Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Dogs and the People Who Love Them: A Collection in Words and Photographs

by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen

Overview

Dogs. Our best friends. From the dawn of civilization, we have cherished them as our loyal companions, exuberant playmates, healing and gentle souls.

From adorable puppies with floppy ears and wobbly steps to full-grown guardinas of our love and trust, there is no other animal that compares to the dog. A playful growl, a boisterous bark, a cock of the head, an inquisitive stare - each inspires us with love and adoration.

The stories and photographs in this wonderful volume celebrate the humor, loyalty, love, courage and healing power of our canine companions. Each page in this book rejoices in the wonderful and poignant moments we share with our furry friends and the lessons of love they teach us each and every day.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781453280560
Publisher:	Chicken Soup for the Soul
Publication date:	10/02/2012
Series:	Chicken Soup for the Soul Series
Sold by:	SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:	eBook
Pages:	96
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Jack Canfield is cocreator of the Chicken Soup for the Soul® series, which includes forty New York Times bestsellers, and coauthor of The Success Principles: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be. He is a leader in the field of personal transformation and peak performance and is currently CEO of the Canfield Training Group and Founder and Chairman of the Board of The Foundation for Self-Esteem. An internationally renowned corporate trainer and keynote speaker, he lives in Santa Barbara, California.
Jack Canfield is co-creator of the Chicken Soup for the Soul® series, which includes forty New York Times bestsellers, and coauthor of The Success Principles: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be. He is a leader in the field of personal transformation and peak performance and is currently CEO of the Canfield Training Group and Founder and Chairman of the Board of The Foundation for Self-Esteem. An internationally renowned corporate trainer and keynote speaker, he lives in Santa Barbara, California.
 Mark Victor Hansen is a co-founder of Chicken Soup for the Soul.

Hometown:

Santa Barbara, California

Date of Birth:

August 19, 1944

Place of Birth:

Fort Worth, Texas

Education:

B.A. in History, Harvard University, 1966; M.A.T. Program, University of Chicago, 1968; M.Ed., U. of Massachusetts, 1973

Website:

http://www.jackcanfield.com

Read an Excerpt

Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Dogs and the People Who Love Them

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By Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Sharon J. Wohlmuth

Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2012 Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-8056-0

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CHAPTER 1

SWIMMING THE MIANUS

My parents used to have a beautiful white clapboard house on the banks of the Mianus River, in Connecticut. The smallish river lolled past beautiful houses, dotted with green lawns, gray docks, white Adirondack chairs and small colorful boats. My parents' house had a huge lawn that rolled down to the water. Looking across the water, you could see small boats at anchor, with their empty, rickety lobster pots stacked like building blocks thrown in a pile, bobbing up and down on the shining water. On the most memorable days, the sky was blue, the grass bright green and the whites blinding—a perfect postcard.

It was on such a day that Exley, my year-and-a-half-old German shorthaired pointer, decided he would go for a swim. He was young and sturdy and precocious. He romped around, tough and strong, still with the youthful energy and excitement of a puppy.

Exley had a solid dark chocolate head, with three large liver patches, gray flecking and white socks. He was not exceptionally big, but he had a broad chest and alert eyes. He could be a terror one minute and an absolute sweetheart the next. A hunting machine, he liked nothing better than to fall asleep with his head on my lap. He was affectionate to a fault. But his penchant for chasing squirrels, birds, cats and other animals never ended well—especially for him.

Exley loved my parents' backyard, and was fond of rooting around in the shore's black, fine, oozy mud. Though my mother loved Exley, she was never very happy to see him arrive at her house, despite my protestations, for some mischief was always imminent. This particular day was no different.

Exley and I had been working on his training, and I decided here in the quiet of my parents' unfenced backyard would be a good time to reinforce my position as the alpha male in our limited pack of two.

"Siiiit," I said quietly, stepping back slowly. "Sit." I used an even, forceful tone. And it was working. I was now about twenty-five paces away. I stopped and commanded evenly again, "Down, Exley. Down." He got down and stayed down, and I began moving a little farther, and a little farther back. I was the master, I was the alpha male, I was in control. Finally, I was fifty to sixty paces away on our second attempt at the exercise, when I said, "Good boy, Exley! Good boy." I said this at the end, because no matter how I said it, quietly, excitedly, evenly, Exley would break. He was consistent in this. No matter the tone, he always broke when I praised him.

Now, Exley had always been good at coming back to me. And here he was, running toward me. Ears flapping up and down, his big pink tongue flopping like a rag doll from his mouth, a puppyish prance in his step, he bounced toward me. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, his ears pricked up, his tongue drew in and his mouth closed. His gait changed from a bouncy trot to a thundering gallop. His powerful chest tightened, his stride exploded, and he raced down the slope of my parents' lawn like a horse in the Light Brigade. I tried to step in his way, but he barely lost stride, changing directions with speed and accuracy not seen since the Roman cavalry. I did not exist.

The ground shook as he approached and then shot past me. Though I felt some trepidation, and even as I was hollering, "Exley, come here!" at the top of my lungs, I could not help but admire his grace and elegance while in a full burst of pure speed. His body bobbed like an engine piston, with the grace of a thoroughbred, but his head stayed fixed like a cheetah in mid-hunt.

And then he leapt. I can still remember yelling "Nooooo," in slow motion, like in a bad Burt Reynolds movie. His leap was magnificent. In mid-air, he was the image of artful grace. He rose high over the shimmering water, his front paws elegantly stretched out before him, his hind legs balancing his back, and his Goofy-like ears flapping up in the wind. And into the beautiful New England postcard Exley leapt. His splash broke the silence that only existed in the motion picture inside my head.

"Exley, come! Exley, come here now! Exley!" But there was no penetrating his thick head. I scanned the water. There were three boats in the vicinity. But where was he going? There were no birds. He had been known to swim after ducks and seagulls. He was obsessed with game of any kind. I called and called but he did not heed me. He paddled furiously. One boat missed him. Another boat passed and obscured my view. None of these distracted him. Then it occurred to me. He was swimming to the opposite shore!

"No! No! Come back!" I screamed and hollered, but Exley kept moving. Trying to peer between the boats and houses and other obstacles, I squinted to see what was drawing his attention. But I couldn't see a thing. I realized I needed to move quickly. I raced up the lawn, ran into the house, swiped the keys and raced to the car. I had to get to the other side.

I roared down the sun-dappled, crooked country road like Gene Hackman in The French Connection, honking at all those in my way. Getting there was no easy feat. I had to race up toward Route One, drive across the river and find the road on the opposite bank. It should have been easy, but Murphy's Law was like gravity at ten-plus that day. Finally, I raced down the road, finding the landmarks I had picked out before I left.

I searched the riverbank. I looked at houses he might have been tempted to investigate. I checked out a couple of garbage bins where he might have been tempted to dine. I worried he might have been killed by an oncoming car. I drove up and down the street making sure he wasn't crumpled on the side of the road. What had I done?! Oh, how could I let something happen to him? It was then that I noticed that on the opposite shore, people on a passing boat were pointing to something. It was Exley, crawling back onto land ... onto my parents' lawn. He was emerging from the tidal waters, covered in mud, rising like some canine version of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He shook himself off, his large ears flapping and his stubby little tail wagging away. I was never so happy in my life. He was safe!

Just as suddenly as he had bolted passed me into the water, I now saw him bolting toward my parents' house. The patio door was open, and again it seemed I had entered some bad made-for-television movie. He bounded faster and faster, coated in earthy slime, up the trimly cut lawn, toward the striped-awning covered patio and my parents' house. "Noooooooo!"

Exley was banished from my parents' house that day. The mud had been tracked through the entire house. My mother screamed at him. My father screamed at him. I screamed at him. I yanked him outside to give him a bath, and when I was sure my parents weren't anywhere near, I got on the ground, and hugged him as never before. And I laughed; I laughed so heartily. I laughed because I loved him and was so happy he was alive. He licked my face and wagged his stubby little tail. He smelled awful, simply awful, and I hugged him all the more.

Carlo DeVito

CHAPTER 2

CARRY ON, MISTER BOY

His name was Jasper, but to us, he was Mister Boy.

Eight weeks after he was born, we picked up our golden retriever puppy at the Seattle Airport following his flight from the Canine Companions for Independence Training Center in Santa Rosa, California. My husband and I, along with our two teenage daughters, had volunteered to be puppy raisers because we thought it would be a meaningful experience. It was. Only our collective sense of humor got us through puppyhood with Jasper.

Since we already owned Chester, a neurotic cockapoo, and two cats, Jasper had a lot of adjusting to do. However, puppies do not adjust. The people and other pets around them do. The cats relegated him to the bottom of the pet hierarchy, but Jasper didn't catch on. He assumed a "good-boy-sit" would atone for any of his antics.

When I worked at the computer, Jasper would sit under my desk and I could be fairly certain he was not getting into trouble. The remaining hours of the day were another matter. When anyone in the family lost something, we learned to look outside. Jasper had a penchant for taking anything he could get into his mouth and carting it out through the pet door to the garden. Anything not permanently attached to the ground or house was stolen and carted out. I would go out every few days just to clean out the garden. One would think we didn't keep a close enough watch on him, but he had learned to work quickly. Then there were the items that wouldn't fit through the pet door. A yardstick, for instance, won't fit horizontally, but is easily chewed in half. One day, my daughter looked out the upstairs window and screamed, "Mom! Why is there laundry all over the garden?" An entire load of just-cleaned clothes was strewn across the lawn. Another time, I got the grocery bags only as far as the laundry room. A short time later Jasper trotted into the kitchen covered in white powder and did a "good-boy-sit." Panic set in. It was a long time before I could laugh about the mess a puppy can make with a ten-pound bag of flour.

But eighteen months later, as we said good-bye to him at the airport, we wondered what we had been thinking. We simply wanted to keep him. I thought my heart would break.

A year later this memory was balanced with the joy of seeing Jasper graduate in CCI's social dog program. I looked deeply into his brown eyes—I wanted him to know how much we missed him. He knew.

Jasper had been assigned to Stacie, an occupational therapist who would take him to work with her every day at a Salem, Oregon hospital. I shared lunch with Stacie and all of the other new owners, their new canine graduates and the CCI folks who had made it all possible. No one entering the banquet room would have known there were twelve dogs in faithful "down-stays" under their respective new owners' tables. The new owners had been in Santa Rosa for two weeks of intensive training with their dogs.

The moving ceremony told the powerful story of the human-animal connection. There was Yenti, the service dog who had been assigned to a fourteen-year-old nonverbal autistic boy. Within a short time, this boy had begun to verbalize his love for "my Yenti." Unger, another canine-in-training, had been on an outing to a local shopping center with a CCI trainer. A man near them had suddenly passed out. During the next half hour of action with paramedics, Unger never left the man's side, knowing only that this stranger was in peril and needed his support. The ceremony ended with a woman in a wheelchair singing "You Light Up My Life." Her dog, sharing the spotlight with her, sat patiently, eyes never leaving her new owner's face.

Two years later, my daughter and I were able to visit Stacie and Jasper at work in Salem and by then I was able to view our time with Jasper as one link in the chain of caring. His brown eyes still tugged at me, but so too did the sparkle in a patient's eye as he laboriously reached from his bed to stroke Jasper's fur.

Several years had passed when a card arrived from Stacie. Jasper had been diagnosed with cancer and his front leg had been amputated. His brown eyes again flooded my memory as I told my husband and our now-grown daughters. But this is when I learned who our Mister Boy really was. It seemed that Jasper did not realize he was disabled. He not only returned to work, but he was able to accomplish everything he had done before, even learning to "shake paws" by balancing on his hind legs. His inspiration became hauntingly apparent to Stacie's patients when many of them said, "If Jasper can do it, so can I!"

Now I understand Jasper's legacy—if only we could all just learn to use our grief and pain as fuel for our journeys. He continued his work until November 2001. Then we heard from Stacie that the cancer had returned. Jasper is gone now, but never his spirit. Carry on, Mister Boy.

Marky Olson

CHAPTER 3

RITA AND ANDY

It is a quiet, still evening. Rita sits on the wide window ledge looking out on the street below, allowing her thoughts to drift, much like the soft clouds overhead. But she quickly returns her attention to the street below. She turns her head back and forth, looking at the passing throngs of people as they make their way home from work. Some she recognizes as they wave to her, others are strangers who do nothing more than give her a passing glance or a smile.

At middle age, Rita is still graceful and elegant with a youthful exuberance. Her brown eyes sparkle with joy. Her hair is luxurious and has a glossy sheen. Her walk is more of a strut and she holds her head high knowing she often gets a second glance. Her legs are straight, muscular and strong. Truth be told though, Rita could care less about her youthful appearance and the appreciative glances she receives.

Her life is filled with happiness and love, all for one man. He is the reason she waits at the window every night, just so she can get that first glimpse of him as he emerges from the crowd. She knows that after that first glimpse she'll have enough time to prepare herself for his arrival home; but until then she keeps her vigil at the window.

When Andy and Rita first met they knew in an instant their relationship was meant for life. After their first night together their bond was unbreakable. They became inseparable and knew that they had been destined for each other. A match that happens only once in a lifetime, they were devoted one to the other, sharing a deep love, till death do them part.

Finally Rita spots Andy in the crowd. It would be hard to miss his bouncing stride and his head bobbing from side to side like some bouncing ball on top of a "sing-a-long" tune on TV. She feels the excitement rising in her as it always has. After all their time together, you would think this childish exuberance would have passed, but Rita still has those butterflies, same as she did the first time they came back to the apartment together.

She moves away from the window, taking a quick survey of the apartment, then stops in the middle of the room and waits. She hears Andy's keys in the lock and gazes at him as he steps into the apartment. As soon as Andy empties his arms into the nearest chair, Rita rushes to greet him. Now that he's home, the apartment is safe and warm. They sit together on the couch and joyfully kid with each other.

After supper Andy slips into a pair of jeans and an L. A. Dodgers sweatshirt. As he emerges from the bedroom he turns to Rita and says, "How about going for a walk?" It's a rhetorical question, Rita is already waiting as Andy puts on his coat.

They step from the apartment together and Andy closes the door behind them. There on the door is a brass plaque that reads "RITA" (rottweiler in the apartment). Andy puts Rita's leash on her and off they go, man and his best friend!

Lewis D. Lazorwitz

CHAPTER 4

LONELY SOUL

He can't remember Mom
Never knew his dad
A dog was his companion
The only friend he had

He had a brother somewhere
Who never kept in touch
There was no love between them
So he wasn't missing much

The world can be a lonely place
And folks can be unkind
We hunger for affection, but
True love is hard to find

He loved his childhood sweetheart
And thought she loved him too
Until the day she told him
She found somebody new

So he reached out to others
Till he was old and gray
But found no one to love him
And then he passed away

The world can be a lonely place
And folks can be unkind
We hunger for affection, but
True love is hard to find

They say that when you die
And reach the other side
The one who loves you most
Becomes your spirit guide

And when he did cross over
He saw to his surprise
A tail that wagged so happily
And faithful, loving eyes

Sherwin Kaufman

CHAPTER 5

MY FIRST BABIES

When my son Philip was born, I already knew how to love and tend to a vulnerable, dependent being.

I had become a mommy at the tender age of fourteen. The fact that my offspring was a seven-week-old Irish setter puppy was irrelevant from my perspective. I felt maternal, protective and extremely proud. My affection for Misty Dawn (a name only a young adolescent girl could adore) planted the seed for a more mature motherly love. This maternal seed bloomed when I was twenty-eight years old and the new mother of a seven-pound baby boy.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Dogs and the People Who Love Them by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Sharon J. Wohlmuth. Copyright © 2012 Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC. Excerpted by permission of Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Swimming the Mianus Carlo DeVito,
Carry on, Mister Boy Marky Olson,
Rita and Andy Lewis D. Lazorwitz,
Lonely Soul Sherwin Kaufman,
My First Babies Beth Josolowitz,
Mr. Utley's Gift Nicholas Hyde,
One Soul, Two Halves Ellen Urbani Hiltebrand,
Christmas with TwylaRose Emma Mellon,
Come Home, Sally, Come Home Dena Mosk Erwin,
The Comfort of a Cold, Wet Nose Barbara Baumgardner,
Contributors,
Permissions,