she steamed into the harbor.
Soon after, one of the ship’s officers wrote to the PDSA in England to nominate Simon for the Dickin Medal. While they were docked in Hong Kong, a reply came—the awards committee unanimously conferred the Dickin Medal on Simon. The presentation ceremony would occur after the Amethyst returned to England. In the meantime, they sent a tricolor collar for Simon to wear and made an announcement to the world press: “Be it known that from April 22 to August 4, Simon of the H.M.S. Amethyst did rid the ship of pestilence and vermin with unrelenting faithfulness. Throughout the incident Simon’s behavior was of the highest order and his presence was a decisive factor in maintaining the high level of morale in the ship’s company.”
Simon became an instant hero. The little black-and-white cat’s photograph appeared in hundreds of newspapers and magazines. For weeks, Simon received more than 200 pieces of mail a day. Simon seemed unimpressed with the attention. He posed reluctantly for pictures and continued killing rats.
While en route to England, Simon picked up a virus. Weakened from the wounds he had suffered during the shelling, the cat died. The ceremony to honor Simon, scheduled for when they reached England, turned out to be his funeral.
The PDSA Pet Cemetery has an arched wrought iron gate with the words “They Also Serve” stretched over the entrance. On the day of Simon’s funeral, a small casket covered by a Union Jack stood surrounded by baskets and sprays of flowers in the special cemetery.
As the ceremony was about to begin, a handsome young man in a navy uniform with H.M.S. AMETHYST on his cap walked slowly through the gate and joined the small crowd of people grouped around the open grave. He used crutches, but he stood tall and the shoes on his feet shone in the sun. It was Mark Allen, the sailor who perhaps more than anyone owed his life to Simon.
And as they buried the little hero of the Amethyst, it seemed fitting that it was Mark’s strong, young voice that rang out in the morning air: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”
Rosamond M. Young
6
ON
COMPANIONSHIP
Animals are such agreeable friends—
they ask no questions,
they pass no criticisms.
George Eliot
The Ugly Pupling
Things are beautiful if you love them.
Jean Anouilh
In the spring of 1980, I was living in Woodstock, New York, when my Tibetan terrier dog, Shadow, had a litter of six puppies.
The one pup I couldn’t sell was considered homely. Tibetan terriers are known for their lustrous double coats. The underlayer of their coat is thick and cottony, while the outer layer resembles human hair—silky and shiny. This combination makes for a very fluffy look. People also prize their well-proportioned faces. This pup had neither trait. She had a rather long nose and a terribly unattractive coat. She had no underlayer, and this made her topcoat look thin, flat and wiry. It gave her
the appearance of a tramp just coming in from the rain. People who came to see her would say, “She seems like a pleasant dog,” they’d say, “but she looks kind of scraggly and ugly.” No one wanted our little friend, not even for free!
What amazed me was that no one recognized this dog’s rare quality. She was by nature always very happy, and although most puppies are happy, she had an unexplainable inner joy about her, a sixth sense, a certain spiritual presence, as if she could read your mind and move you to a more contented place.
In June, I still had the pup with the perpetual “bad hair day.” I was going back to school in less than a week and I felt hesitant to leave without finding her a proper home.
One night an idea came to me. There was a Tibetan monastery about a mile from my home, and I’d been there a few times to participate in their meditations. I’d even introduced myself to some of the Tibetan monks living there. Maybe someone there would be willing to adopt her. It was worth a try.
The following morning, I took my little friend to the monastery. When I arrived, a lot of cars were in the parking lot. I thought, Gee, this place has always been so quiet. I wonder what’s going on? I got out of the car with the pup in hand and went up the stairs to the familiar front doors. I entered the foyer and found people lined up wall to wall, apparently waiting for something to occur beyond the hand-carved interior doors. Then I saw a familiar face—one of the monks I’d met on a previous visit. When he saw me holding the dog, he gave me a wide grin and said, “Ah, follow me now!”
He pulled on my sleeve and dragged me to the front of the line. Using what appeared to be a special code, he knocked on the door. The double doors swung open and we were greeted by another monk. The first monk whispered something in the second monk’s ear, then the second monk also said, “Ah.” With that, the pup and I were pulled to the front of yet another line of people, all bearing gifts of fruit, candy, plants, odd bowls and handmade crafts.
I turned to face the front of the room and there before me was a very bright and cheery-eyed fellow, dressed to the hilt in red and golden-yellow velvets. He glanced at my puppy, then directly at me. Then he put his hands out, fingers open, and said, “Yes, yes. Oh, yes.” This magnificent-looking person placed a red string around my puppy’s neck, sang a foreign chant, and proceeded to place a second string around my neck. He continued his chant while slowly lifting my puppy from my arms. He carefully embraced her within his velvet robe. He then nodded and bowed, saying something in a foreign language. He tapped me on the head and turned around as he walked toward his chair, still holding my puppy in his arms.
The monk who brought me into the room now quickly ushered me out. In the foyer, met by other monks, I was swept through the halls, pup-less and out the front door of the monastery. I was asked to stand at the top of the steps and wait until further notice.
At this point, a wave of maternal concern moved through me. Where is my dog and what will happen to her? I thought. Turning to a Buddhist onlooker for understanding, I related the events of the last fifteen minutes.
He smiled and explained that I had met the “Karmapa,” a monk who is quite high in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition— second only to the Dalai Lama. He told me that I was very fortunate because today the famous and beloved Karmapa was here from Tibet to bless this monastery along with its surrounding land. People from all over the world had come to pay him their respects, but rarely did anyone enter into his private receiving room. To enter there and be blessed by His Holiness, and then for him to accept my generous gift, was an auspicious event, one that rarely happens in a lifetime! He shook his head, “You must have earned a lot of merit in past lives; you are very fortunate, my dear.” Closing his eyes, he pondered for a moment, then added, “Then again, perhaps it is your dog’s good fortune!”
At that moment the door flew open again, and this wondrous Buddhist monk exited from the building and down the red-carpeted exterior steps, holding his head up high while greeting the people. Women and children gathered around, holding baskets of flowers to throw at his feet.
I was so caught up in the magic of it that I didn’t notice her at first. But then to my surprise, I saw my pup—the pup that was considered ugly—now looking like a beautiful star! The Karmapa held her up high with what seemed to be the greatest of pride, and the crowd roared with delight. I would swear that the puppy appeared to be smiling, too.
From that point on, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. They continued down the stairs. Slowly they entered the waiting black limousine. Through the closely-hovering crowd, I caught my last view of the dog and the monk, glimpsing them through the tinted-glass windows. Something in the way they sat together told me she was going to be all right. It wasn’t just that she was with the Karmapa; it was the way she sat on the lap of the Karmapa. They seemed to have gained a great deal of respect and trust for one another in a short period of time. The limousine drove them away, leaving behind a path of colorful rose petals.
After that, the monks at the monastery kindly kept me posted on her adventures and whereabouts. Over the years, I heard that the Karmapa traveled all over the world with his Tibetan terrier. The sight of her funny face always brought him and others a feeling of joy, and therefore, he gave her a name that translates from the Tibetan language as Beautiful Happy One. She became his friend and devoted companion, and they were rarely apart during her entire lifetime.
Once considered an ugly puppy, few appreciated what she possessed, yet from the moment she was born, she emanated happiness. It was as if she knew she’d eventually meet her wonderful friend, the Karmapa, who would recognize her true beauty and love her great soul.
Angel Di Benedetto
Babblers Anonymous
During my college days, I began cultivating myself to fit the image I held of an aspiring author. I fancied myself a connoisseur of language and shuddered at others’ misuse of it. Most of all, I scoffed at people who spewed drivel at babies or, even more loathsome, at pets. Although neither babies nor pets were part of my life, I felt quite certain that when they were, I would be a role model for mothers and animal lovers everywhere.
Then one day my friend Marcia called and asked if I would take in a stray cat. “He’s cold and scared,” she said. “He’s been living on my neighbor’s garage roof. Someone dumped him from a car.”
Cats are sensible animals, I thought. I had always admired their regal bearing and independence. Besides, Charles Dickens, H. G. Wells and Mark Twain had all owned cats. I imagined a cat curled at my feet as I typed, perhaps inspiring my creativity to new heights. I invited Marcia to bring over the stray.
As Marcia approached my apartment, I heard rather than saw the cat. He protested loudly until she set the carrier on my living room rug. The moment she opened the door of the carrier, a skinny black cat streaked out, raced into the bedroom, jumped into the bathroom and bathtub, leapt out, then charged back into the living room and onto my lap.
“I’ve got to run,” Marcia said, grabbing the carrier and stepping outside in one smooth move. “Yell if you need anything.”
By this time, the cat was kneading his paws on my stomach in frantic rhythm, much like a boxer jabbing a punching bag. “You’re not shy,” I said wryly. Although the cat was bony, his coat shone blue-black in the lamplight. His mustard-yellow eyes blinked at me momentarily before he resumed his activity.
“I guess I need to call you something.” I choked on my words. Listen to me, I thought. I’m talking to this animal as if he understands.
“Ralph,” I continued, despite myself. “Ralph is a nice, no-nonsense name.” No cutesy Boo-Boos or Fluffys for me.
That night I set down the rules of cathood. Ralph would not be allowed on my bed. He would sleep on the rug in the living room. He would learn to respond appropriately to simple, one-word commands. For my part, I would speak to him like the intelligent animal he was.
After a two-night cycle of putting Ralph on the floor and awakening to find him beside me in
bed, I gave in on that rule. I told myself that this was for my good rather than his, because his purring relaxed me, and his warm, fuzzy body felt wonderful against my back.
As the week wore on, we seemed to understand each other perfectly. I made sure not to speak to Ralph other than as master to animal. Then one morning, I accidentally stepped on his tail. Such a pitiful wail! I scooped him up and held him close.
“Oh, Mommy’s so sorry!”
I looked around. Who said that? Oh, no! It was happening. I was beginning to talk like one of them.
Over the next few days, I desperately tried to curb my maternal feelings. I decided to squelch the Mommy business first, but nothing else seemed appropriate. Master was a bit much. Kathy? No, too familiar—I would lose my authority. “Mommy” best summed up my role. So grudgingly, I became Ralph’s mommy . . . but I promised myself I would make no further concessions.
Then one night Ralph was sick on the carpet. After cleaning up, I hugged and stroked him.
“Poor baby,” I cooed. “Him was sick.”
Him was sick! I envisioned my English professor tightening a noose around his neck. As Ralph napped, I reviewed my worsening condition. I could no longer deny the facts. I was rapidly becoming a pet owner-babbler.
During the next few weeks, I resolved to control every word that came from my lips, but the unthinkable happened. Such aberrations as “You is a widdle baby boy” flowed freely, as though the evil spirit of grammar atrocities possessed me every time I looked at Ralph. Worse yet, he seemed to expect such talk.
One night I decided to go cold turkey. I placed Ralph on my lap so he faced me. “Now,” I began, consciously resisting the babble, “you’re a sensible, intelligent animal. You want an owner who treats you as such, don’t you?”
Ralph’s eyes never moved. I read understanding there, encouraging me to go on. “Henceforth, I will treat you with the dignity and respect such a noble cat deserves.”
Ralph’s mouth was opening. So intent was his stare that for one insane moment, I thought he would speak. He yawned in my face.