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Authors: Jack Canfield
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truck for a small paving company. As I hauled a load of gravel through the center of town, I saw Shep standing on the sidewalk near the bar. I yelled to him and thought I saw his tail wag. His reaction made me feel good.
After work I bought three more cans of Alpo and a cheeseburger. My new friend and I ate dinner together on the sidewalk. He finished his first.
The next night, when I brought his food, he welcomed me with wild enthusiasm. Now and then, his malnourished legs buckled and he fell to the pavement. Other humans had deserted him and mistreated him, but now he had a friend and his appreciation was more than obvious.
I didn’t see him the next day as I hauled load after load up the main street past the bar. I wondered if someone had taken him home.
After work I parked my black Harley on the street and walked down the sidewalk looking for him. I was afraid of what I would find. He was lying on his side in an alley nearby. His tongue hung out in the dirt and only the tip of his tail moved when he saw me.
The local veterinarian was still at his office, so I borrowed a pickup truck from my employer and loaded the limp mongrel into the cab. “Is this your dog?” the vet asked after checking the pitiful specimen that lay helplessly on his examining table.
“No,” I said, “he’s just a stray.”
“He’s got the beginnings of distemper,” the vet said sadly. “If he doesn’t have a home, the kindest thing we can do is put him out of his misery.”
I put my hand on the dog’s shoulder. His mangy tail thumped weakly against the stainless steel table.
I sighed loudly. “He’s got a home,” I said.
For the next three nights and two days, the dog—I named him Shep—lay on his side in my apartment. My roommate and I spent hours putting water in his mouth and trying to get him to swallow a few scrambled eggs. He couldn’t do it, but whenever I touched him, his tail wagged slightly at the very tip.
At about 10 A.M. on the third day, I went home to open the apartment for the telephone installer. As I stepped through the door, I was nearly flattened by a jumping, wiggling mass of euphoric mutt. Shep had recovered.
With time, the mangy starving dog that nearly died in my living room grew into an eighty-pound block of solid muscle, with a massive chest and a super-thick coat of shiny black fur. Many times, when loneliness and depression have nearly gotten the best of me, Shep has returned my favor by showering me with his unbridled friendship until I had no choice but to smile and trade my melancholy for a fast game of fetch-the-stick.
When I look back, I can see that Shep and I met at the low point of both of our lives. But we aren’t lonely drifters anymore. I’d say we’ve both come home.
Joe Kirkup
Innocent Homeless
N o matter how little money and how few possessions you own, having a dog makes you rich.
Louis Sabin
The hastily scrawled sign on the crumpled cardboard read: BROKE—NEED DOG FOOD. The desperate young man held the sign in one hand and a leash in the other as he paced back and forth on the busy corner in downtown Las Vegas.
Attached to the leash was a husky pup no more than a year old. Not far from them was an older dog of the same breed, chained to a lamppost. He was howling into the brisk chill of the approaching winter evening, with a wail that could be heard for blocks. It was as though he knew his own fate, for the sign that was propped next to him read: FOR SALE.
Forgetting about my own destination, I quickly turned the car around and made a beeline back toward the homeless trio. For years, I’ve kept dog and cat food in the trunk of my car for stray or hungry animals I often find. It’s been a way of helping those I couldn’t take in. It’s also what I’ve used to coax many a scared dog off the road to safety. Helping needy animals has always been an automatic decision for me.
I pulled into the nearest parking lot and grabbed a five-pound bag of dog food, a
After work I bought three more cans of Alpo and a cheeseburger. My new friend and I ate dinner together on the sidewalk. He finished his first.
The next night, when I brought his food, he welcomed me with wild enthusiasm. Now and then, his malnourished legs buckled and he fell to the pavement. Other humans had deserted him and mistreated him, but now he had a friend and his appreciation was more than obvious.
I didn’t see him the next day as I hauled load after load up the main street past the bar. I wondered if someone had taken him home.
After work I parked my black Harley on the street and walked down the sidewalk looking for him. I was afraid of what I would find. He was lying on his side in an alley nearby. His tongue hung out in the dirt and only the tip of his tail moved when he saw me.
The local veterinarian was still at his office, so I borrowed a pickup truck from my employer and loaded the limp mongrel into the cab. “Is this your dog?” the vet asked after checking the pitiful specimen that lay helplessly on his examining table.
“No,” I said, “he’s just a stray.”
“He’s got the beginnings of distemper,” the vet said sadly. “If he doesn’t have a home, the kindest thing we can do is put him out of his misery.”
I put my hand on the dog’s shoulder. His mangy tail thumped weakly against the stainless steel table.
I sighed loudly. “He’s got a home,” I said.
For the next three nights and two days, the dog—I named him Shep—lay on his side in my apartment. My roommate and I spent hours putting water in his mouth and trying to get him to swallow a few scrambled eggs. He couldn’t do it, but whenever I touched him, his tail wagged slightly at the very tip.
At about 10 A.M. on the third day, I went home to open the apartment for the telephone installer. As I stepped through the door, I was nearly flattened by a jumping, wiggling mass of euphoric mutt. Shep had recovered.
With time, the mangy starving dog that nearly died in my living room grew into an eighty-pound block of solid muscle, with a massive chest and a super-thick coat of shiny black fur. Many times, when loneliness and depression have nearly gotten the best of me, Shep has returned my favor by showering me with his unbridled friendship until I had no choice but to smile and trade my melancholy for a fast game of fetch-the-stick.
When I look back, I can see that Shep and I met at the low point of both of our lives. But we aren’t lonely drifters anymore. I’d say we’ve both come home.
Joe Kirkup
Innocent Homeless
N o matter how little money and how few possessions you own, having a dog makes you rich.
Louis Sabin
The hastily scrawled sign on the crumpled cardboard read: BROKE—NEED DOG FOOD. The desperate young man held the sign in one hand and a leash in the other as he paced back and forth on the busy corner in downtown Las Vegas.
Attached to the leash was a husky pup no more than a year old. Not far from them was an older dog of the same breed, chained to a lamppost. He was howling into the brisk chill of the approaching winter evening, with a wail that could be heard for blocks. It was as though he knew his own fate, for the sign that was propped next to him read: FOR SALE.
Forgetting about my own destination, I quickly turned the car around and made a beeline back toward the homeless trio. For years, I’ve kept dog and cat food in the trunk of my car for stray or hungry animals I often find. It’s been a way of helping those I couldn’t take in. It’s also what I’ve used to coax many a scared dog off the road to safety. Helping needy animals has always been an automatic decision for me.
I pulled into the nearest parking lot and grabbed a five-pound bag of dog food, a
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