Read Online Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Ads: Link
the back of his stiff old hand across his eyes.
By the time I reached our yard, the sun was gone. I walked down by the barn and stood with my arms on the top fence rail. Then I dropped my head to my arms and let the tears come.
I cried because Inky had been so gentle with the animals, and because he loved Tim so much, and Tim loved him. Butmostly I cried because I hadn’t really wanted him; not until now, when this terrible thing had happened.
Inky’s paw couldn’t be saved. Too vividly, I recalled how Inky had raced across fields and meadows, swift and free as a cloud shadow. I listened skeptically as the vet tried to reassure us: “He’s young and strong. He’ll get along on three legs.”
Tim took the news with surprising calmness. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just so Inky comes home.”
“But those long jaunts the two of you take may tire him now,” I cautioned.
“He’s always waited for me. I’ll wait for him. Besides, we’re never in much of a hurry .”
The vet called a few days later. “You’d better come for your dog. He’s homesick.” I went immediately and was shocked at the change in Inky. The light was gone from his eyes. His tail hung limp and tattered, and the stump of his leg was swathed in a stained bandage. He hobbled over and pressed wearily against my leg. A shudder went through the hot, thin body and he sighed—a long, deep sigh filled with all the misery and loneliness of the past few days.
At the farm, I helped Inky from the car. He looked first to the sheep, grazing in the pasture; then, beyond the fields of green winter wheat, to the autumn woods where the horses, dappled with sunlight, moved among the trees. My heart ached as I realized how great must have been his longing for this place. At last, he limped to the barn and slipped between the heavy doors.
While his wound healed, Inky stayed in the barn, coming out only in the evenings. Throughout those days a sick feeling never left me. You are a coward to let him live in this condition, I told myself. But in my heart I wasn’t sure.
About a week after bringing Inky home, I was in the yard raking leaves. When I’d finished under the maple, I sat on the steps to rest. It was a perfect Indian summer day; our country road was a tunnel of gold, and sumac ran like a low flame along the south pasture.
Then, with a flurry of leaves, Inky was beside me. I knelt and stroked the fur so smooth and shiny again. He moved, and I was achingly aware of the useless limb. “I’m so sorry, Inky,” I said, putting my arm around his neck and pressing my head against his.
Sitting awkwardly, he placed his paw on my knee and looked up at me with soft, intelligent eyes. Then he pricked his ears and turned to listen. In an instant, he was off to meet the school bus. He ran with an ungainly, one-sided lope—but he ran with joy.
Tim jumped from the high step and caught the dog in his arms, “Oh, Inky! Inky!” he cried. Inky licked Tim’s face and twisted and squirmed with delight. They remained there for a time, oblivious to anything but the ecstasy of being together again.
Watching them, I knew I’d been right to let the dog live. What was it Mr. Jolliff had said?
“Life’s pretty precious . . . especially where there’s love.”
Aletha Jane Lindstrom
2
THE MAGIC
OF THE BOND
W e are shaped and fashioned by what we love.
Goethe
MUTTS by Patrick McDonnell. Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.
The Fishermen
Peppy was an old dog put together with a few genes of this and that. His body was a mass of gray curls that still had traces of the black that once covered him from head to toe. A lot like my own hair. But it was his eyes that could melt your soul. Dark-brown discs were clouded milky white. Pep was blind and a stroke had rendered his legs useless. The poor dog had to be carried everywhere. He was 15, 105 in human years, and I was nearing 80. We could commiserate.
We met for the first time in
By the time I reached our yard, the sun was gone. I walked down by the barn and stood with my arms on the top fence rail. Then I dropped my head to my arms and let the tears come.
I cried because Inky had been so gentle with the animals, and because he loved Tim so much, and Tim loved him. Butmostly I cried because I hadn’t really wanted him; not until now, when this terrible thing had happened.
Inky’s paw couldn’t be saved. Too vividly, I recalled how Inky had raced across fields and meadows, swift and free as a cloud shadow. I listened skeptically as the vet tried to reassure us: “He’s young and strong. He’ll get along on three legs.”
Tim took the news with surprising calmness. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just so Inky comes home.”
“But those long jaunts the two of you take may tire him now,” I cautioned.
“He’s always waited for me. I’ll wait for him. Besides, we’re never in much of a hurry .”
The vet called a few days later. “You’d better come for your dog. He’s homesick.” I went immediately and was shocked at the change in Inky. The light was gone from his eyes. His tail hung limp and tattered, and the stump of his leg was swathed in a stained bandage. He hobbled over and pressed wearily against my leg. A shudder went through the hot, thin body and he sighed—a long, deep sigh filled with all the misery and loneliness of the past few days.
At the farm, I helped Inky from the car. He looked first to the sheep, grazing in the pasture; then, beyond the fields of green winter wheat, to the autumn woods where the horses, dappled with sunlight, moved among the trees. My heart ached as I realized how great must have been his longing for this place. At last, he limped to the barn and slipped between the heavy doors.
While his wound healed, Inky stayed in the barn, coming out only in the evenings. Throughout those days a sick feeling never left me. You are a coward to let him live in this condition, I told myself. But in my heart I wasn’t sure.
About a week after bringing Inky home, I was in the yard raking leaves. When I’d finished under the maple, I sat on the steps to rest. It was a perfect Indian summer day; our country road was a tunnel of gold, and sumac ran like a low flame along the south pasture.
Then, with a flurry of leaves, Inky was beside me. I knelt and stroked the fur so smooth and shiny again. He moved, and I was achingly aware of the useless limb. “I’m so sorry, Inky,” I said, putting my arm around his neck and pressing my head against his.
Sitting awkwardly, he placed his paw on my knee and looked up at me with soft, intelligent eyes. Then he pricked his ears and turned to listen. In an instant, he was off to meet the school bus. He ran with an ungainly, one-sided lope—but he ran with joy.
Tim jumped from the high step and caught the dog in his arms, “Oh, Inky! Inky!” he cried. Inky licked Tim’s face and twisted and squirmed with delight. They remained there for a time, oblivious to anything but the ecstasy of being together again.
Watching them, I knew I’d been right to let the dog live. What was it Mr. Jolliff had said?
“Life’s pretty precious . . . especially where there’s love.”
Aletha Jane Lindstrom
2
THE MAGIC
OF THE BOND
W e are shaped and fashioned by what we love.
Goethe
MUTTS by Patrick McDonnell. Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.
The Fishermen
Peppy was an old dog put together with a few genes of this and that. His body was a mass of gray curls that still had traces of the black that once covered him from head to toe. A lot like my own hair. But it was his eyes that could melt your soul. Dark-brown discs were clouded milky white. Pep was blind and a stroke had rendered his legs useless. The poor dog had to be carried everywhere. He was 15, 105 in human years, and I was nearing 80. We could commiserate.
We met for the first time in
Similar Books
