Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul Read Free Page B

he licked her jawbone, then cuddled into the hollow of her neck. The tears began anew at this exchange of affection and the dog endured her crying without moving.
    Finally, Stella lowered him to her lap, where she regarded him solemnly. She wiped vaguely at her wet cheeks, then somehow mustered a smile.
    “Well, little guy, I guess it’s you and me.” His pink tongue panted in agreement. Stella’s smile strengthened, and her gaze shifted sideways to the window. Dusk had fallen. Through fluffy flakes that were now drifting down, she saw the cheery Christmas lights edging the roof lines of her neighbors’ homes. The strains of “Joy to the World” floated in from the kitchen.
    Suddenly Stella felt the most amazing sensation of peace and benediction wash over her. It was like being enfolded in a loving embrace. Her heart beat painfully, but it was with joy and wonder, not grief or loneliness. She need never feel alone again.
    Returning her attention to the dog, she spoke to him. “You know, fella, I have a box in the basement that I think you’d like. There’s a tree in it and some decorations and lights that will impress you like crazy! And I think I can find that old stable down there, too. What d’ya say we go hunt it up?”
    The puppy barked happily in agreement, as if he understood every word. Stella got up, placed the puppy on the floor and together they went down to the basement, ready to make a Christmas together.
    Cathy Miller

Reprinted by permission of George B. Abbott.

Frisk
    Sometimes, when our dog and cat patients died, the owners brought them in for us to dispose of them. It was always a sad occasion and I had a sense of foreboding when I saw old Dick Fawcett’s face.
    He put the improvised cat box on the surgery table and looked at me with unhappy eyes.
    “It’s Frisk,” he said. His lips trembled as though he was unable to say more.
    I didn’t ask any questions, but began to undo the strings on the cardboard container. Dick couldn’t afford a proper cat box, but he had used this one before, a homemade affair with holes punched in the sides.
    I untied the last knot and looked inside at the motionless body. Frisk. The glossy black, playful little creature I knew so well, always purring and affectionate and Dick’s companion and friend.
    “When did he die, Dick?” I asked gently. He passed a hand over his haggard face and through the straggling grey hairs. “Well, I just found ’im stretched out by my bed this morning. But . . . I don’t rightly know if he’s dead yet, Mr. Herriot.”
    I looked again inside the box. There was no sign of breathing. I lifted the limp form on to the table and touched the cornea of the unseeing eye. No reflex. I reached for my stethoscope and placed it over the chest.
    “The heart’s still going, Dick, but it’s a very faint beat.”
    “Might stop any time, you mean?”
    I hesitated. “Well, that’s the way it sounds, I’m afraid.”
    As I spoke, the little cat’s rib cage lifted slightly, then subsided.
    “He’s still breathing,” I said, “but only just.” I examined the cat thoroughly and found nothing unusual. The conjunctiva of the eye was a good colour. In fact, there was no abnormality.
    I passed a hand over the sleek little body. “This is a puzzler, Dick. He’s always been so lively—lived up to his name, in fact, yet here he is, flat out, and I can’t find any reason for it.”
    “Could he have ’ad a stroke or summat?”
    “I suppose it’s just possible, but I wouldn’t expect him to be totally unconscious. I’m wondering if he might have had a blow on the head.”
    “I don’t think so. He was as right as rain when I went to bed, and he was never out during t’night.” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Any road, it’s a poor look-out for ’im?”
    “Afraid so, Dick. He’s only just alive. But I’ll give him a stimulant injection and then you must take him home and keep him warm. If he’s still around tomorrow