Mike, reporting on their progress to his co-workers, came home one evening with word that his secretary had offered to adopt Peaches, my favorite because of her lovely soft coloring. Now that she soon would be leaving, I found myself picking up Peaches less often. Idly I wondered if no longer being treated as special would affect her personality. Then the thought turned itself around. Suppose I were to give one of the other kittens extra amounts of mothering? Suppose I held and cuddled and talked to him more? Would he grow up to be any different than his siblings? I thought it might be an interesting experiment.
I continued to love all the kittens, but I chose the most unpromising of the kittens as my subject. This was the little black one Mike had named Bat Cat because he was so homely, with his dull fur, squashed porcine face and little folded flaps of skin for ears. The runt of the litter, Bat Cat was always on the bottom of the kitten heap, the last to be picked up, the last to be fed, and so the one who got the least attention. I gave the tiny creature a new name— Boston, short for Boston Blackie—and I repeated it over and over while I held him for his bottle. He would drink until, blissfully full, he fell asleep. Then I tucked him into my sweater so that he slept against my beating heart while I worked at my desk. When he woke, I snuffled his small body with my warm breath and talked to him before putting him back in the basket to play with his siblings.
The effect on the kitten was immediate. His newly opened eyes, vague and unfocused like his siblings, became alert, and he studied my face with interest. Quickly he learned his name and, when I spoke it, he clambered over the folds of the blue blanket as fast as his unsteady little legs could carry him to come to me. Now when he was in the sleeping heap of kittens, he no longer passively accepted the bottom spot; sweetly but determinedly he wriggled out from under and nested himself on top. Was it that, sensing himself valued, Boston began to value himself?
He was the first of the kittens to discover he could purr, the first to make endearingly clumsy attempts to wash himself, the first to undertake the adventure of climbing out of the wicker basket. When the others, exhausted from their tumbling play, fell asleep, he would climb over the side of the basket and search for me. When he found me, he struggled to sit up on his haunches and held out his front paws in a plea to be picked up. Unable to resist, I lifted the tiny body gently, turned him on his back, and nuzzled the star-shaped sprinkling of white hairs on his tummy. After a moment his small paws came up to pat my cheeks and bright eyes searched mine as he listened to the words I murmured.
It is said that when a child is born into this world, the first years of his life are taken up with finding answers to the most basic of questions: Is it a good and benign world? Can the people in it be trusted? Am I loved? If a little kitten can also be curious about such things, then the special love given Boston answered all those questions with a resounding “Yes!”
Even Boston’s looks changed. His fur, once rusty and rough, grew sleek and shiny. At first, the luster was just on his head, but gradually the glossiness moved down his entire body until little Boston gleamed from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail. Though never beautiful, he became so alert and merry, so trusting and affectionate, that the mere sight of him was a delight.
Obviously my experiment in love was an unqualified success. Except for one thing. In the giving and getting of so much love, I had come to adore Boston.
I hoped that Mike would be captured by Boston’s charm, too. And while he agreed that the extra attention given Boston had produced a fascinating effect, Mike’s interest was mainly academic.
As he grew, Boston became ever more responsive. I never walked in a room without his volunteering a hello. I never said, “How are you, little Boss?” that he did not answer.
After dinner, Boston liked to sit on my shoulder and watch the soap bubbles pop while I washed the dishes. He was in his usual spot one evening when Mike walked in and heard us “talking.’’
“You’re going to miss him when he goes,” Mike said.
I wheeled from the sink. “Oh, Mike . . .”
Mike looked steadily back. I saw from his expression that this was a test between us. Would I keep my word to him or did I value a little black kitten more than his wishes? During our relationship, Mike and I had had our troubles learning to trust. I couldn’t jeopardize the confidence I had struggled so to gain.
“Yes,” I said as evenly as I could. “Yes, I am going to miss him.”
Soon all but Boston went to new homes. When Mike came home with word of a church fair that was requesting kittens be donated for sale at a pet table, it was obvious that these were to be my last days with Boston. Now when I cradled him in my arms, it was often tears on my cheeks that he patted. “Oh, little Boss, it’s going to be so empty without you,” I would tell him, and his eyes would narrow with the effort to understand my distress.
Mike called at noon the day Boston was to go to the fair to remind me that a description of his age, sex and food preferences was to go with him. “I’ve already typed it up,” I said. Mike asked me to read it to him. I had included this final note: “Boston has been handraised with an unusual amount of loving attention, which has made him extraordinarily intelligent and responsive. He is gentle, wise, perfectly behaved, loves all games, likes to ride in the car, has a large vocabulary and is a devoted companion. Please treat him with the great affection he will give you.”
Mike was silent for a moment. “You’ve made him sound like an exceptional creature,” he said.
“He is,” I said and hung up.
I was in the kitchen getting dinner that night when Mike came home. Boston went to the door to greet him but I couldn’t; I was fighting too hard not to cry. It was a long time before Mike joined me. When he did, he was carrying Boston, who had a big red ribbon tied around his neck. Silently, Mike held out an envelope. Inside was a Christmas card and written on it was: “It’s only November, but let’s give ourselves a Christmas present.”
I reached out to hug Mike through my tears.
“If you can be big enough to let him go,” he said, “I can be big enough to let him stay.”
Jo Coudert
©Cathy. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Heartstrings
Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are the center of their universe. We are the focus of their love and faith and trust. They serve us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt the best deal man has ever made.
Roger Caras
People spend their whole lives searching for love. I was no different. Until one day I decided to look in the cages at the local pound. And there was love, waiting for me.
The old dog was considered unadoptable. An underweight beagle-terrier mix, he had been found running along the road on three legs, with a hernia, a damaged ear and BBs imbedded in his hind end.
The people at the humane society kept him his allotted seven days and then some because he was friendly, and they figured if someone had once spent the money to have his leg amputated, maybe that person would be looking for him. But no one came.
I met him on his tenth day. I was dropping off a donation of blankets at the humane society and happened to walk by and see him. Looking down through the wire mesh of his cage, I thought he was an appealing little guy, and my heart went out to him. But I really couldn’t take another dog home; I had four already. There has to be a limit, I thought, I can’t save them all.
Driving away from the humane society, I knew the dog would be destroyed if I didn’t take him. I felt so helpless. As I passed a church, the sign announcing this week’s sermon caught my eye. It was right before Christmas and appropriately it read: “Is There Room at the Inn?”
I knew at that moment there was always room for one more, especially one that needed my love.
As soon as the humane society opened the next morning, their phone rang. “I’m coming for that old beat-up dog. Save him for me,” I told them.
; I couldn’t get there fast enough. And from the moment I claimed him, he gave his heart to me completely.
In my experience, there is nothing like the feeling of rescuing a dog. Dogs are loving creatures already, but add the element of relief and gratitude, and true devotion flows. It is an immensely satisfying bond that I wouldn’t trade for all the puppies in the world.
I named the dog Tugs, because he had tugged on my heartstrings, and I did all I could to make his life a happy one. In return, Tugs brought new meaning to the term adoration. Wherever I went, he wanted to be there too. He never took his eyes off me and with a simple glance in his direction, his whole body wagged with happiness. Despite his many handicaps and increasingly failing health, his enthusiasm for life was amazing. There was never an evening I came home that Tugs did not meet me at the door, eyes sparkling, his tail wagging excitedly.
We were together for a little over a year. And constantly during that time, I felt a silent current of love from him—strong, steady and deep—unceasingly flowing to me. When it was time for the vet to end his suffering, I held his head in my hands, the tears falling on his old muzzle, and watched as he gently fell asleep. Even in my sadness, I was grateful for the gift of his love.
For someone who has never had this kind of experience with a pet, there are no words to adequately explain it. But if you have loved an animal in this way and been loved so fully in return, nothing more needs to be said. Some people will understand that since Tugs has been gone, my fear of death has lessened—if death means finally joining Tugs, then let it happen when it will.
In the meantime, I continue my work: rescuing abandoned animals and finding them homes where they can taste love and give such happiness in return.
And oftentimes when I look into the sky and see the soft billowy clouds floating there, I find myself sending a little message: I love you, Tugs.
Susan Race
A Different Kind of Angel
Foaling season is a time for dreams. We’d just begun breeding Appaloosas on our Arizona ranch, and I was dreaming of blue ribbons and eager buyers. That first year the blazing coats of nine tiny Appaloosas had already transformed our pastures into a landscape of color. Their faces were bright with stars and blazes, their rumps glittering with patches and spots splashed over them like suds.
As we awaited the birth of our tenth foal, I was sure it would be the most colorful of all. Its father was a white stud with chestnut spots over half his body and a multicolored tail that touched the ground. The mother was covered with thousands of penny-size dots. I already had a name for their unborn offspring: Starburst.
“With horses, what you want and what you get are often two different things,” my husband, Bill, warned me.
The night of her foaling, I was monitoring the mother on a closed-circuit television Bill had installed in our bedroom. I could see the mare glistening with sweat, her white-rimmed eyes full of anxiety. She was within hours of delivering when I dozed off.
I awoke with a jolt. Three hours had passed! A glance at the monitor revealed the mare was flat-out on her side. The birth was over. But where was the baby?
“Bill! Wake up!” I shook him hard. “Something stole the baby!” Wild dogs, coyotes and other predators invaded my imagination. Moments later we were in the dimly lit corral. “Where’s your baby, Mama?” I cried as I got on my knees to stroke the mare’s neck.
Suddenly a face popped out of the shadows—thin, dark, ugly. As the creature struggled to stand, I realized why I hadn’t seen it on my TV: no colorful spots, no blazing coat. Our foal was brown as dirt.
“I don’t believe it!” I said as we crouched for a closer look. “There’s not a single white hair on this filly!” We saw more unwanted traits: a bulging forehead, a hideous sloping nose, ears that hung like a jack rabbit’s and a nearly hairless bobtail.
“She’s a throwback,” Bill said. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. This filly will never sell. Who wants an Appaloosa without color?
The next morning when our older son Scott arrived for work and saw our newest addition, he minced no words.
“What are we going to do with that ugly thing?” he asked.
By now, the foal’s ears stood straight up. “She looks like a mule,” Scott said. “Who’s gonna want her?”
Our younger girls, Becky and Jaymee, ages fifteen and twelve, had questions too. “How will anyone know she’s an Appaloosa?” Becky asked. “Are there spots under the fur?”
“No,” I told her, “but she’s still an Appy inside.”
“That means she’s got spots on her heart,” said Jaymee. Who knows, I wondered. Maybe she does.
From the beginning, the homely filly seemed to sense she was different. Visitors rarely looked at her, and if they did, we said, “Oh, we’re just boarding the mother.” We didn’t want anyone to know our beautiful stallion had sired this foal.
Before long, I started noticing that she relished human company. She and her mother were first at the gate at feeding time, and when I scratched her neck, her eyelids closed in contentment. Soon she was nuzzling my jacket, running her lips over my shirt, chewing my buttons off and even opening the gate to follow me so she could rub her head on my hip. This wasn’t normal behavior for a filly.
Unfortunately, her appetite was huge. And the bigger she got, the uglier she got. Where will we ever find a home for her? I wondered.
One day a man bought one of our best Appaloosas for a circus. Suddenly he spied the brown, bobtailed filly. “That’s not an Appaloosa, is it?” he asked. “Looks like a donkey.” Since he was after circus horses, I snatched at the opportunity. “You’d be surprised,” I said. “That filly knows more tricks than a short-order cook. She can take a handkerchief out of my pocket and roll under fences. She can climb into water troughs. Even turn on spigots!”
“Reg’lar little devil, huh?”
“No,” I said quickly, then added on the spur of the moment, “as a matter of fact, I named her Angel!”
He chuckled. “Well, it’s eye-catchin’ color we need,” he told me. “Folks like spotted horses best.”
As time passed, Angel—aswe nowcalled her—invented new tricks. Her favorite was opening gates to get to food on the opposite side.
“She’s a regular Houdini,” Bill marveled.
“She’s a regular pain,” said Scott, who always had to go catch her.
“You’ve got to give her more attention,” I told him. “You spend all your time grooming and training the other yearlings. You never touch Angel except to yell at her.”
“Who has time to work with a jughead? Besides, Dad said we’re taking her to auction.”
“What! Sell her?”
I corralled Bill. “Please give her a chance. Let her grow up on the ranch,” I begged. “Then Scott can saddle-break her when she’s two. With her sweet nature, she’ll be worth something to someone by then.”
“I guess one more horse won’t hurt for the time being,” he said. “We’ll put her down on the east pasture. There’s not much grazing there, but . . .” Angel was safe for now.
Two weeks later, she was at the front door eating the dry food from our watchdog’s bowl. She’d slipped the chain off the pasture gate and let herself out—plus ten other horses as well. By the time Scott and Bill had rounded them up, I could see that Bill’s patience was wearing thin.
Over time, her assortment of tricks grew. When Bill or Scott drove to the field, she’d eat the rubber off the windshield wipers. If they left a window open, she’d snatch a rag, glove or notebook off the front seat, then run like the wind.
Surprisingly, Bill began forgiving Angel’s pranks. When an Appaloosa buyer would arrive, she’d come running at a gallop, slide to a stop thirty feet away, and back up to have her rump scratched. “We have our own circus right here,” Bill told buyers. By now, a small smile was even showing through Scott’s thick mustache.
The seasons rolled by. Blazing sun turned to rain—and brought flies by the millio
ns. One day, when Angel was two-and-a-half, I saw Scott leading her to the barn. “She gets no protection at all from that stupid tail,” he told me. “I’m gonna make her a new one.” That’s when I realized Scott’s feelings for the horse were starting to change.
The next morning I couldn’t help smiling as Scott cut and twisted two dozen strands of bright-yellow baling twine into a long string mop and fastened it with tape around Angel’s bandaged tail. “There,” he said. “She looks almost like a normal horse.”
Scott decided to try to “break” Angel for riding. Bill and I sat on the corral fence as he put the saddle on. Angel humped her back. “We’re gonna have a rodeo here!” I whispered. But as Scott tightened the cinch around Angel’s plump middle, she didn’t buck, as many other young horses would. She simply waited.
When Scott climbed aboard and applied gentle pressure with his knees, the willing heart of the Appaloosa showed. He ordered her forward, and she responded as though she’d been ridden for years. I reached up and scratched the bulging forehead. “Someday she’s going to make a terrific trail-riding horse,” I said.
“With a temperament like this,” Scott replied, “someone could play polo off her. Or she could be a great kid’s horse.” Even Scott was having a few dreams for our plain brown Appaloosa with the funny-colored tail.
At foaling time, Angel whinnied to the newborns as though each one were her own. “We ought to breed her,” I said to Bill. “She’s four. With her capacity to love, imagine what a good mother she’d make.”
Bill thought this was a good idea. So did Scott. “People often buy bred mares,” he said. “Maybe we’d find a home for her.” Suddenly I saw an expression on Scott’s face I hadn’t seen before. Could he really care? I wondered.
During the winter months of her pregnancy, Angel seemed to forget about escaping from her corral. Then in early April, as she drew closer to her due date, a heavy rain came and our fields burst to life. We worried Angel would once more start slipping through the gates in her quest for greener pastures.