Read Online Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
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dying.” I heard the catch in his voice. “Looks like she was trying to make it home.”
When we got to Angel, Bill was crouched beside her. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said, pointing to the blue wildflowers in the lush green fields, in easy reach for a hungry horse through the barbed wire. “Loco weed. Some horses love it, but it can be a killer.”
I pulled Angel’s big head onto my lap and stroked behind her ears. Tears welled in Scott’s eyes. “Best mare we ever had,” he murmured.
“Angel!” I pleaded. “Please don’t go!” Choking back my grief, I ran my hand down her neck and listened to her labored breathing. She shuddered once, and I looked into eyes that could no longer see. Angel was gone.
In a cloud of numbness, I heard Scott call out only a few yards away. “Mom! Dad! Come look at this foal!”
Deep in the sweet-smelling grasses lay a tiny colt. A single spot brightened his face, and stars spangled his back and hips. A pure, radiant Appaloosa, our horse of many colors. “Starburst,” I whispered.
But somehow, all that color didn’t matter anymore. As his mother had taught us so many times, it’s not what’s on the outside that counts, but what lies deep inside the heart.
Penny Porter
Home
E ventually you will come to understand that love heals everything, and love is all there is.
Gary Zukav
A freezing downpour washed the black asphalt street in front of the small-town bar. I sat gazing into the watery darkness, alone as usual. Across the rain-drenched roadway was the town park: five acres of grass, giant elm trees and, tonight, an ankle-deep covering of cold water.
I had been in that battered old pub for a half hour, quietly nursing a drink, when my thoughtful stare finally focused on a medium-sized lump in a grassy puddle a hundred feet away. For another ten minutes, I looked out through the tear-streaked windowpane trying to decide if the lump was an animal or just a wet and inanimate something.
The night before, a German shepherd-looking mongrel had come into the bar begging for potato chips. He was mangy and starving and just the size of the lump in question. Why would a dog lie in a cold puddle in the freezing rain? I asked myself. The answer was simple: Either it wasn’t a dog, or if it was, he was too weak to get up.
The shrapnel wound in my right shoulder ached all the way down to my fingers. I didn’t want to go out in that storm. Hey, it wasn’t my dog; it wasn’t anybody’s dog. It was just a stray on a cold night in the rain, a lonely drifter.
So am I, I thought, as I tossed down what was left of my drink and headed out the door.
He was lying in three inches of water. When I touched him, he didn’t move. I thought he was dead. I put my hands around his chest and hoisted him to his feet. He stood unsteadily in the puddle, his head hung like a weight at the end of his neck. Half his body was covered with mange. His floppy ears were just hairless pieces of flesh dotted with open sores.
“Come on,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to carry his infected carcass to shelter. His tail wagged once and he plodded weakly after me. I led him to an alcove next to the bar, where he lay on the cold cement and closed his eyes.
A block away I could see the lights of a late-night convenience store. It was still open. I bought three cans of Alpo and stuffed them into my leather coat. I was wet and ugly and the clerk looked relieved as I left. The race-type exhausts on my old Harley-Davidson rattled the windows in the bar as I rode back to the bar.
The barmaid opened the cans for me and said the dog’s name was Shep. She told me he was about a year old and that his owner had gone to Germany and left him on the street. He ate all three cans of dog food with an aweinspiring singleness of purpose. I wanted to pet him, but he smelled like death and looked even worse. “Good luck,” I said, then got on my bike and rode away.
The next day I got a job driving a dump
When we got to Angel, Bill was crouched beside her. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said, pointing to the blue wildflowers in the lush green fields, in easy reach for a hungry horse through the barbed wire. “Loco weed. Some horses love it, but it can be a killer.”
I pulled Angel’s big head onto my lap and stroked behind her ears. Tears welled in Scott’s eyes. “Best mare we ever had,” he murmured.
“Angel!” I pleaded. “Please don’t go!” Choking back my grief, I ran my hand down her neck and listened to her labored breathing. She shuddered once, and I looked into eyes that could no longer see. Angel was gone.
In a cloud of numbness, I heard Scott call out only a few yards away. “Mom! Dad! Come look at this foal!”
Deep in the sweet-smelling grasses lay a tiny colt. A single spot brightened his face, and stars spangled his back and hips. A pure, radiant Appaloosa, our horse of many colors. “Starburst,” I whispered.
But somehow, all that color didn’t matter anymore. As his mother had taught us so many times, it’s not what’s on the outside that counts, but what lies deep inside the heart.
Penny Porter
Home
E ventually you will come to understand that love heals everything, and love is all there is.
Gary Zukav
A freezing downpour washed the black asphalt street in front of the small-town bar. I sat gazing into the watery darkness, alone as usual. Across the rain-drenched roadway was the town park: five acres of grass, giant elm trees and, tonight, an ankle-deep covering of cold water.
I had been in that battered old pub for a half hour, quietly nursing a drink, when my thoughtful stare finally focused on a medium-sized lump in a grassy puddle a hundred feet away. For another ten minutes, I looked out through the tear-streaked windowpane trying to decide if the lump was an animal or just a wet and inanimate something.
The night before, a German shepherd-looking mongrel had come into the bar begging for potato chips. He was mangy and starving and just the size of the lump in question. Why would a dog lie in a cold puddle in the freezing rain? I asked myself. The answer was simple: Either it wasn’t a dog, or if it was, he was too weak to get up.
The shrapnel wound in my right shoulder ached all the way down to my fingers. I didn’t want to go out in that storm. Hey, it wasn’t my dog; it wasn’t anybody’s dog. It was just a stray on a cold night in the rain, a lonely drifter.
So am I, I thought, as I tossed down what was left of my drink and headed out the door.
He was lying in three inches of water. When I touched him, he didn’t move. I thought he was dead. I put my hands around his chest and hoisted him to his feet. He stood unsteadily in the puddle, his head hung like a weight at the end of his neck. Half his body was covered with mange. His floppy ears were just hairless pieces of flesh dotted with open sores.
“Come on,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to carry his infected carcass to shelter. His tail wagged once and he plodded weakly after me. I led him to an alcove next to the bar, where he lay on the cold cement and closed his eyes.
A block away I could see the lights of a late-night convenience store. It was still open. I bought three cans of Alpo and stuffed them into my leather coat. I was wet and ugly and the clerk looked relieved as I left. The race-type exhausts on my old Harley-Davidson rattled the windows in the bar as I rode back to the bar.
The barmaid opened the cans for me and said the dog’s name was Shep. She told me he was about a year old and that his owner had gone to Germany and left him on the street. He ate all three cans of dog food with an aweinspiring singleness of purpose. I wanted to pet him, but he smelled like death and looked even worse. “Good luck,” I said, then got on my bike and rode away.
The next day I got a job driving a dump
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