Presbyterian Mission Agency

Animal stories

Presbyterians share stories of the animals that have changed their lives.

When Presbyterians Today put out a call for animal stories, we received so many beautiful stories that we decided to publish a number of them online. Click here to view the 10 selected for the print magazine. Below are some of the other most special stories we received.

Comfort comes on little cat feet

by Mary Z. Martin

Sometimes we are blessed to experience God in the most unexpected ways through small, quiet miracles.

On November 30, 2011, my beloved mother passed away. I miss her terribly, but I am comforted by memories of a most special gift from God during Mom’s last weeks, a miracle named Tootsie.

In early November we moved Mom into the nursing wing at her retirement community for hospice care in her final days. Several days after she had settled in I caught a glimpse of a cat sauntering into her room and slinking behind a large wooden wardrobe. But wait—there couldn’t be a cat just wandering through the halls, could there? Well, yes, there was a cat! Tootsie, it turned out, was the resident community cat. Tootsie emerged from behind the wardrobe, investigated everything in the room, and approached Mom. I picked up the kitty and held her to my mother; Tootsie went limp in my arms and purred to let us know that she was happy to meet us. Mom beamed and gently stroked Tootsie’s soft fur. After a short visit Tootsie left the room and continued her rounds down the hall. 

The next morning Tootsie reappeared and decided to spend the day curled up in the corner of Mom’s room, taking only occasional breaks for food and to answer the call of nature. Tootsie settled into Mom’s room that night as well. After several days of nonstop visits we realized that Tootsie had adopted Mom. The sweet kitty spent every day and every night in Mom’s room, bringing a warm and comforting presence during some difficult weeks. When Mom glanced at that perfect picture of serenity curled up in the corner, the tension would disappear from her face and she would smile. No other therapy or medication could possibly have touched my mother’s heart and soul with as much joy and peace.

God is good. God’s creation is good. Appreciate the wonder of all God’s living creatures. One day God’s gift to you might arrive in the form of a tiny, purring, furry package.

Love and patience overcoming hopelessness

by Christina Banas

Hopeless. That’s how Mr. Furley was described. Seized from a hoarding case in Buffalo, New York, this dog had never been outside, breathed fresh air, or felt grass on his paws. Matted and terrified, he experienced what animal behaviorists described as a complete psychological collapse.

I’d never fostered before, but the Spirit planted a seed in my heart when I read about Mr. Furley. I volunteered immediately. “How bad could he really be?” I thought. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Mr. Furley came home with me in a crate. I was instructed to never force him out of the crate, but rather let him come out on his own. In my ignorance, I believed that the crate he was in was too small, and that he would be happier in my bigger crate. On our first morning together, I carried both crates outside, opened his, and imagined that he would happily go in the bigger cage. Instead, I had an experience not unlike Jacob wrestling the man—a life-changing moment of astonishment and terror.

Mr. Furley dashed out of his crate in sheer fright. When I approached him, he snapped and snarled. He ran to each corner of the yard, desperate to escape; I was certain he would. After 20 minutes of a dangerous chase, I finally cornered him. There was no doubt he would have bitten me if I had touched him. Willing to do anything to end the standoff, I used a shovel to scoop him into the bigger crate.

Over the next eight weeks, Mr. Furley never left the crate. I spent time, whenever I could, sitting by the crate as I talked on the phone, read, or watched TV. Four weeks passed before he let me touch him. At eight weeks, he was brave enough to go outside (on three leashes) and feel sunshine. It took the entire summer of 2012 for him to feel comfortable around people other than me. He finally played with another dog at a park four months after being rescued.

Mr. Furley was eventually rehabilitated enough to be adopted. He still hides under a bed when company comes, but he is a happy, healthy boy. Love and patience overcame hopelessness.

Open doors at seminary

by Kathleen Dain

In 2008 my life took a dramatic turn as I left my professional career in sales and media arts to pursue my call to ministry. Part of my journey involved moving to Pittsburgh, along with my dog, Bob. The seminary offered me an opportunity to live on campus at a reduced rate, but pets were not allowed. Some suggested I find another home for my nine-year-old Lab, but Bob was family. So I spent my first year living off campus while quietly campaigning for the seminary to change its pet policy.

My campaign included conversations with other students who, like me, appreciated the comfort and unconditional love a floppy-eared dog can provide. I also asked friends and associates where I had lived to write letters of recommendation for Bob. The campaign was a success. Bob and I lived happily on campus for my last two years of seminary. When I left in 2011, there were four dogs and seven cats on campus, with plans to open another pet-friendly building.

What I appreciated most about this change, however, was the gracious way in which it was achieved. As a pet owner, I respected the school's concern for their property. In turn, the faculty and staff recognized how pets provided a form of spiritual care to their owners. Change happened because people with opposing views were willing to talk with one another. When Bob died in 2012, I was overwhelmed with notes and cards of sympathy from the faculty and staff of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary.

The great escape

by Barb Franklin

I am the office administrator for Kirkpatrick Memorial Community Church in Parma, Idaho. Even though I love my job, life was rough a few years ago: I was going through a divorce, moving to a nearby town, and recuperating from a second back surgery.

I had recently been given a Chorkie puppy and named him Peanut. He quickly became my guardian at the office. We both needed each other, and I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t been around. On a summer day three years ago, I almost found out.

On a Saturday in July 2012 I was informed of the death of my dear sister-in-law, Jean. All of my family lives in my hometown of York, Pennsylvania. At this time of chaos in my life, I felt as if I really needed to be there for my only brother and his family.

Peanut and I spent that Friday relaxing with my brother, Wayne, and his dog, Pete. Peanut is a bit shy at first around just about everyone, but he seemed to take to all of the family, even the young ones. On Saturday, I decided to go to the grocery and get something good to make for dinner. Halfway through the store my cell rang; it was Wayne. He was out of breath, and said, “Peanut got out, I need your help.” I checked out quickly, and headed back to the house. People were everywhere, trying to get Peanut to come back. This is a busy street, and many drivers stopped and got out to help. My poor brother—who had had a heart attack two months earlier—was running up the street, in a temperature of about 90, with humidity in the 80s.

I in no way blame Wayne for what happened. I should have known better and put Peanut in his crate, as when I am not in sight, he goes bonkers! Most of us were calling for Peanut in the surrounding woods, and a sweet girl with a leash in her hand would not give up. This fast-running puppy was seen crossing the street a few times, but no one was able to catch him. After a long while I realized that since this town was completely strange to him, I would probably be driving back to Idaho alone. All of the family was heartbroken, and along with losing a loved one, it seemed like the day would never end.

The next morning a relative came by to visit with Wayne and me. It was getting close to noon, which meant that my sweet little puppy had been missing for almost 24 hours. At about 12:30, Wayne was in the kitchen, and started yelling, “Barb, come quick, look at this!” There was Peanut on the back porch. He had come back through the same opening in the gate that he had gotten out of. Wayne didn’t want to open the door, fearing he would take off again, so I opened it and he jumped straight up into my arms. At that time my faith that I had lost during this bad time came back full blast, and I hope I never lose it again. Here was my little miracle. After a bath and a massage, he fell asleep in my lap.

I think my brother lost about 10 pounds chasing Peanut, and I learned to be calm and go with whatever the good Lord handed me. The girl and her mother, who had helped all day, stopped by to see if we had heard anything, and were very happy to see that Peanut had returned. Seeing them cheer for Peanut brought tears to my eyes.

Peanut and I made it home the following Saturday, after driving over 1,000 miles that day. We both wanted to sleep in our own apartment. I know I was exhausted, but he didn’t seem to be any slower, or calmer.

I for one will give anyone who asks this advice: If you are looking for unconditional love, try a dog first!

Loving Cujo

by Patti R. Albaugh

The foster mom drove up to our house and inside her car were two sets of soulful eyes and wagging tails. I felt like King Solomon. How could I judge which dog would find his forever home with us?

In the backyard, I watched them sniff the environs and chase each other around. The tannish shepherd mix came to me with a wagging tail. “He chose you,” the foster mom said. How could I possibly turn down such a smart dog?

The honeymoon was brief. The dog we named Tonto bonded with me but not with my husband, Tom. Tonto was friendly to both us in the morning, but once my husband dressed, Tonto morphed into Cujo. Hackles up, shrill barks, growls. We discovered that he was afraid of men’s shoes. Testing our theory, I put on my husband’s tennis shoes, and Tonto’s bond dissolved. Tail tucked, he would slink away.

We decided Tonto had been kicked or severely punished for chewing shoes, and the campaign for behavior change began. I suggested that Tom stay in his pajamas 24/7, but, strangely, he didn’t like that idea—he would be too conspicuous on the golf course. A trainer said to put a pair of Tom’s shoes in the family room and fill them with treats, but Tonto wasn’t tricked by the meaty lure. The trainer then suggested Prozac. I wasn’t sure if it were for me or the dog—we both could have used it. So Tom frequently went barefoot (fortunately, we live in southern Arizona), and he tiptoed out of the house once he was dressed.

Dog park friends had ideas, and we tried them all—except giving Tonto back to the rescue home. Love-you eyes, the silky ears, and his head resting on my lap overrode any repercussions of the trauma Tonto experienced before he came into our home. Loving pats, companionable walks, favorite treats—we’re making progress. Tonto now sleeps at Tom’s feet—and tennis shoes no longer scare him. Dress shoes? Ask Cujo.

The Lord God made them all

by Janis Kenyon

One afternoon a car came flying into our driveway. A lady jumped out of the car and came running toward the house. My husband and I both went to the door. The woman cried out, “Oh, sir, there’s something terribly wrong with your dog!”

Once again we had to explain, “Oh, no, he’s fine; he was born that way.” Our rottweiler/golden retriever mix was born with spina bifida. Spina bifida is a birth defect that can leave dogs numb or paralyzed from the waist down. When Lucky was six weeks old and not walking like his siblings, friends persuaded me to take him to a vet clinic, where the vet said, “He has spina bifida. He’ll never be able to be housebroken; he’ll mess all over the house. There’s nothing I can do for him; he needs to be put down.”

At 10 weeks the other puppies were adopted, but no one wanted that puppy. We had grown too attached to put him down; he was too cute. So we kept him.

I made special boots with nonskid soles for him so he could stand up, and soon he was walking. I noticed he would go get certain toys when I said their names: “bunny,” “bone,” “ball.” During the Christmas holidays I put a sleigh bell on the front door for a cheery sound when the door opened. After a few weeks of the bell ringing whenever anyone went in or out, Lucky was going to the door and ringing the bell when he needed to go out! Soon he was going for walks in the field behind our house and chasing the bunnies, legs flying out behind him and racing for all he was worth. That “worthless” dog has given us more laughs, love, and entertainment than we ever dreamed of. In a world that expects perfection, our Lucky is a reminder that we are not in control, and if we trust God’s wisdom, what we receive may not be perfect and the way we want it, but it could be rewarding just the same!

Discovering a treasure through volunteering

by Mary Eggers McCarroll

I have loved animals my entire life, especially cats. I have been a volunteer for the Animal Rescue League of Iowa for 22 years, and have witnessed incredible compassion and love beyond belief as a result of the human/animal bond. 

I began fostering cats and kittens in 1993 and lost count of how many I’ve cared for, but I know it numbers in the hundreds.

Being a volunteer has brought incredible joy into my life that can only be experienced through the touch and love of an animal. One of those very special animals is our cat Pinkerbelle, who came into our lives in 2010.

While helping feed and clean kennels on Memorial Day, a little white fluff ball with hazel eyes looked into mine and started meowing. This precious, white, four-week-old kitten had been surrendered to the care of the ARL. I fell in love with her immediately. Unfortunately, she had not been properly cared for prior to coming to the shelter, but with the help of the medical staff at the ARL and a lot of love, she thrived in our home as a foster. Needless to say, she won our hearts in a way that only she could. My husband carries her around like a baby; she sleeps on our heads at night and knocks the water glass off a bathroom vanity as a way of getting attention. Still, even with her crazy antics, we love her all the more.

I continue to volunteer with the ARL in many capacities, including helping with events, but mostly with fostering through their Shelter Cat Getaway program. This involves volunteers caring for cats that have been at the ARL for a long time in their own homes. It gives the cats a break from the shelter, but they remain available for adoption.

I thank God every day for little Pinkerbelle because of the joy she brings to my husband and me. If it had not been for the opportunity to volunteer at the Animal Rescue League of Iowa, we never would have met this sweet girl. 

‘Never take life for granted’

by Katrina Pekich-Bundy

“Aura,” loosely translated, means “life-giving spirit” in Latin. As Christians, we remember that God gave us life, and that it is a gift, which is why we named our shepherd mix puppy Aura. She is a great example of that life-giving spirit.

One day in Kentucky, six puppies were thrown over a bridge into the river by their owner. A homeless man who happened to be under the bridge at that time saw this event unfold, and he immediately jumped in after the puppies. He rescued as many as he could, and then kept the ones who survived under his coat. He waited by the side of the road, hoping someone would stop to help the puppies. By the time a stranger stopped to assist the homeless man and the puppies, only one puppy survived.

This shepherd mix was only a few weeks old and needed immediate medical care. She was rushed to a shelter and cared for, and fostered for a few weeks. The minute I heard her story, I knew she was a special dog, and my family adopted her. Aura, now four years old, brings love and life and joy to our home. She remains understandably scared of water, but is otherwise carefree and happy.

She reminds us to never take life for granted, and to count our blessings. One of those blessings is that homeless man who rescued her, and the person who stopped to help him. Without their unselfish actions, we would not have had the opportunity to adopt such a life-giving dog.

Life is better with a little Spice

by Amy Hemseri-Sabala

Spice, a female golden retriever, was just one year old when she was dropped from training as a service dog for people with disabilities after being diagnosed with hip dysplasia. The person who had raised her as a puppy contacted me and asked if I was interested in raising a therapy dog. She said if I was, she had the perfect dog for me. I was 47 years old and had never had a dog before. But I agreed to raise a therapy dog, even though I had no idea what I was doing. The first year that Spice and I were together was spent in training me–she arrived fully trained. When we finally tested with Pet Partners, we passed with flying colors!

Now Spice and I volunteer as a pet therapy team at a local children’s hospital. Each week we are assigned to a new floor and go door-to-door, asking the kids if they would like a visit from us. I am even blessed by the ones who say “no” because for one moment we gave them a choice, in an environment where they are given few opportunities to make their own decisions.

No words can describe the joy I feel to offer a few minutes of normalcy to each child. If a child invites Spice up, then she jumps on the bed and cuddles as the child pets her and we talk of everyday things. I ask the children questions like “Do you have a pet at home?” or “What is your favorite subject in school?” or “Do you have siblings?” An amazing peace occurs as we chat and they pet Spice.

In addition to the kids, Spice and I also visit with the parents, who are often experiencing high levels of anxiety. We check in with the nurses, doctors, assistants, guards, and chaplains for a quick pet and much-deserved attention. Everyone benefits from a visit with Spice, and I am proud to be her companion! Life truly is better with a little Spice.

A companion for a spiritual journey

by Judy Roberts

When I was a young child my family lived in Ambler, Pennsylvania, a small suburb of Philadelphia, and attended Ambler Presbyterian Church.

Jackie, my best friend and loyal, loving, and faithful companion, was a terrier-mix dog my grandfather gave to me. Jackie followed me everywhere he was allowed and sometimes where he was not allowed. 

Since our church was within walking distance, I usually walked to Sunday school. When Jackie could get out before being stopped by my mother, he followed me. Our Sunday school class was in the lower level of the church, with the sanctuary on the main floor. If Jackie could not scoot in through the Sunday school door, he would go up through the sanctuary and come down to the room where he found me. He quietly came in and lay under the table, where he was so well-behaved that our teacher placed gold stars on his collar for attendance.

Jackie was an ecumenical dog: he went not only to the Presbyterian church but also to other churches. Our next-door neighbors attended a Catholic church, also within walking distance. One year on Ash Wednesday I was playing with the neighbor children when their mother said it was time to go to church and receive ashes. She then asked if I would like to go with them. I ran home and asked my mother if I could go, and she said yes. We walked the few blocks to the church, not realizing that Jackie was following us. Reverently entering the church, we walked down the center aisle and knelt at the railing. Suddenly Jackie was quietly sitting next to me. The priest proceeded to come along in front of us and applied ashes to our foreheads. Without any hesitation he leaned down and put ashes on Jackie’s head.

Thanks be to God for my faithful companion in the early years of my spiritual journey!

‘A ministry of presence’

by Kathy Lee

It was only supposed to be temporary. A gray, curly-haired stray dog approached a friend of mine while she was having lunch outside a New Orleans eatery. I agreed to watch him for a few days while she made efforts to report him missing and locate his owner. I was living alone for the first time in my adult life and could use the company. My attempts to establish boundaries were met with great resistance. I wondered, “What if his owner calls and I have to give him up?” He wondered, “Why can’t I sit, sleep, eat, and play with you all the time?” To me, he was an animal that dirtied my furniture. To him, I was his best friend and trusted caregiver. 

After no one claimed him, I took him to the vet to make sure his health was in order. I also had to give him a name. He was a Thomas. Thomas had heartworms, but thankfully, a local church member and frequent Presbyterian Disaster Assistance volunteer was a veterinarian. After several months of treatment, Thomas was a healthy dog with more energy and heart than ever. I served as the site coordinator of the Young Adult Volunteer Program for the Presbytery of South Louisiana, and Thomas became the unlicensed volunteer pet therapist, offering his warmth and presence to YAVs as they processed the joys and struggles they faced throughout their year. 

Thomas was also welcomed a guest “speaker” for my home congregation’s summer enrichment program known as Happy Summer English Camp. When I answered the call to become a seminarian, Thomas embraced the community life of Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, and the community embraced him. Events like the Blessing of the Animals and just about any potluck have made up for all of the late nights writing papers. Thomas embodies what it means to offer a ministry of presence. He offers no judgment and never withholds his expressions of joy. Witnessing Thomas run through this world with unbridled love and affection reminds me of what Christ calls me to do as well. After I finish seminary, I hope Thomas will pursue his official licensure as a pet therapist. 

‘I took care of her, and she took care of me’

by Jeanne Giles

A November day turned blustery after an Indian summer day. Two days later, Lincoln was blanketed with ice. Extreme days make me think of my last dachshund, Molly, St. Joanne of Bark!

I pictured Molly on the deck, resting and rolling, side to side, to be “equally toasted.” Time moved quickly, and she was shivering while gazing at the inside door with big hound eyes. Both scenes occurred in 2014, the first a cold February day; the second a hot July day.

Molly had renal failure, cataracts, and back problems. She suffered on a healthy diet, while favorites like eggs and tuna were banned. Molly’s vet explained, “She’s happy and enjoys life. Molly will let you know when she’s not.”

Molly thought our best times were on the recliner and car rides. Her favorite place was on my lap. She loved rides to Hopewell Presbyterian Church and cemetery. One time I stopped to visit the cemetery caretaker and slightly opened the window, intending to give her fresh air, while the caretaker and I conversed outside. Molly was not happy while I was talking to men. She barked and jumped at the windows. Her canine antics fueled our conversation. I decided to put her on a leash and let her cool down, but I was suspicious as I approached the car. Molly had jumped and locked me out.

Molly Jo was Mommy’s girl, as we had lived together her whole life. I took care of her, and she took care of me. I made an appointment for July 10. Dr. Jim examined Molly and said, “Remember I told you that she would let you know when it was time? Shall we wait until Saturday morning, or should we put her to sleep today?” I didn’t want to put Molly through more days under the bed, preparing a place to die. I also didn’t want to go through “the preliminaries” again. I said, “Today” and told him I wanted her cremated so she could be buried with me.

Ode to Westy (Christmas poem 2014)

by Carole Ostrander

‘Twas the last week in March
When what should appear,
But a miniature fur ball
Bringing us laughter and cheer

He was left at our church
With nary a care
In hopes that someone
Soon would be there

Carole called Larry
“Come see what I found”
To the church office he came
And there was love all around

Eight weeks old
Was what the vet said
It was our good fortune
Someone did what they did

We named him Westy
for Westminster Presbyterian
He’ll be with us
When we’re octogenarians

We knew God would provide us
with another dog so dear
When our sweet Capi
Passed away last year

We weren’t quite expecting
A puppy so small,
But we took on the teething,
Potty training and all

Pet education classes,
With certificates to prove
Westy’s the best of the best
Especially in giving love

Trips to the dog park
Every day with Larry driving
No wonder every one says
“This dog is thriving!”

We’ve had sadness
In the years past
Westy is God’s proof
That happiness will last

It’s been a wonderful year
Full of laughter and fun
Being greeted at the door
When the workday is done

We hope you’ve enjoyed
This little poem
And that the Spirit of Christmas
Resides in your home.

Sharing a ‘unique ability’

by Tina Appel

It all started seven years ago. After many years of not having a dog I decided that it was time to adopt a gray poodle. My mom was getting older and I thought she could benefit from a canine companion, and I needed more than a bird. I knew what I wanted: an older rescue dog that was calm and would patiently sit and enjoy being petted. It took one year to find this dog, but when I did she changed my life.

Tootsie was unlike any dog I ever had, and immediately I noticed that she would come up to everyone and want to make friends. In addition, she was always watching me and seemed to understand what I was saying and how I was feeling. How could I let this dog stay at home sleeping all day? Her calling was to be a therapy dog. 

We studied hard, and Tootsie became a therapy dog. But I was the one who learned the biggest lesson. When an animal assisted therapy team visits a patient in the hospital, the owner must have the ability to approach strangers who may be missing limbs or have just heard they have cancer. For an introvert like me, this aspect of the work was truly frightening, but somehow having Tootsie with me made it possible. Suddenly it became easy to talk to people because all conversation revolved around the dog and her special gifts. Tootsie doesn’t fetch and she can’t run an obstacle course, but what she can do is share her unique ability to calm and comfort others and turn her mom into a person who, along with her dog, can positively affect the lives of individuals during a time of crisis.

What a little Hope can do

by Jim C. Dunkin

Hope is a pug who loves to cuddle. When I’ve had a long day at the church, I come home and in a few minutes Hope is on my lap, snoring as only a pug can snore.

For years I took Hope to a retirement center in our community. One woman from our church fell in love with Hope. When she did not come to worship for three Sundays, I called and learned she was too weak to come. I said, “I know what she needs! She needs a little Hope!” I said I would be there around noon. When I arrived at her cottage, she was sitting in her wheelchair at the door, waiting for Hope.

Another disciple in our church was very ill. So I took Hope. When I entered her apartment, the caregiver said she was in bed but I could go in. I sat on her bed and said, “Hello, beautiful!” She opened her eyes and said, “Hello, Jim.” And then she asked, “Who is that?” I told her this was Hope. She said, “Hope, you look pitiful, you just look pitiful!” Pugs do have a permanent frown. But from that time until this woman died, Hope knew exactly which apartment was hers, and the woman loved receiving Hope whenever we came.

A woman who loved animals but could no longer have them loved Hope’s visits. I took a picture of her holding Hope. During the next visit she said people thought Hope was her dog. She is now close to death, and Hope has been there, bringing comfort.

Hope is not a trained service dog, but she lights up the lives of those she visits.

As Romans 5:5 tells us, “Hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.”

A near-perfect partnership

by Audrey Demmitt

My guide dog Sophie is amazing. As we trained together to become a team, she wowed and captivated me with her sharp skills, attentive gaze, and beautiful face. I was certain she was the right dog for me from the very start. And I was so excited to begin my life with her. I had no idea what it took to become a good team, though. As I learned the intricacies of being a dog handler from Sophie and the instructors at Leader Dogs for the Blind, I began to realize the complexities of this new relationship.

Sophie was born to be a guide dog. She has been expertly trained to be a guide dog. And she is an excellent guide dog. But first and foremost, she is a dog! She has all of the wonderful and natural instincts of a regular dog, even though they tried to “breed them down” and train them out of her. It is what I love the most about her: she knows who she is. However, she also has an incredible drive to obey and please me and the discipline to do so—most of the time! She is not a perfect guide dog all of the time. Nor am I the perfect dog handler all of the time.

We make a great team in our imperfect ways. I adore her; she adores me. She leads me; I follow her. I feed and brush her, and she repays me with warm snuggles and wet kisses. She loves to be rubbed, and I love rubbing her. She keeps me safe, and I keep her healthy. She is my eyes, and I am her world. I discipline her, and she listens. She understands me, and I understand her. She needs me, and I need her. She is not a perfect dog, but she is perfect for me. And I am not a perfect handler, but I am perfect for her. Together, we move through life as one, joined by the mutual love, joy, and happiness we have found in each other.

A bond with bunnies

by Robin Lostetter

I’m finishing this article on the day that my BuBun (Malibu Bunny) died in my arms. This ends 12 years of having house rabbits. Let me take you back to the day it began:

It was a beautiful April day, our first “Celebration of Companion Animals.” A few dogs, a cat in a carrier, and photos of the more reticent pets. And Marilyn, with a sweet lop-eared bunny in an open basket. 

“May God so bless JJ Flash, this pet of yours,
that your love of him may be a constant reminder
of God’s love for you.”

And in a whisper, it just slipped out: “If you ever need someone to take care of him, call me.” 

And then, there it was, in May, the tearful call: “I lost my job. I’m moving in with my mom, and she won’t let me bring JJ. I’ve called everywhere, and if you don’t take him, he’ll have to be put down.”

Well, I had no choice. After all, the reading at the Celebration had been the creation story in Genesis 2, where both humans and all other living creatures are nepheshim hayim, enspirited flesh (2:7b, 19). How could I let this adorable nephesh, whom I had blessed just weeks before, lose his life? So I became the new mom for JJ Flash.

JJ left this world in 2006, and I didn’t open my heart again until 2008, when rescue bunnies BuBun and Moondoggie joined my household. Last year, Moondoggie, BuBun’s bonded mate, also died, leaving BuBun a single bun. BuBun’s grief was intense. 

Genesis 2 tells us that God has intended that we have companionship, and that we are interdependent. Nepheshim like BuBun may not be helper partners, but they become beloved companions.

BuBun and Moon taught me about trust, interdependency, and bonding as I watched them grooming, sleeping next to each other, and—yes—grieving, and then as BuBun gradually shifted her trust and bond to me. We are all necessary to each other. We are each nephesh hayah.

The Church Cats’ tale

by Vicki Schramm

A sweet, homeless, pregnant cat was being fed at First Presbyterian Church in Starkville, Mississippi, by the child-care assistant director, with plans for adoption. Soon the mother cat was seen moving her kittens across the busy church parking lot, destination unknown. One heartbreaking day, she was found dead in the street, having been hit by a car. The church secretary and church administrator, who had observed the cat’s activities, were greatly concerned for the welfare of the orphaned kittens. They began a frantic search, knowing that the kittens had to be in close proximity and in need of a quick rescue. After an anxious, 48-hour search, the kittens were found in an underground drainpipe near the church. The church administrator pulled out four scared, weak, gentle kittens, one  black, one  white, one orange and white, and one gray and white.

The kittens, about three weeks old, were brought to the secretary’s office and kept behind her desk, where they received plenty of attention. She fed and cared for the kittens, taking them to her home at night. They were appropriately named The Church Cats.

The issue of adoption loomed. The church administrator, having fallen in love with the white kitten, chose him and named him Mister, and the secretary happily claimed the black kitten, naming her Penny. One church member who made frequent visits to the office chose the gray and white male, naming him Skeeter. Another member’s daughter adopted the orange and white kitten, giving him the name Tigger.

 The happy kitten owners began comparing the behavior and antics, finding strong similarities in the kittens’ personalities. Each kitten was extremely lovable and playful, showing no ill effects of their traumatic beginning.  

Now fully grown, the cats visit each other when an owner goes on holiday. They are quick to recognize their siblings and immediately begin a joyful series of rolling, tumbling, and chasing. Even more important than the cats’ relationship with each other is the owner’s relationship with their cat. Such love, bonding, and affection are heaven-sent. 

Four-legged therapy

by Kathleen McDevitt Davis

“Where’s Miss Ida today? Is she sick?”

“No,” the aide answered, “She’s in her room. She’s mad. She says Peanut B likes Miss Sadie better than he does her!”

Peanut B and I started our therapy work in a nearby nursing home several years ago. On each visit we would do our small stock of tricks, have the mostly wheelchair-bound residents throw the ball for a game of fetch, and allow them to brush his floppy ears. Then we would visit the residents too unwell to come to the large community room. A cocker spaniel, Peanut B not only has a natural gift for therapy work but also has the ability to spark memories—in older gentlemen with hunting stories, in aging ladies who remember a cocker spaniel bought for a little baby boomer during the ‘50s, or among former farm girls who lived with hard-working dogs who did it all, from hunting to herding to vermin control.

Funny things happened. One day an elderly woman mistook me, a decidedly plus-size Yankee, for a certain pencil-thin English dog trainer and “whispered” loudly to her neighbor, “Helen! Isn’t that Victoria Stillwell from Animal Planet?”

“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely,” I replied confidently, if less than accurately.

But more often there were tears as Peanut B and I tried to comfort someone whose dog had passed or was given up when nursing home care became mandatory. Sometimes there was silent comfort, as with the younger woman who lost her ability to speak to a stroke or with those who were closer to life’s end and just wanted Peanut B to lie next to them on the bed.

Peanut B has moved on and is now a reading dog for a local library while his sister Jelly works the older crowd. But from first graders sounding out words in simple storybooks to senior citizens reminiscing, I know that both dogs bring real blessings to those they visit.

Greyhound leaders

by Betty Jean Jordan
 
My husband and I have had at least one retired racing greyhound since we got married in 1995. Greyhounds are the most loving, gentle companions, ideal for pet therapy. For about 15 years I have been taking my greyhounds to our local nursing home for what I affectionately call Greyhounds & Grey Hairs. The greyhounds have helped me make connections ­ and real friends ­ with many of the residents over the years. We have lots of stories to tell, but one of the most meaningful encounters I have had with greyhounds and people involved teenagers.
 
A few years ago I worked with my community's Youth Leadership Camp. The camp was intended to develop leadership skills in the approximately 30 middle and high school students who attended. Many of these students had severe problems, often behavioral or in their family unit. In other words, they were a pretty tough crowd.
 
One morning during camp, I brought in my greyhounds Cosmo and Mr. Spock. I talked with the students about animals being part of the world as well as people and that we need to look out for them all. Also, I explained how I am the pack leader for Cosmo and Mr. Spock, giving a simple demonstration by walking them easily on their leashes around the room. Some of the students wanted to take turns walking the dogs, too, which worked great.
 
Several of the students who were initially kind of scared of the greyhounds relaxed as they saw Cosmo and Mr. Spock greeting and interacting so well with everyone.  One girl who had been a particularly hard nut to crack asked a very poignant question. She asked, "Why are they so friendly?" I suspect that she had never encountered anything but a mean dog. Somehow I think God told me what to say to her because I hardly thought as the words just came out: "If you treat a dog with kindness, respect, and love, it will respond the same way to you—the same way it works with people."

Holy hunger

by Andrew Taylor-Troutman

I found myself somewhat in the middle of a brand new dairy barn, surrounded by parishioners and cows, all eyes looking toward me expectantly. I can’t vouch for the four-legged creatures, but we Presbyterians had congregated to pray for the future of this particular agricultural operation at a time in which small, family-owned farms are increasingly relics of the past, more often depicted in idyllic postcards than worked with the sweat of the brow. Yet our faithful friends had first envisioned and then spoken this modern rarity into existence, their words inspiring the miracle of this bovine sanctuary. While deliberating over painstaking calculations, weighing complicated risks, and crafting a blueprint for success, they had likewise undertaken enough debt to boggle my mind. I found myself somewhere in the middle of a leap of faith.

“Let us pray,” I intoned a little too formally, like a preacher in a made-for-TV movie. As if on cue, our ears rang with the sounds of cows, well, being cows: mooing, of course, but also (in the vernacular of my two-year-old son who was giggling with delight just to my left) “pooping,” their excrement hitting the concrete floors with an unmistakable slap. Too put it formally, I found this decidedly unappetizing.

But, etymologically speaking, “appetite” is a close cousin of “petition.” We ask for what we desire, that which sates and sustains. So I tried my best to offer a banquet of words to nourish the holy hunger of those in my family of faith. . . .

And the “ladies” did their thing, too. With impeccable timing, the splatter of their bodily fluids punctuated nearly every one of my carefully crafted petitions. It was scatological and theological, which, upon reflection, was entirely fitting to the liturgy as I concluded the prayer in the name of one born in a barn to the sound of other animals, well, being animals.

Next we sang a hymn and exited this barn temple, eventually traveling enough distance to escape the smell (thanks be to God). Before a humble folding table covered with a 50-cent paper cloth, we communed over the dessert that had been meticulously and lovingly offered by women of the church. All were invited, and we served one another generous helpings of ice cream heaped near overflowing with an abundance of toppings: peanuts, almonds, cherries, blueberries, chocolate sauce, whipped cream, numerous candies, and three colors of sprinkles. Without hesitation, we all ate with a growing hunger—the kind in which one bite prompts another and then another—until your entire bowl is suddenly empty (How could that be?) and your neighbor speaks your thoughts into existence: “Why not have some more?” And giggling gratefully, I surely did. We all ate our fill.

Uncertainties and anxieties still lingered in the backs of our minds, as surely as the barn floor emanated odor out there in the darkness. Yet we found ourselves in the truth of God’s grace being sufficient indeed—for our stomachs are strong enough.

Love from ‘a unique pet’

by Paul Soderquist

Pikachu, a charcoal gray chinchilla, is the beloved animal companion of Jacee Johnson.

Pikachu enjoys playing with Jacee’s stuffed animals.  Pikachu will also follow simple commands if she hears the word “treat.” She favors peanuts. She also enjoys banana chips, lettuce, peas, and hay. She will shake your hand. She also loves to run around in an exercise ball.

“She likes to sit on my laptop while I’m trying to do homework,” Jacee says. “I love having a unique pet. We know she loves us because she loves it when I am home. She’s mad when I leave. She loves when I hold her.”

Adapted from The Animals We Love—The Animals of Ebenezer, a book celebrating the animals owned by congregation members of Ebenezer Presbyterian Church in George, Iowa.

Lessons learned from a dog

by Lyrio Cloma-Read

Our dog, Patches, was rescued from the Animal Rescue League in Des Moines. She is a beagle mix. She enjoys walking and riding in the car, with her head sticking out the window. Her daily entertainment has been the arrival of the mail carrier. To get our attention, she sits on her hind legs or puts her paw on our leg.

After 14 years, we have learned a lot from her. When Patches gets up in the morning or after a nap, she stretches before she gets up. This reminds us that stretching is a good practice to follow. During our walks, she takes time to sniff the plants, which reminds us to stop and “smell the roses.” When she is tired, she will stop and lie on the grass while we stand and wait. People wonder why, and some ask if she needs water or something else. With a smile, we reply that she just needs rest. While many of us seem to be steaming full speed ahead, Patches reminds us to rest when needed.

Patches gives us unconditional love, regardless of how badly we may have scolded her for playing with trash in the sunroom. She continues to share her love with us, so that each new day is a clean slate. Her patience with our son’s roughhousing is admirable. She is patient with us when we get ready for our walks, yet she is compliant when we can’t walk her every night.

The simple things in life are sometimes the ones we take for granted. A ride in the car, feeling the breeze, going for a walk, getting a belly rub . . . Patches is a constant reminder that life is good.

A purrfect reunion

by Nathan Rolofson

In 1992 Alex was welcomed warmly into my family. He was an independent cat who loved to play and pick fights with me, and he always followed his master, my dad.

In November ’93, Dad was building a third garage in the back of our house. Alex liked to go outside and watch Dad building the garage. One day when he was out, something scared Alex off our property and he went missing. My parents searched all over our small town, Seward, Nebraska, every day for several weeks. They placed an ad in the local paper and put up flyers. They did get calls of sightings of Alex but could not find him. We thought the worse, gave up the search, and put Alex’s bed, toys, dinner tray, and litterbox away.

Months passed by. It was a Sunday morning in August ’94. My parents and I were members of First Presbyterian Church. Mom was the church organist, and Dad drove Mom to church and then came back for me. Dad and I then noticed a malnourished cat outside our church that looked like Alex. Upon closer examination, I noticed that the cat was wearing a green collar that Alex had worn when he disappeared. Dad left me at the church and took the cat home. After the service, Mom and I were informed by a friend that she saw the cat trying to enter the church after Mom arrived. After Dad picked Mom and me up from the church and took us home, Mom recognized Alex. Dad then crumpled a piece of newspaper and threw it. One of Alex’s peculiar traits was that he would play fetch like a dog. Sure enough, the cat went after the paper wad and brought it back to Dad. Alex was now home!

Alex lived eight more years after he came home. Dad passed away the year after the cat who loved him did. I am thankful for the Lord’s watching over Alex during his eight months away and for reuniting me with my cat at His House.

Comfort in a time of crisis

by Jana L. Johnsen

I was working for Valley of the Moon hospice in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco. Unfortunately, it was the height of the AIDS crisis, before the time of the drug cocktail that has since saved so many lives.

Crystal’s family had taken her in after her divorce. Crystal was only 23, with full-blown AIDS. Her family lived a bit out in the countryside, and there was enough room for a horse and other pets. She introduced me to her horse on our first meeting. He had been her horse growing up, and they had such a sweet bond of affection. I was grateful that she had this emotional connection. It was long enough ago that I no longer remember his name. But his character will always remain. I was accustomed to stopping at the huge outdoor produce market on my way to her house. The horse loved fresh carrots and apples. He knew my routine. I would come every Tuesday, and he watched for my green Volvo to drive up and park alongside the road; he would come right to the front of the pasture, waiting for my offering and praise. Sometimes Crystal would be waiting outside with him, too, and meet me there.

As her stamina faltered, I still kept my ritual with her horse. I think he appreciated my visits, too. He liked to come up alongside the fence to let me say goodbye to him and let me stroke his fine face at the end of my visit. It always made me feel better leaving, even as Crystal’s health tragically deteriorated and her parents and siblings went through such anguish caring for her.

On one dreary, rainy, cold day, I came out to a flat tire. Even with AAA assistance, I knew I was going to be stuck there awhile. My horse friend stayed right with me! I couldn’t believe his sensitivity and attention. There was no way he was going to leave me stranded there, by myself. I remember the feeling of great comfort and security with him by my side. I still count him as a magnificent blessing, for me and for Crystal.

And then there’s the added story of Crystal’s family cat. I loved to pick her up and pet her, too. She often hung out in Crystal’s room. When the inevitable call came that Crystal had died, her mother told me what the cat had done that very morning. About 5:30 a.m., the cat methodically went into every family member’s bedroom in turn, and woke them up. Since the cat had taken to sleeping in Crystal’s bedroom, they all followed her there. And so it is that they were summoned to gather around Crystal’s bed as she lay dying. It was a gift to all of them to be present when Crystal passed away. She did not die alone. They had the comfort and strength of one another to be together in those final moments. God bless the animals! They certainly do bless us.

Blessed animals

by Judith Hugg

The Presbyterian Church in Morristown, New Jersey, has done a blessing of the animals as part of the town’s fall festival in October, drawing community members to the front lawn of our church for a sneak peek of who we are and how much we love and value God’s creatures. Most people have just walked their dogs to the festival, but others, who’ve known we do this blessing, know beforehand to bring their cats, frogs, parrots, rabbits—and bees from a beekeeper’s hive—to be blessed.

The original inspiration for our church’s participation is from other traditions; the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi is in October, and many Anglican churches practice this. Francis was noted for his care of animals and of the environment, and we celebrate this legacy by reaching out to the town with the same care.

My family’s dogs have been blessed by several ministers of the church over the years, and none have sported a halo afterwards or been any more obedient; but I love the church connection to these guardians of my home, and I love that my church reaches out to all of God’s creation, regardless of color, race, gender, creed, or breed!

Christmas kitty

by Jay Biscup

Last Christmas season, my wife and I took a break one evening from everything to formulate our gift list. We don’t get a chance to talk much because we run a business out of our house and most of our conversation is work-related. 

After we got done with family and friends, I asked her what she wanted. “I want a cuddly Christmas kitty,” she said. I looked at her to see if she was serious. You see, our daughter has a miserable indoor cat, and we also have an outdoor cat, two dogs, a bird, and a number of fish, along with three children. I answered her in typical husband fashion, “No, really, what do you want?” Again she replied, “A cute, cuddly Christmas kitty. I want a cuddly, white, long-haired, female Persian kitty that will lie on my lap in the evening.” Still in a mild state of shock, I halfheartedly said, “OK.”

The next day I decided not to mention the kitten for a week or two to see if she was serious. After a couple of weeks, I asked her again and got the same answer. I knew she was serious then.

In typical male fashion, I waited until the week before Christmas to start looking for the kitten. I checked the pet stores at the malls and shopping plazas. Nobody had a female, long-haired, white Persian kitten. As a matter of fact, kittens of any shape or color were scarce. Next, I tried the want ads. After several calls, I finally found something close, a female Persian kitten, but she was not all white. I was running out of time and choices, so I made an appointment to see the kitten.

When I got to the house, I had my doubts about what I was getting into. The neighborhood wasn’t the best, and most of the houses looked like they only had the bare minimum of maintenance. The house I had to go to appeared worse than the rest, with steps missing at the porch, screens half off the windows, peeling paint, and junk stored on the porch.

I hesitated for a moment and than said to myself, “It’s for my wife” and then proceeded up what was left of the stairs. When I knocked, a woman opened the door as far as the safety chain would allow. “You here for the cat?” I heard from the opening. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. She took the chain off and opened the door only enough to hand out a kitten. This kitten looked like a patchwork quilt and was about as much a long-haired Persian as I was. As I took the kitten, my eyes had adjusted enough to see the woman. Her appearance was similar to that of her house. It was obvious that these people didn’t have much.

I started to look over the kitten. As I held her out, she started to cry. When I held her close, she stopped. “Do you like her” the lady asked. This was not fair. Already the kitten was cuddling up to me and purring. “Yes,” I said. “How much?” “Forty bucks,” she replied. My first thought was that no cat is worth $40. Than I started thinking, this is the only kitten I’ve found after a week of searching and I had no time or options left. Looking again into the dark house and at the woman, I thought that she probably could really use the money. I answered, “OK, I’ll take her” and gave her the money.

We had about an hour ride home that day, and the kitten curled up next to me and slept all the way home.

When I got home and presented my gift to my wife, I could tell she was a little disappointed. But as I related my story of the search, the kitten cuddled up to her. The white, long-haired, Persian part didn’t matter anymore.

After just nine months, this Christmas kitty has brought more love and enjoyment to our household than any other gift. The $40 spent turned out to be priceless.

Luke 6:38 says, “Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap; for the measure you give will be the measure you get back.”

‘A dog that inspires me’
by Courtney Cosby

A dog is the one thing that can teach you how to love others more than you love yourself, by loving you more than he loves himself. When we walked into PetSmart on that sunny, warm spring day and saw a black and white puppy from the Humane Society of Campbell County, I knew that was the start to an everlasting friendship. In his four months of life, Oreo had had a rough time. He, along with his brother, were found in a Dumpster, with their mouths duct-taped shut, and in a cardboard box with the top duct-taped. When we met him, he was tinkling everywhere —including on us and on toys—but I knew in that moment that he was going to be my dog.

My beloved memory of Oreo was when he jumped off the dock at my grandmother’s lake house, and swam across the channel to catch a duck. After about three minutes of the chase the duck took off flying; Oreo was shocked that a duck could fly. He showed signs of exhaustion and began panicking, but Dad was already on his way to the rescue in his fishing boat to be Oreo’s saving grace.

To me, Oreo resembles God’s love, in that his love is unconditional and everlasting. Oreo waits every night at the front door for all of his family to walk through the door. He is happiest when we are together as a family. At night he walks through every room to make sure everything is in place and safe, then he will take his spot in the hallway amid all of our rooms. And since the day I saw him, Oreo has been glued by my side, a steadfast, affectionate, faithful companion, a dog that inspires me to be better every day. So in the end, who rescued whom?

Rescuing Emma

by Mary Johnson

Actually, Emma rescued me. I had suddenly lost my beloved English setter, Hannah, to a form of cancer called Hemangiosarcoma, a dreadful word! I thought that rescuing a dog would help to ease some of the pain. And I had decided to adopt the animal through one of the rescue groups I had seen online.

The dog I wanted was named Lily. She was a beautiful Irish setter, and the picture showed her sitting on a tuffet-like pillow. Lily seemed perfect. She had been spayed and was housebroken. All I needed to do was to make the call, and Lily would be mine.

In the meantime, I had seen another dog online. The website I glanced at sold mostly puppies, but there were a few older dogs. There, in one picture, was a sight that I couldn’t get out of my head. It was a beautiful red setter with lost eyes staring out of what looked to be a junkyard. The dog was named Scarlett, and she was a mess.

Painfully thin, Scarlett had lived outdoors her entire life and was never house-trained. She was not spayed and had no real socialization skills. Her owner said Scarlett’s only toy was the food bowl she flipped in the air. Her only companion was another setter named Jen who lived in the yard with her. And still I was haunted by that expression in her eyes. It was almost human, to my mind. She seemed to be looking for something that wasn’t there

Clearly this dog was not for me. There were way too many red flags. The only logical course was to adopt the animal that had been spayed and had been through the process of the rescue agency. Lily had cleared all the proper channels.

But a question remained. Would I ever be happy wondering what happened to that animal with the haunted eyes? My head said yes but I have been known to ignore the voice of logic and reason at times.  With this question, as in all things, the Lord gives us strength and wisdom beyond our scope. Realizing that love is the most powerful force, I had no other choice. My heart led me to Emma.

I adopted that sad little setter in the junkyard ten years ago and renamed her Emma (after one of my favorite Jane Austen characters). And I’ve never regretted a moment of my life with her. She was haunted, and in need of a good home. She was starved for love and is still ever grateful for each stroke of a hand rubbing her head or scratching the “sweet spot” on her tail.

Emma came into my life and led me through a dark path and into the light. God works in his own way, and God showed me, through Emma, how to cope with inexplicable loss. As all dog owners know, in the end, love conquers all.

Eulogy for Waldo

by Janet Shira

Shortly after moving to rural Missouri, my family and I took in a battered stray; it was love at first sight. My heart soared, as I watched his cowering turn into joy. He ran many circles around me and couldn’t stop licking me. He was movie star cute, banged up, dirty, and bruised. So, Waldo came to us with bloody paws and left us deeply loved, while being cradled in my arms.

For 13 years, Waldo forced me to live life fully again. How can you say no to playtime, with someone who openly and unabashedly loves you. I’ve had medical issues for years, yet he instinctively knew how far to push me. After surgeries, he refused to leave my side, until I was mobile again. I fall down a lot, but I do yard work and walk. If I fell, Waldo made a shadow over me, licking my face and waited until I would pull myself up using his collar.

Then one early morning, Waldo staggered onto the porch and collapsed. He had been hit twice by a neighbors truck. He was critical for days. I laid by his side for many weeks, hand feeding and nursing him. He suffered with bone pain for the rest of his life. We would mend our troubles together.

For  six years I volunteered at a ranch that rescued unwanted horses. I loved every minute of the work. But I grew tired. I regretted all this lost time with my best buddy. I didn’t realize that he was always waiting for me; again, we were inseparable. We walked often, having great adventures. He always stayed by me, but grew obsessive when I went into heart failure.

He lost his hearing, and his sight faded away in the last six months. So as it should be, I became his guide dog in the end. I thank God everyday for Waldo. God spelled backwards is dog. I am convinced that dogs love as Jesus loves. All dogs ask for is acceptance of their love. They freely and deeply love from the heart . . . just as Jesus loves all of us.

Who rescued whom?


by Kristi Shay Moore

Every three years in the summer the story of the Good Samaritan appears in the Lectionary. As an ordained minister in the PC(USA), Iʼve always loved preaching the parables of Christ. But, in the summer of 2004, I was able to live one.

The Monday morning after preaching about the kind Samaritan and the wounded man on the side of the road, I was headed down a busy highway in South Charleston, West Virginia, to my presbyteryʼs office for a Committee on Ministry meeting. A few miles from my destination, I saw him. I remember my heart sank at the sight of what appeared to be a dead dog in the road. Other drivers clearly felt the same because many drove past him, assuming that he was beyond help.

Yet, on approach, I saw him move and knew that I had to act fast. I made a quick left turn into a parking lot near his huddled form, and with the help of another kind stranger who placed him in my passenger seat, I raced my canine companion to the animal hospital that I knew was just a few miles up the road.

The dog I rescued that day was a boy, a basset hound, and a balm to my soul. He needed surgery to repair a hernia and later treatment to rid him of heart worms. But, the money and time I spent on binding up his wounds could never compare to the love and faithfulness he gave me in our 10 and a half years together.

Shortly after I rescued and named him Barney, I would experience the dissolution of my marriage and the death of the beloved grandmother who raised me. Through all my tears and loneliness, Barney was my constant.

I have no doubt that God sent him to heal me and my heart, just as I was sent that fateful day to enable the healing of his. For whether itʼs the helping hand or the outstretched paw, loveʼs touch comes in many forms from our good Creator God.

Tears licked away

by Jack Sills

In 2010 I adopted a five-month-old black female lab/pit mix. After four months of Carly ripping apart two couches, a recliner, and numerous toys, she finally calmed down. Carly became very smart and obedient. She loves everybody and all animals, but most cats take her kindness as a mere threat to their peace of mind because Carly is very hyper. When she sees people or other animals, her long black tail swings fast back and forth. Carly has helped me through hard times especially when my mom passed away. Carly knew I was sad, and when I cried she always licked my tears. She makes me laugh and smile when I find myself crying about the recent loss of both my mom and dad. Carly loves to lie next to me and put her paw around my neck and kiss me on the side of my face with her cold, sloppy tongue.

When I wake up and walk outside to the backyard I can see Carly running, barking, and chasing birds yet now only in memory. I had to let go of her with all of my love because of my lower back and nerve pain in both feet. Carly was sad when I was unable to walk her due to my pain. She wanted to go on our typical two or three walks per day, yet I was unable to give Carly some her favorite enjoyments in life. Holly Williams, who works for Nation Wide Insurance, asked me to bring Carly to her office in order to meet her two young boys. After a few minutes seeing her boys playing with Carly, Holly adopted Carly. On occasion I cry out for Carly yet I know she is with a loving family.

A canine companion for the final journey

by Donna DeVries

Volunteering at our local in-house hospice with my therapy dog, Barclay, a seven-pound Yorkshire terrier, has richly blessed my life. Patients and their families have welcomed this senior citizen and her canine companion to join them in their final earthly journey without hesitation. One lady's journey touched my soul deeply. Lillie, a petite 82-year-old woman, entered hospice care after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. Barclay and I were just getting ready to leave on that warm summer day when a social worker requested that we visit a new resident who loved dogs. Almost immediately Barclay jumped on Lillie's bed and cuddled close, an instant connection!

As we visited over a five-month period, I learned that she had no family, and we seemed to be her only visitors until one afternoon a gentleman was present when we entered her room. The three of us chatted while Barclay comforted his gentle friend. When Richard got up to leave, he said a prayer and blessed Lillie with the sign of the cross. Only then did I realize that Richard was her parish priest and her power-of-attorney agent. Over the months, with her permission, several friends and family members of mine came along to visit her. Weeks passed, and Barclay wanted to linger longer and longer on her bed. During one visit we were able to have a surprise celebration on her 83rd birthday. As the Christmas holidays approached, we brought Lillie a small lighted and decorated tree. When we entered her room that day, she was non-responsive. I was heartbroken, but Barclay was not discouraged and cuddled close as possible. Soon Father Richard arrived to give Lillie last rites, but Barclay would not leave her side until I forcibly picked him up. His stubbornness and devotion surprised the priest and compounded my grief. Lillie died peacefully shortly after we left. Several days later Barclay, my husband, and I attended her funeral mass at a beautiful Catholic Church. The last hymn we sang was unfamiliar to me, but I was awestruck by its simplicity and beauty. Immediately I decided that "Go, Silent Friend" was my special gift from Lillie, a final hymn for my funeral someday.

Angel Wings

by Karen Fitz La Barge

Our flat-roofed, fixer-upper house is located on a small lake. Every year we watch a new spring flock of wild baby geese grow from excited balls of fuzz to awkward and indolent teens by midsummer and turn into mostly disciplined young flyers eager to migrate south in the fall.  

In 2011, one gosling was deformed. His wrist joints twisted, and his wings stuck out like an airplane. The syndrome is called Angel Wings, and there is no cure. I named the afflicted young male goose Mitch.

In early fall, as Mitch's siblings quickly learned to madly flap, take running steps off the bank, launch themselves into the air, and fly, Mitch splashed again and again into the lake.  His father and siblings took turns running next to him, honking their encouragement. But Mitch just couldn't do it. As the gander advanced the rest of the flock to taking flight from the water, Mitch's mother kept working with him, but Mitch's trajectory always went down instead of up.

Around Thanksgiving when they usually migrated, there was great disharmony in the flock. The gander was taking the brood on longer test flights away from the lake, but his mother refused to leave young Mitch alone. Finally after two days of loud argumentative honking in mid December, the flock left the lake, leaving the young deformed goose all by himself in the rapidly freezing water.  As it started snowing, the sad young goose took refuge under a neighbors deck by their blue paddleboat. And I researched where to buy cracked corn.

But the next morning, I couldn't find him. Mitch was gone. During the long months of winter we wondered what had happened to Mitch. We shouldn't have worried. In the spring, a fat and happy Mitch suddenly appeared back on our lake, welcoming his parents and siblings back home with joyful honks. A later report from one of our neighbors was that Mitch had overwintered with a flock of ducks on a nearby creek that typically flowed all winter. Unable to fly to a winter haven,  Mitch had walked there instead!

A small miracle

by Kathy Summers

Dixie is a six year old Havanese dog. She is my service dog and also a therapy dog at two hospitals here in Hawaii that we visit each week. Many patients cry when they hold her soft, snuggly body next to them and feel her unconditional love. She loves to be held and petted and also to give kisses. She goes almost everywhere with me and is so small and so quiet she is always welcome. She is a medical alert dog for me. I have been training therapy dogs and service dogs for 22 years. Our other therapy dogs all visited the children’s hospital in Honolulu, and I dressed as a clown. The unconditional love of a dog can bring miracles to people.

'She should be our mascot'

by Tina Dowe

Two years ago, I rescued a sweet pit bull named Charlotte. She'd been given up by her owner to "avoid charges." She was very timid, but one look in those puppy dog eyes and I was a goner. I work at KirkWood Presbyterian Church in Yorktown, VA. I've been the church pianist for almost 18 years and recently became the administrative assistant.  Charlotte comes with me to work almost every day.  She sits in my office and soaks up attention from anyone and everyone. I love to see people come in the office and interact with her. Sometimes I'm not sure if people come in to see me or my dog.
 
Charlotte has attended choir rehearsal with me and given the bass section a look at some questionable notes. (She's a very discerning dog.) She comes to our church scrapbooking meetings and has even met one of the Girl Scout troops that meet at the church. After meeting Charlotte and giving her lots of rubs, the girls exclaimed, "She should be our mascot!" I'm pursuing therapy dog certification for Charlotte. She rarely barks and does great with wheelchairs and walkers. I've taken her to nursing homes and rehab facilities and watched her cuddle up to residents and make them smile. Sometimes I'm not sure who rescued whom, but I'm thankful that God gave us pets as companions. And, I'm definitely thankful that God brought Charlotte and me together.

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A resounding mystery

by Deb Jelley

We rescued Jack and Ed from the local animal shelter in 1994. They were littermates, best buds, and wonderful guard dogs. But like all living things, they grew elderly and frail and weary of this world.

Jack was the first to go. When he could no longer get out of his doghouse, incontinence took over, and he refused to eat, we called our vet, who came to the house to help him pass. We left his body where Ed could see and sniff it and accept, in his way, what had happened.

Ed lived another two years. But during the coldest spell of the winter in 2009, we found him almost frozen to the ground where he had fallen during the night and couldn’t get up. We moved him in and got him warm. But he was miserable and confused and soon started wandering. Again it was time for the vet to visit.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t come until the next morning. So I was left on my own to deal with what was coming. I had checked on him earlier and shut him in the garage to keep him from wandering away. I went about my morning chores but was interrupted by persistent scratching at the back door. Wondering why the neighbor’s dog would be scratching at the door, I flung it open to chase the dog home. There was nothing there. I checked in the garage, where Ed was sleeping in his favorite spot—it certainly wasn’t him.

I went back to my work, but was soon disturbed by that scratching sound. Again, nothing. This happened three times before the vet finally came for Ed.

The only conclusion I could ever come up with was that it was Jack doing the scratching to let Ed know he was waiting for him and all would soon be OK. Some folks don’t believe that dogs go to heaven, and maybe they don’t. But I certainly believe in the bond of love and know that wherever Jack and Ed are, they are together.

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A ‘resilient and strong’ hero

by Candy Peterson

Twelve years ago I fell in love with a little chocolate Labrador puppy named Cocoa. She was gentle and kind, welcoming people and animals as if they were her best friends. Life was good in those days. But difficult days were coming.

My husband, Bob, passed away. It was a dark and painful time for me, but my best friend, Cocoa, was always by my side. When I cried, she would put her head on my lap and offer kisses. With Cocoa there, I was never alone.

During this time, I noticed that Cocoa’s beautiful eyes were becoming dim. First they looked cloudy and then milky white. And suddenly, her vision was gone. I took her to a specialist who did many tests and found out that Cocoa had progressive retinal atrophy. She would never again be able to see. My heart was broken.

Over the next couple of weeks I tried to shelter Cocoa, which made her unhappy. And so I began to treat her the way I always had, and once again, despite her blindness, she began to thrive. Her sense of smell became her guide. She greeted people as joyfully and lovingly as ever. She handled her blindness by learning new skills; she found new ways to experience life to the fullest.

During the next year, I noticed that Cocoa could hear less and less. And then one day, she was deaf. Once again, I took her to a specialist, where it was confirmed that she was completely deaf. For a day or two, Cocoa hid under my desk. But being the heroine she was, she didn’t stay there. She learned a new skill. She could feel vibrations. And so, between her heightened sense of smell and her sensitivity to vibrations, she once again rose to the occasion, and became the “Helen Keller of dogs.”

I have a hero in my life, one who is resilient and strong. One who has shown me by example that no matter what the circumstances, you can choose how you respond. Thank you, my Cocoa. I love you.

'An integral part of our lives'

by Anthony Litwinski

Our cat Arigato was a rescue cat—she rescued us on Valentine’s Day 1990, when we brought her home from the county animal shelter. (Her name means “Thank you” in Japanese.) From that day on, she was an integral part of our lives.

For example: at the tender age of 45, my wife had her first-ever athletic injury, when she fell from her bike and fractured her lower leg. With a cast on her leg, she was to stay off her feet for six long weeks. There’s hardly better news for a cat than someone at home full-time, with a ready lap for an extended period. They were an inseparable pair: cuddled up with reading material, watching movies and TV, visiting with friends. All it took was an afghan thrown over the legs, and the cat had a perfect bed for the day.

To our surprise she purred most of the time as she slept on the cast. At midpoint the physician marveled at how well the broken leg was mending. To my wife’s utter glee, he said she was healing like a teenager! Our original thought was: “All credit goes to the cat’s purr.” We have since learned that purring occurs at a healing frequency, producing vibrations that are known to heal bones, reduce blood pressure, keep depression at bay, and relieve stress and anxiety. This works for both the cats and their companions!

In 2003 we moved to Hawaii from the mainland. The move involved taking our beloved cat with us. By that time she was 13 years old. Since Hawaii does not have rabies, a quarantine measure was in place to ensure the islands stay rabies-free. That meant 30 days in a quarantine kennel upon arrival. And it was an hour and a half away from our new home.

There was no question that Arigato was moving with us. We were committed to visiting her daily as much as possible. That meant an hour and a half drive each way. We made the most of it by inviting others (neighbors and parishioners, for example) to make the trip with us. That way we got to know them as we visited our wonderful kitty each day. It made a huge difference for her. She was never depressed or lonely in her 8 x 8' cubicle at the kennel. Some of the other animals died during quarantine— the staff said from broken hearts, being left alone. Arigato was a survivor; she just did what she needed to do to take good care of herself.

The caretakers said she would be shy coming out of quarantine. Not so: she marched right into the house, tail straight up, sniffed around the perimeter like a good soldier, and confidently jumped into her favorite chair to sleep. She surveyed her fiefdom as if to say: “This is where all my old stuff is!” So we had a gala coming-home party for her a week after she arrived. I put on my tuxedo, and we had plenty of champagne and fishy hors d’oeuvres on hand. Arigato put up with it long enough to greet her guests who had come to visit her in quarantine—and then she took a dive under the couch. But she knew she was treasured and loved deeply.

For two years we lived in a rental house while we looked for property to build on. Arigato’s last chapter was bittersweet. She was diagnosed with an oral cancer shortly before we were supposed to move into the house we were building. We were incredibly sad that she wouldn’t be able to live there with us. But she is buried in her favorite box, wrapped in soft blankets, in the back yard. She had a proper burial liturgy with songs and readings. We named the home after her: “Hale Arigato” (“Arigato House” in Hawaiian). It was a “thankful home,” and we were certainly grateful that she shared her sweet life with us.

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Faithful friendship

by Marie T. Cross

Bert and Sam lived about a quarter of a mile apart on the ridge overlooking downtown Madison, Indiana, and the Ohio River. Bert was a Dalmatian, living with my husband and me, the pastor of the Presbyterian Church downtown. Sam, a black Lab, belonged to Jane, the editor of the local newspaper, published by her family for generations.

However they first encountered each other, for Sam and Bert, it was immediate friendship. No chain or closed door could hold them back for long or keep them from the call to explore the hilltop or downtown. Though somewhat large, both dogs were friendly and not at all intimidating, so Bert and Sam became well-known, maybe notorious, throughout town. And by association, no less ownership, Jane and I began to share that notoriety! It was not unusual to get a phone call that our “lost” dogs had been found.

One time, they did disappear for more than three days. Ads were put in the paper, calls were made, but no one had seen them. Then, from a friend, I learned about a friend of hers who lived at the west end of downtown, just above a wooded ravine. She had heard a dog barking in the evenings, somewhere behind the house.

It was mid-afternoon, and my husband and I immediately drove to the edge of town and started into the overgrown woods, calling the dogs’ names. We heard barking in the distance and followed the sound to find Bert standing guard by Sam, whose chain was wound tight around a tree trunk and caught in some bushes. Apparently, for those missing days, Sam had been unable to untangle himself, and Bert was not about to leave him alone. Once freed, they both ran to the creek before being coaxed into the car for the ride home.

That was more than 25 years ago, but anyone who walks along the town’s riverfront and sees the commemorative brick inscribed “Bert & Sam” remembers the stories of mischief, loyalty, and friendship.

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‘Both very blessed’

by Mary Sheeley

One year ago, I was extremely grateful to be offered a secretary position at Vinton Presbyterian Church. One of my favorite traditions at the church is the special ministry of the Blessing of the Animals on October 4. I eagerly awaited the day I could take my dog, Sara.

Abandoned at the shelter, Sara is a gentle, redbone coonhound. I have always had a deep affection for animals, but no bond has ever matched the bond and similarities that Sara and I share. 

Like Sara, I too was adopted—first as a newborn and again when I was hired by the church. My adoptive parents loved me as their own, and the staff and members of the church welcomed me as though I had just come home! We both love sleeping, eating, and being told we are good girls, but the real similarity is our personality. 

My parents have two dogs and live a mile away in the country. Sara is good at staying around by herself, but when the other two dogs are on the run, Sara is gone.

During Sara’s first “escape” with the other dogs, she weathered one of the worst storms in decades and was gone for four days. I searched, called for her, and prayed. I cried and feared the worst. On the fourth day, Sara crawled to the porch of my parents, bloodied, bruised, and forlorn. I was ecstatic. 

Unfortunately, Sara did not learn. It happened again and occasionally still does. Sore from running the night before, Sara did not make it to the Blessing of the Animals last year.

In my life as well, I have made impulsive decisions. I, too, have jumped at the chance to “run with the big dogs,” not thinking about the ones I am causing worry and pain. I shower Sara when she returns, and in similar fashion my loved ones continue to love me, forgive me, and even bless me. Yes, Sara and I are both very blessed and we will be at the Blessing of the Animals this October 4. Right, Sara? Good, girl!  

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Homeless

by Ruth Alessandra Bates

"His name is Ivy," Tawnya told me, holding a large cat in her lap. "When he was a kitten, they told me he was a female. A bit later, the vet told me she was a 'he.'
Still, I kept the name."

The lovely, long-haired steel gray feline has given new life to his human mother, Tawnya, a former homeless person, now living living temporarily with a couple in rural West Virginia. The homeless shelter where Tawnya had stayed, didn't allow pets.  Ivy stayed elsewhere; Tawnya walked six miles round-trip to feed him.

Eventually, she met the couple with whom she now stays. After a week, they asked, "Why don't you bring your cat here?"  

Tawnya hesitated, but the couple insisted. Now the large cat is the newest resident of the home. He relates well to everyone, even visitors. Ivy sleeps in Tawnya's bed.  

These days, Tawnya is looking for a new job and a permanent home for Ivy and herself. "I'm filled with gratitude for Ivy and me. I never thought I'd find a home for both of us. But here we are. I know that God will lead us into the next part of our journey. And, I've learned to 'rejoice in the Lord always,' as Paul says in his letter to the Philippians."

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Call to pencils (from a cat's perspective)

by Shirley Meunier

The first time I ever saw a human being, at least so far as I can recall, was on a Monday morning, early in the day. I had, the day before, talked to Lone Goose, who had been flying high over Mechanic Street, honking from time to time. That was how I knew he was there, since I was hiding in a PVC black pipe about two inches in width behind the Hobby Shop. I can't remember why I was there; the lady told me later it was not where kittens usually lived. But of course I didn't know that at the time.

You're probably wondering what happened, so I'll tell you. Like I said, I was there hiding, or I guess living, in that big black pipe. I do remember it was pretty cold and I was very hungry. In fact, I was so hungry that when I smelled something coming through the east end of my home, I moved closer to find out what it was. I was quite disappointed to see a big person standing near the opening of my pipe ( I later learned it was the lady). Very close were two bowls with something in them. The smell, so good and appealing, even enticing, came from one of the bowls. I couldn't tell which one. But I can tell you, I wasn't about to venture out of my pipe. So, I waited, very cold and very hungry, and I might add, very curious, as to who that somebody might be.

So I waited. In a little while—it seemed like ages—the somebody vanished. I was glad; slowly and cautiously I crept out of my pipe. Of course, she had not really vanished. She had just moved off at a distance, and since I knew she could not be trusted, I kept an eye on her. But that aroma was enticing, and I could not remember when I had last eaten. In fact, for some reason, I could not remember anything.

The lady and I then played this game; though to tell you the truth, I thought it rather early in the day for games. I would get a little mouthful, and she would advance on my pipe; I would run for my home, and she would peer into it, saying something silly that I didn't understand. Now I guess it was "kitty, kitty" and "little Halloween owl," since that's what the lady calls me. She says she found me the Monday before Halloween and that upon peering into my black pipe, my eyes told her she might be looking at a little owl.

As you've probably guessed by now, I now live with the lady, who likes to tell her friends the story of how she found me; though when she finishes the story, she often gets mad and sad, and says "we need to do something about it!" I'm not sure what she means. But since I've had the run of the library, I've found that I love to read and sing . . . and write. And since I'd like to help the lady, who buys for me and two other cats who live here the aromatic food I first smelled on that fateful Monday morning, I decided that I will start a Kids and Kats Writing Club. Write to me if you'd like to join. I hope to hear from you.

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