Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (23 page)

Christine Davis

“This is a song about love, betrayal and the day they brought home a kitten.”

Reprinted by permission of Randy Glasbergen.

We Are Family

When I broke up with yet another boyfriend, this time after a three-year relationship, I decided it was time for me to face the facts—I was just not lucky in love. Yet even though I had given up on men, I wasn’t ready to go without love in my life, so I decided to get a dog.

I found the perfect puppy after a careful search, and one hot June day, I brought home the little golden retriever puppy I’d named Cognac.

Like all puppies, Cognac was adorable; immediately, I felt love and sweetness flowing in my life again. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?

A few days later, I received a call from a man who’d gotten my name through a computer-dating club. I had joined the club before the start of my last relationship and had never cancelled my membership. I hadn’t been very impressed with the people I’d met through the club’s services, but this guy, Brad, seemed nice enough on the phone, so when he asked me to meet him at the lake in a nearby park the next evening, I thought,
I’ve got to walk
Cognac anyway . . . sure, why not?

Brad had said he was no longer in the service, but that he had been an air force tech sergeant. That wasn’t the kind of guy I usually dated, but I had liked his voice on the phone and decided to keep an open mind. When I got to the park for our date, I looked around for a blond man with a buzz cut and a military bearing. There was no one like that at the park—the only blond man was a gorgeous guy with hair almost to his shoulders. I thought,
Now why
can’t a guy like that ask me out?

Then the gorgeous guy walked over to me and said, “Are you Jan?”

I immediately decided to give men another chance.

Cognac’s enthusiastic greeting made our introductions easy. He jumped up on Brad’s legs and ran in circles, wagging his whole body madly while trying to lick every part of Brad he could. We started to walk around the lake, and everybody we met fussed over the puppy. By the time we were halfway around the lake, Brad was holding Cognac’s leash, and he and I were chatting away like old friends.

At the end of our walk, we weren’t ready to say goodbye, so we found a café and picked an outdoor table so the puppy could be with us. From the very start, our relationship included Cognac.

Things went from good to better. One evening, three months later, Brad and I went to a restaurant that we liked for dinner. It was one of those places that have paper over the tablecloths and when they bring you the menu, they also bring crayons so that you can draw or write poetry while you’re waiting for your meal. Brad and I always played Hangman while we waited and that night, we were playing our usual game. As I guessed the letters and the words started to form themselves, a sentence emerged:
Will you marry me?

I gasped and turned towards Brad, “Are you kidding?”

Brad looked nervous, but his eyes were shining and he smiled at me. “No, I’m not kidding—what’s your answer?”

I took a crayon and wrote a huge YES across the paper. We sat grinning at each other for a few minutes and then began to plan our wedding.

From the start, we were sure about two things: We wanted an outdoor wedding and we wanted Cognac to be a part of the ceremony.

The day of the wedding dawned perfect and clear. Our families and friends gathered near the natural spring that we’d chosen as the spot where we would say our vows. My bridesmaids were dressed in rich purple gowns. I had on my wedding dress, and my heart felt as if it were overflowing with love and joy. Yet I was slightly apprehensive, wondering if we had lost our minds expecting Cognac, now ten months old and goofy in the way that only young dogs can be, to handle his responsibilities as ring-bearer without creating chaos.

Cognac wore a white collar and a purple satin bow tie. My bridesmaids, who
knew
we had lost our minds having a dog at the ceremony, ran around with lint rollers, trying to keep their dark gowns free of golden hair—an almost impossible task.

Cognac’s job was to carry a heart-shaped basket containing our rings to Brad. The basket held a heart-shaped pillow to which Brad had secured our rings with pieces of wire. This would prevent a disaster, in case Cognac decided to go for a swim in the spring, basket and all, instead of delivering it to Brad as we’d planned. As I began to walk to the aisle, in preparation for following the bridesmaids, I panicked. I realized I needed another hand! I held my bouquet in one hand, Cognac on his leash in the other, but I needed to hold the basket as well. If I gave the basket to Cognac to carry, he would take it as the signal to run to Brad, just as he’d been trained and I’d be dragged after him—spoiling the effect I’d had in my mind for my appearance on the scene.

Somehow I managed to get to the aisle, unhook Cognac’s leash and put the basket in his mouth. He was off like a shot, racing toward Brad with his beautiful golden ears streaming behind him, as if he was hot on the trail of a speeding rabbit. There was a swell of laughter as our guests appreciated the dedication of our furry ring-bearer.

When Cognac reached Brad, he dropped the basket at his feet and, panting, looked up at Brad for approval. As Brad reached down to pick up the rings, a suddenly quiet Cognac solemnly raised his paw to meet my almost-husband’s hand—a canine “Way to go, Brad.”

Our guests, dog-lovers and non-dog-lovers alike, were completely undone and to this day, when anyone talks about our wedding they may not remember what year it was or what I was wearing, but they
always
mention the dog’s pawshake.

For me, it was the perfect start to our new life together. Just the way I always dreamed it would be—Brad and me . . . and Cognac.

Jan Paddock

Me and My Mewse

According to my dictionary, a “muse” is any of the nine Greek goddesses who preside over the arts. This means that, as a writer, I not only get to work in my pajamas, I can also claim my own goddess who will answer my prayers in times of literary distress.

Luckily, there’s no need, since I have Necco, a peach-colored tortoiseshell cat to serve as my own personal “mewse.”

The cat discovered us at the local animal shelter. We were looking for a quiet, neat pet to complement our boisterous dog, Emma. We found Necco instead.

As soon as we entered the shelter, she called to us in a noisy chirp that made it clear she required immediate attention. The yellow tag on her cage—the symbol showing that this was her last day—backed up her urgent request. When the cage door swung open, she stepped into my arms and settled back with a look that clearly said, “What took you so long?”

Six months old and barely three pounds, Necco wasted no time establishing herself as the one in charge of our lives. The leather chair was her scratching post. The Christmas tree was her playground. And the mantel, neatly decorated with a collection of brass candlesticks of all shapes and sizes, was where she discovered the Feline Law of Gravity: Cats go up; candlesticks come down. The first dainty swipe of a paw resulted in a satisfying crash. So did the second, third and fourth. By the fifth crash, Necco’s face bore the cat equivalent of a grin. She had discovered her purpose in life.

It happened that Necco’s skills reached their peak just as my life reached a low point. My twenty-year marriage had shuddered to a stop, leaving me with a ten-year-old daughter, Katie, and a large home to support on an advertising copywriter’s salary. Although I worked full-time, the pay was modest and I often found myself with more bills than paycheck. I soon realized I would have to work as a freelance writer just to meet expenses.

That meant getting up at 4:00 A.M.,writing for two hours, and then getting ready for work. Eight hours later, I would return home, fix dinner, help Katie with homework, clean the house and get ready for another day’s work. I fell into bed exhausted at 11:00 P.M. only to crawl out of bed when the alarm sounded at 4:00 A.M. the next day.

The routine lasted exactly two weeks. Despite gallons of coffee, I couldn’t seem to produce anything. I was cranky, frustrated, lonely and ready to admit defeat. Writing was hard. Paying bills was even harder. The only answer was to sell the house and get an inexpensive apartment. Unfortunately, that would mean more losses for Katie and me. Especially since no apartment in town allowed pets.

I hated the thought of finding another home for us all, and I especially hated the thought of telling Katie about the changes in store. Depressed, I slept right through the 4:00 A.M. alarm the next day. And the next and the next. Finally, I quit setting it.

That’s when Necco did a curious thing. Knowing that a sudden crash would make a human jump, she decided that the perfect time to make that crash was at 4:00 A.M. Her bedroom bombing raid was timed with military precision. First she set off a small round of artillery in the form of two pencils and my eyeglasses. I rolled over and covered my head with the blanket. Then she moved on to an arsenal of notebooks and the alarm clock. Each crash forced me deeper under the covers. Finally, she brought out the big guns. A half-filled glass of water splashed to the ground. A hardbound book crashed beside me. How could I sleep with the world literally crashing down around my ears? My mewse said it was time to get to work.

Wearily, I made my way to the computer. Necco hopped up on the desk, seeming to feel her job wasn’t done yet. Sitting on a pile of unfinished story ideas, she watched with apparent satisfaction as I began to type. Whenever the words seemed slow in coming, she helped me along. Gliding across my keyboard with the grace of a goddess, she produced sentences like: “awesdtrfgyhub-jikpl[;’ dtrfgbhujni guhnj!” My translation? “I woke you up for a reason. Now, write!” I wrote. And wrote some more.

From then on, every day Necco got me up at 4:00 A.M. sharp, when the ideas were freshest and the world slept around us. With her watching over me as I wrote, I didn’t feel so alone. My goals didn’t seem so impossible. Slowly, over months of early mornings, stories were born, and polished, and sold.

Today the old house still surrounds us. Katie and I are both doing fine. And although both pets are treated like the cherished family members they are, whenever another story is sold, I give thanks to my muse—a little cat with a mischievous grin, who kept me company in my “darkest hours.”

Cindy Podurgal Chambers

Step-Babies

It had been scheduled. Muffie, our seven-month-old Lhasa apso, was to be fixed. But as luck would have it, we didn’t schedule it soon enough. Five months pregnant myself, I sat at the kitchen table staring at my beautiful pet and reprimanding myself for not doing something sooner.

My ten-year-old daughter walked into the room and saw me staring at Muffie. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

I thought Nina, an animal lover, would be thrilled to have puppies in the house. And lately I’d noticed her mood had seemed a little down. But when I told her, she simply looked from Muffie to my protruding stomach and stated, “I don’t know how I feel about babies right now.”

My heart squeezed. “What do you mean? I thought you wanted a brother or sister.”

The expression on her young face turned anguished, and deep down I sensed her fears. Steve and I had married when Nina was six years old and because her biological father had long since severed the ties, Steve had become the daddy she had always wanted.

“What if Daddy loves the baby best?” she asked and tears filled her brown eyes. “It will be his, you know. Not just some stepchild he got stuck with.”

My own eyes grew moist, and I reassured her that Steve had enough love to share and he would love them the same. But I still saw the doubt in her watery eyes, and it broke my heart. It seemed nothing we said or did could convince her.

Two months later, Muffie had two beautiful puppies and although Nina was fascinated, and I’d occasionally find her visiting with the puppies, she still remained somewhat aloof about the whole “baby” situation.

Then one day I came in and found Nina crying as she stood over the puppies.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Through her tears she told me about a friend who had found a stray pregnant dog. After a few days, the animal had gone into labor and after several hours they took the dog to the vet. The puppies were premature: Two were born dead, and the other two were sickly. It seemed the mother dog was too weak to feed the puppies. “The vet is giving the mother until this afternoon, and if her milk doesn’t come in, he’s going to . . . put the puppies down. That means he going to kill them, doesn’t it?” she asked.