CSS Thank You Sampler

8/8/2019 CSS Thank You Sampler

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A Lesson in Running

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Runners

By P.R. OLeary

We may train or peak for a certain race, but running is a lifetime sport.

~Alberto Salazar

It was my first marathon. Philadelphia, November, 6 AM. The wind and the rain chilled

me to the bone and the sun wasnt yet out to warm up the air. The corral was full. Packed with

runners standing arm to arm, jogging in place to stay warm. The starting horn would go off any

second. You could feel the tension in the air. I was ready. I was twenty-eight and in the best

shape of my life.

At least, I thought I was. Sure, I was fit. Even though I had only been running for a few

months, I ran all the time and had run several races already. But none of them were 26.2 miles.

The farthest I had run before was only fifteen miles. Still, I was young and cocky and I knew Icould do it.

The horn went off and the race started. The crowd surged forward. A mob of running

sneakers. It was exciting. The adrenaline kicked in and the weather became the furthest thing

from my mind. I just concentrated on the cheers of the crowd and holding my own position

amongst the other runners. I had no real finishing goal in mind, but when the crowd dispersed

and I was settled into my pace I soon calculated that I could easily break four hours.

A few miles in I ran past an elderly runner. He must have been seventy years old and I

was surprised he was even in the race. I was even more surprised that he was still ahead of me.

He kept to the side of the road, his old legs moving one in front of the other, slowly but

methodically. I passed him up without giving him a second glance or a word of encouragement.

As the miles wore on people were dropping out left and right but I kept moving. Fifteen

miles came and went and I was on pace to beat four hours. Then, something strange happened.

I started to get tired. Very tired. It happened all at once. One second my stride was

feeling fine, and then the next each step became harder and harder. My goal of four hours soon

got pushed back to 4:10. Then 4:20. Finally, at about the 20-mile mark, I couldnt run anymore. I

had to walk.

I moved to the side of the road and plodded along. I needed a second wind, but it

wasnt coming. The rain was back. A cold rain soaking into my clothes and my sneakers. Now,

people were passing me. I had hit the dreaded wall and there was nothing I could do about it

but concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.


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Then, the elderly man passed me. He looked the same as he had earlier. Running at the

same speed. As he passed, he looked over at me and smiled.

Only a few more miles to go, lad. Dont stop now!

The thought of being beaten by a seventy-year-old man got me moving again. Like I said,I was young and cocky, and this little setback had only dampened my confidence a little. If I got

moving I would be able to beat 4:30 and pass up that old man again.

So I moved up from a shambling walk to a shambling jog. The elderly gentleman had run

ahead of me but I could still see him in the distance, moving forward at that same pace.

I spent the rest of the race trying to catch him, but no matter how hard I tried I wasnt

getting any closer. The finish line grew nearer, the crowds on the sidewalks got bigger and

louder and that helped me to run faster and faster. Soon, I was running at a good pace with my

second wind but the elderly man still stayed just out of reach. He didnt stop at all. He just kept

running and running.

He crossed the finish line ahead of me and I was soon to follow at 4:28:45. I never had

such mixed emotions. I was proud and elated at finishing the marathon, but I was angry with

myself for letting that elderly gentleman beat me. In the finishers tent, after grabbing a handful

of bananas and some water, I tried to find him but he was gone.

It was only later on that I realized how much I admired him.

Ill never forget that man. The senior citizen runner who put the cocky twenty-eight-

year-old in his place. Some day I hope to be like him, running marathons in my seventies andpassing all those first-timers as they struggle to finish. Ill make sure to give them

encouragement.

Only a few more miles to go! Dont stop now, lad!

I know the real encouragement wont come from my words, but it will come later when

they look back on that race. When they realize that they have only just started their running

careers. That the real test of a runner is not running for just 26.2 miles.

It is running for a lifetime.


4/24

Unforgettable

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love

By Betty Bogart

Never, never give up.

~Winston Churchill

Divorced and living the life of an empty nester in Dallas, I wasnt interested in marriage,

and I had given up on finding a good man to date. The best relationship I could recall was with

Gary, my college sweetheart thirty years earlier. He traveled from Massachusetts to school in

Texas because of a football scholarship. Like many love-struck college students, we talked of

marriage.

However, a back injury forced Gary to return to Massachusetts for surgery, and he lost

his scholarship in Texas. Without low airfares, continuing our relationship seemed impossible.

His whole future was in question since he wanted to get his teaching degree and coach thesport he loved. Our world was turned upside down, and in great emotional pain, I ended the

relationship before Gary left. We talked on the phone once after he returned to Massachusetts,

but the 1,750 miles between us was too big a hurdle to conquer -- at least in my shortsighted

vision.

Over the next three decades, I thought of Gary periodically and looked through my

scrapbook that held newspaper clippings of his athletic achievements. I always wondered what

became of him. He was tall, handsome, and had a terrific sense of humor bolstered by his

Boston accent. My mother loved him too, and she was sorry when I ended our relationship. My

dad, on the other hand, feared Gary would take me far away to New England. Consequently,

my father painted a bleak picture of life in the cold Northeast. I later realized Dads comments

were self-serving, but at such a young age, I might not have undertaken a big move to

Massachusetts even without his cautionary statements.

Once my own daughter left for college, random circumstances brought Gary to mind

more frequently. Whenever I heard Barry Manilows song Weekend in New England, thoughts

of Gary drifted my way. When I switched to country stations, Reba McEntire belted out

Whoevers in New England. Recurring questions rambled through my head. Had Garys

surgery been successful so much so that he was drafted and sent to Vietnam to die like so

many men of our generation? Or did he graduate from college and became the coach he talked

of being? If so, I assumed he was married with a large family like the one in which he wasraised.

One weekend in March, I went to dinner with a neighbor, and we met a man from New

Hampshire. Gary came to mind. The next night, I came home and turned on a televised Bee

Gees concert just as they sang Massachusetts, which was popular when we dated. On this


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night, the Bee Gees song hit me like a ton of bricks, and I raised my hands to the heavens

saying, Okay enough. Ill try to talk to him.

I knew when Gary left Texas, he felt I didnt care about him, and I had a long-overdue

need to explain my actions. I also needed to know how things had turned out for him. I wanted

to find him alive and well.

I dialed Directory Assistance, and the operator relayed the only listing she had in the

Boston area for a Gary Bogart. As his phone rang, I wondered what in the world I was going to

say. What if his recorder answered? Should I leave a message? What words were appropriate

after thirty years? What if a wife answered?

I didnt know why thoughts about calling Gary had been hounding me. All I wanted to

tell him was why I ended our relationship when he was struggling to keep his world together.

My father had colored my thinking to a great degree back then, and I just didnt see how we

could achieve our dream of being together with all those miles between us. After all, neither of

us had any money.

After a few rings, I heard a routine Hello from a mans voice.

May I speak to Gary Bogart? I asked.

As one might guess, he responded, This is he.

I muttered, Is this the Gary Bogart who attended college in Texas?

He later told me that, at that moment, he knew the voice was mine. I hadnt realized thetime was after 10:00 P.M. on the East Coast. Thankfully, Gary was home alone sleeping, and he

told me he sat up like hed been hit by a bolt of lightning when he recognized the voice on the

phone. He had been divorced for eight years.

I finally had the chance to explain the thoughts that led me to end our relationship in

1968. He said my call healed something inside him, because he never understood why I turned

away from someone I proclaimed to love. He always suspected there was another guy in my life

-- possibly an old boyfriend -- and nothing could have been further from the truth. He had never

forgotten how much we meant to one another, and he also wondered where life might have

taken us if we had stayed together.

We talked for forty-five minutes before I said I had to hang up. I had achieved my

purpose in calling, and I was elated to have been able to answer the decades-old questions that

lingered in his mind. For the second time in my life, he asked for my number. After six weeks

and many long phone conversations, we met in Florida. It was surreal, as if three decades had

suddenly disappeared. I worked for an airline, which allowed us to spend lots of time together

that year.


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Dozens of flights and nine months later, Gary and I married on the beach at Sanibel

Island, Florida. The sun was setting as we became husband and wife, and the onlookers

included two dolphins that swam unusually close to shore. One passer-by proclaimed the

dolphins presence to be a spiritual blessing. That may have been so, but all we knew for sure

was we were ready to fulfill the dream that fate had suspended for us.

Two nights after we married, we attended a Bee Gees concert where Barry Gibb made a

surprising announcement before they sang Massachusetts. My best friend had let them know

about their role in our rekindled romance, and Barry dedicated that song to Gary and Betty

before beginning its enchanting melody.

I finally made that once-foreboding move to Lynn, Massachusetts, where we lived for

several years before relocating to Florida. As we celebrate ten years of marriage, we are

grateful we can be together at this point in our lives.

~Betty Bogart


7/24

Is Anybody Dead?

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

By Corrina Lawson

You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the

best thing in the world for you.

~Walt Disney

My mother will tell you that shes had a blessed life.

From one perspective, this is true. She has three healthy children and eight

grandchildren who adore her, she has been very successful in her job, she has a nice home and

friends who love her.

In another sense, this is an illusion. She was raised in a broken home. At age twenty-

nine, she became a widow with three young children. She lost her second husband to a braintumor. She broke her back when I was in college and it still gives her pain. She has diabetes,

partially brought on by the stress of caring for her second husband during his illness.

But my mother doesnt focus on the negative. Its not that she doesnt feel the pain. She

does feel the pain, very deeply. But it has never prevented her from living her life. Her greatest

gift was teaching me to never give up, to keep moving forward, to know that while life is full of

tragedy, it is also full of joy.

Only three years after my father died, my mother planned a trip for the four of us to

Disney World. She was a widow with three kids, ages twelve, eleven and eight. She was only

thirty-two herself. She made all the arrangements and got us ready to go without showing a

single worry. We had a blast.

Even a broken rental car was something she could handle. Wed spent the day at Disney

World and were very late leaving. By the time we reached our car, the parking lot was emptying

out and we were exhausted and cranky.

And the car would not start.

So there we were, years before cell phone service; my mom was in a big, empty parking

lot with three exhausted children and a car that would not work. And it was getting darker fast.

Not a problem.

Shed paid attention to the announcement on the trams about car trouble and how to

request help from Disney staff. The staff acted quickly, reported the problem for us to the

rental car company, and said to wait until they brought a replacement.


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So we waited. And we waited. It was hours.

I remember being a little worried that it was very dark outside. It was also quiet, as the

place was shut down for the night, and that seemed ominous. There was nowhere to sit but the

car.

If my mother was scared, she never showed it. I dont remember exactly what she did to

keep us occupied during that wait. I think she told stories. Or we played some guessing games.

Or said what we liked most about the vacation so far.

I do remember that she kept saying, No big deal patience this will get fixed. And

when the car showed up, finally, we cheered.

The rest of the vacation, the broken car became a running joke, something we laughed

about. She approaches every obstacle in her life this way. If its a small thing that will eventually

get fixed with patience, no big deal. If its more menacing and looks insurmountable, shell say,

Is anybody sick? Is anybody dead? And, if not, well, then there are options, even if we cant

see them yet.

I remember the day I announced that I would be a writer. I was a little kid and she

probably heard her kids say this kind of stuff all the time. But she instantly said, I think youd

be great. And she meant it. Sure, there were obstacles. We had little money. My parents were

from families where no one had ever gotten a college degree. And I wanted to go into

journalism, which paid badly then and pays less now.

But she never saw the problems as problems. I never heard one negative word from her

about it. What I heard was, Youre a great writer, youre talented, you keep working, and youllbe great.

All she emphasized was that if I wanted to do something, I had to work hard; I had to

never give up. I had to know that I would make mistakes, that practice was important and

nothing would come easily. But the most important part is to keep going, to keep learning.

Even if the odds are against you, even if tragedies happen.

I have four kids now, and one of them has special needs. Weve had some serious

issues over the years paying for medical expenses. But I think of what my mother handled and

still deals with, and I ask myself:Is anybody seriously ill? Is anybody dead?

And if not, I move

forward.

People ask me sometimes how I deal with the things in my life.

And I say, I learned from my mom.

~Corrina Lawson


9/24

The Best Gift of All

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad

By Mary Jo Marcellus Wyse

Kids spell love T-I-M-E.

~John Crudele

Look! Theres Dave Righetti! My dad pointed at the taller of the two men leaving

Cleveland Municipal Stadium. It was dusk and shadows had started to creep up the pavement,

leaving us in cool summer shade.

Really? I stared at the Yankees pitcher. Wed been waiting for a half hour for the

players to shower, change and head out so that I could nab some autographs.

Go! my dad said, but I was already scooting towards Rags, my ball and pen in hand.

When I returned to my dad, triumphantly holding the signed baseball in the air, my dad leaneddown and said, Did you know that was Steve Sax with him?

The second baseman? I gasped, spinning around, but the Yankees had already

disappeared. Darn. My dad laughed and clapped a hand on my shoulder. Maybe next time.

At twelve years old, this was the first of many annual weekends my dad and I took to

Cleveland to watch the Yankees play -- and try to get autographs. It became our father-

daughter thing. Sometime in March, my dad and I would examine the Major League baseball

schedule and see when our Yanks were going to be in Cleveland, only four hours from home. In

the meantime, wed check box scores in the paper together and stay up to watch games on TV.

And once the warm weather came around, wed take the long drive to Cleveland, talking

about baseball, school, and my softball season. My dad, baseball guru that he was, was also my

coach.

Line up the knuckles on your left hand with those on the right. Choke up about an inch

on the bat. There. Dad adjusted my hands as we stood together in the empty ballfield, the

summer sun blazing on our backs. Hed just returned from a weekend coaches camp and had

acquired some new tips for improving my batting average. Somehow, those tips were magic.

Dad jogged to the mound and lobbed me a pitch. I swung, the crack of the bat a sweet,satisfying sound. The ball flew over the dirt and landed -- plunk -- in the grass of right-center.

Dad nodded, smiling.

Again, I said, checking my grip on the bat, making sure the knuckles were still exactly

right. Throw me another.


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Later that summer, I hit my first home run and my dad caught me as I leapt into his arms

after crossing home plate.

That hit felt good, I said, hugging him hard.

It sure looked good. Dad grinned as widely as I did and I think he probably was just as

happy.

Over the next six years, my dad watched me hit dozens more home runs and take All-

Star and MVP status in various tournaments on various teams. He attended every game either

as coach or spectator and helped me fine-tune my stance as well as my confidence over the

years.

We continued our trips to Cleveland as well as other places. Do you want to fly out to

Kansas to see K-State? he asked one spring Saturday when I was fifteen.

In the kitchen, my mom raised her eyebrows, glancing at my dad.

Ill take her, he continued. I wouldnt mind going back to see my Alma Mater. We can

check flights this afternoon.

Sure! I agreed. Why not? Id never been that far west and Id wanted to see where my

parents attended college. And who knew -- maybe Id like the school enough to apply.

And so we went. My dad and I. We sat side-by-side in the airplane, chatting mostly

about my life as a sophomore in high school: teachers I liked, the economics class that made me

want to cry, friends, sports, and the future. We were comrades in the rental car, on the

campus, getting lost and finding our way again. When I needed an emergency trip to the eye

doctor because a fleck of metal had gotten caught in my eye, my dad inquired about where togo and took us there. He took care of me.

After that weekend, I knew I couldnt go to college that far from home.

My dad isnt known for wrapping Christmas or birthday presents, let alone picking them

out. Thats my moms job and she does it quite well. But the gifts my dad gave me growing up --

college visits, baseball games, a better batting stance, advice, laughter, confidence -- created

memories that are more valuable than any bracelet or pair of socks.

Now when my dad comes to visit my family, he spends hours rolling around on the floorwith my son, making him laugh, pushing him on the swing in the park, or reading to him on the

couch. On his most recent visit to Boston -- over six hours from his home where I grew up -- my

dad said, Id love to coach Aidan in Little League. I wish we lived closer. To our home, he

brought books and new footie pajamas that my mom had picked out, but from him -- well, he

brought himself. And that was good enough.


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For almost thirty-three years, my dad has given me more than any father could. He gave

me what a child ultimately finds most precious from her parents. Its the stuff memories are

made of, of which photographs are taken and cataloged over the years. What I wouldnt trade

for anything is exactly what my dad gave me and what is sometimes, for some people, the

hardest thing to give. But he gave it freely, happily, and as often as possible.

My dad gave me -- and continues to give me -- his time. And for that, I am most

thankful.

~Mary Jo Marcellus Wyse


12/24

Perpetual Promise

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book

By John Strege

I may not be there yet, but I'm closer than I was yesterday.

~Author Unknown

Mort Lachman, in the tradition of those for whom humor is a livelihood, often relies on

self-deprecation, notably when discussing his golf game. Once Bob Hopes head writer and the

executive producer of the legendary television sitcomAll in the Family, Lachman also lays claim

to being the worlds worst golfer.

Yet his pursuit of a remedy is neither trivial nor funny. Books are his passion, and the

office of his home in Hollywood is cluttered with them, a preponderance dedicated to golf

instruction.

When I was ushered into Lachmans office one summer morning, I interrupted him as he

was reading from one of them, certain that he had discovered a cure for the topped tee shot. It

should be noted here that Lachmans age at the time was ninety.

He said he began each day by picking up a golf club and standing in front of a mirror.

To stretch? I presumed.

No, he said, to check my swing.

It was his daily mission to improve golf skills that probably peaked during the Nixon

administration. He continued to play a daily nine holes, unbridled optimism accompanying him

always to the first tee.

The notion that someone at ninety-something (or eighty- or seventy- or sixty-) is going

to find a cure that will improve the curb appeal of their scorecard is absurd. It also is beside the

point. Golf at its core might be a vile game, but it is not without its charms, among them the

shelf life of hope. It has no expiration date.

And so, against odds that we tend not even to consider, we embrace the possibility that

today will be the day that golf ceases to qualify as an unsolved mystery. Even the man whoselast name evoked such optimism was not immune. Bob Hope once said he intended to shoot his

age even if he had to live to be a hundred to do so.

I once had the privilege of playing with Tony Penna, the old pro and legendary club

maker, who was in his eighties at the time. His passion for the game had long outlasted his

skills. Nonetheless, Penna was unperturbed. Hed take a Penna-model persimmon driver and hit


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a slinging hook in an attempt to squeeze a few extra yards from the tee. Hed then use the

same club from the fairway as well.

Even Arnold Palmer, long after age had deprived him of the ability to compete, was

hopelessly hopeful. The 12th hole at his Latrobe Country Club in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, features

a creek that crosses the fairway about 240 yards from the tee. Palmer once vowed he wouldquit playing when he no longer could carry the creek with his driver.

Years after he last carried the creek, he is still at it, stubbornly pulling driver with a

degree of certainty that the creek is navigable. Inevitably, he hits his ball into the creek, takes a

drop, and perhaps more often than not still salvages par.

Not long ago Palmer completed a round there and repaired to the 19th hole. A

television was tuned to The Golf Channel, which at the moment was airing an instructional

segment. He intently watched for a few minutes, then turned to a friend.

Thats what I need to work on, Palmer said, blissfully clinging to golfs perpetual

promise. That tomorrow will be better than today.

~John Strege


14/24

Bank Owned

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Tough Times, Tough People

By Amber Garza

Where thou art -- that is home.

~Emily Dickinson

Ive lost my home. The home I bought, cherished, loved.

It now stands vacant. The bare picture windows stare out like hollow eyes. A bank

owned sign sticks crudely in the overgrown, yellow lawn. The flowers I planted and watered

religiously wilt, hanging low as if weeping.

Indentations in the carpet reveal the outline of furniture, of a life, of a family. Putty and

paint cover the holes in the walls where pictures once hung.

Even though the house is empty, images flood my mind of a time when it was filled with

life.

On the driveway, we showed our son how to ride a bike. In this house, both kids started

school, learned to read and write. We taught our son to tie his shoes, and for several horrific

months went through potty-training our daughter.

Since it was our first home, we set right out to decorate, make it our own. My arm still

aches from painting my sons bedroom walls a bright blue that needed three coats before it

stopped appearing streaky. I remember the plans to paint my daughters room pastel pink that

never came to fruition.

Many injuries and bruises accumulated over the years. Theres the time my daughter

tried to climb on top of her dresser and it fell over on her. Luckily, she wasnt badly hurt. Or the

time my son fell off his bike and scraped his knee.

I remember the excitement about having a master bedroom with our own bathroom

and walk-in closet. Many fond memories are associated with the room I shared with my

husband. The room we talked in, embraced in, laughed in, loved in.

Ill never forget the time we found a lizard slithering through our hallway. I screamedand jumped up on a chair. My husband caught it and it became the family pet. I wonder now

where Ben Casey went after we let him loose in the backyard. Im sure he misses the

excitement and noise back there since now there is only silence.

My heart hurts as we drive away from the house, leaving it in the dust like nothing more

than a distant memory.


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Behind me my kids chatter fills the back seat. My husband at my side threads his fingers

through mine. Its then that I realize I havent truly lost my home. My home is not a structure

with four walls and a roof. Its not something that can be bought or sold. My home is not the

place I live. Its the people I live with. The people right here in this car.

My family is my home.


16/24

Finding Sacred Moments in Silence

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Power Moms

By Kimmie Rose Zapf

If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship

of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and

mystery of the world we live in.

~Rachel Carson

Being a mother of five children and working from home has brought me many

challenges; while at the same time some amazing gifts that have a timeless value. Sometimes

when doing an interview, I am wiping a dirty face at the same time. Those are the times I am

reminded how blessed I am to be able to get a goofy smile or a hug that most working mothers

wouldnt be able to get. These are the extra perks that make it all worthwhile.

We have a camper in order to bring the kids with us when I have a lecture and mix

vacation and business. While on a recent business trip with three of my five children, Matthew,

fourteen, Hannah, six, and Asha, five, I was preparing for a workshop that my husband and I

were doing together. My son Matthew asked me to go on a hike with him. I told him I had a lot

to do and didnt think I would have time at that moment. I told him I just needed to have

silence for a while.

Come on Mom, this trip will add to your message. Its a true spiritual journey,

Matthew coaxed.

Okay, I cant pass up the opportunity to take a spiritual journey, I answered.

I put on my hiking shorts and set out on a walk with him. We came to the mouth of a

river where rapids were flowing over a small waterfall.

Are we going to climb down that waterfall? I asked, hoping he would want to turn

back.

He smiled at me and said, Come on, Mom. Its about the silence you find at the end.

I stood there looking at the rushing water thinking, Either I am crazy or lazy. How am Igoing to do this?

Matthews smile made me see that this was important to him, so we hung on to the side

of some rock and climbed down the small waterfall. My body became drenched with water, and

I wondered if we were going to get back in time for me to get my writing done for the lecture.


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18/24

Eye See You

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teacher Tales

By Malinda Dunlap Fillingim

Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.

~Jonathan Swift

I walked into a wild third-grade classroom. Music was playing loudly, children were

under tables applying make-up, kids were throwing a football indoors, and students were

dancing wherever they could find space. I was a mid-year replacement. The previous teacher

said he could no longer manage these children and resigned without notice during the holiday

break.

As soon as I walked in the room, I realized why he left.

I sat down quietly in my chair and began reading their names softly. After each name, Iprayed, asking God to help me understand that child.

I then nailed a mirror to the wall next to the chalkboard and began writing my name and

a reading assignment on the board.

I then asked each child to come to me, tell me their name and what they wanted to

learn. It was a difficult task, because only two children there wanted to learn anything!

Rules were set, boundaries established, parents contacted. But the mirror saved the day

-- no, the year!

Unbeknownst to the children, the mirror allowed me to see their every move while I

was writing on the board. They soon became puzzled as to how I knew who was misbehaving

while I was writing on the board. When one student finally asked me, I told him I had a special

teachers eye in the back of my head that my hair covered.

At first they did not believe me. But they did begin to exhibit better behavior, especially

while I wrote on the board, thinking I had magical vision.

I never told them differently. Why mess up a good thing?

~Malinda Dunlap Fillingim


19/24

You Dont Know Jack

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat

By Dana Martin

Does the father figure in your cats life ever clean the litter box? My husband claims that men

lack the scooping gene.

~Barbara L. Diamond

We love cats. Well, I love cats, and my husband is a sort of transient in the world of

animal lovers, finding himself standing on the outside and looking in with a tepid interest in

how the other half lives.

An overzealous pet owner he is not, but he can mildly tolerate dogs that live outdoors.

He claims allergies. When he met me, however, he had to resign himself to living among the

enemy.

To date, we have had five adult cats and approximately thirty-three kittens scattered

throughout eighteen years of marriage.

The system that works around our house is that I feed the cats, I clean up after the cats,

I shop for the cats, and I care for the cats. My spouse still complains.

Cats are a lot of work. Why do we need all these cats? he asked me years ago.

We only have two.

They dont do anything but eat, sleep, and use the litter box. What good are cats?

The kids love them.

But the kids will leave someday, and well be stuck with all these cats. What then?

Ill take care of them. Dont worry, dear.

I knew the addition of one more cat would be reckless, but one chilly evening fate had

other plans.

The kids and I stopped to get some burgers for dinner at Jack in the Box. Intending to

run in and out, we almost missed a woman kneeling on the ground with French fries in her

hand.

Will you take this kitten home? she asked. My husband will just kill me if I bring

home one more stray!


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Ohhhhhhh, I sympathized with an apologetic chuckle, the same version of her story

(different husband) quick on my lips. I dont think But then I looked down at the helpless

creature, and I could feel my heart begin to soften. He was the picture of innocence.

However, because stray cats usually have unfavorable personalities, a certain people-

less, independent air about them, I could feel myself gain the confidence to walk through therestaurants glass doors and not look back.

Teetering on the precipice of refusal, I accidentally caught a glimpse of my toddler

cradling the kitten inside her pudgy embrace. He lay there like a limp doll and allowed my

daughter to fondle him with the unstable, brutish pawing of four-year-old hands. He didnt

move. He purred.

This wasnt a typical alley cat.

This couldnt be! Why me? Why now? I could NOT take another cat!

Of course Ill take him, I heard some foreign voice say from inside my body. It sounded

like my voice, but surely I wouldnt have conceded so quickly, not with such a potentially

volatile, six-foot-four-inch consequence looming at home.

Yet there we were -- plus one -- driving away with our burgers and fries.

I worried through dinner what I would say to my husband. We left the vagrant kitten

sleeping in the car until I could introduce him in a way that would soften the inevitable

firestorm that would shoot from my husbands mouth like sparks from an exploding brick of

firecrackers. Would this be the final straw? Would the man finally just leave me to my felinefriends in exchange for a life free from allergies and the pungent odor of litter box deposits?

I would know soon enough. At the first opportunity, I bathed the cat, named him, and

counted the minutes for the hammer to fall.

No!

It was a singular word, but it carried the meaning of so many conversations before it.

My husband took one look at the kitten, his freshly washed fur shining beneath the glaring

fluorescent kitchen lights, and his eyes narrowed.

No, he repeated. We arent keeping another cat. You shouldnt have brought him

home. Look at him! Whered you get him? We are not keeping him. We dont need another

stray!

But you dont know Jack, I cooed, my hand extending to touch Jacks clean fur. He

seems thankful to us for rescuing him.


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Jack? His brows arched in an I-cant-believe-you-named-him way.

Yes! I smiled. We found him at Jack in the Box, and he was so hungry and dirty, you

should have seen him! I couldnt just leave him there. Thats it, pull on his heartstrings. He

had nowhere to go.

My husbands eyes darted from the kitten to me, over to the kids expectant faces, and

back to Jack. I could tell he wanted to assert his authority as Head of the Household, King of the

Castle, and simply demand that we turn Jack loose, but to his credit, he couldnt.

I saw hesitation flicker across his face as he contemplated what he would say next. The

kids and I waited for the verdict.

It never came.

With a defeated shrug, our hero quietly resigned himself to the idea of another cat and

padded down the hall to bed. His tacit surrender was all Jack needed to become an integral part

of the family.

Unfortunately, we did not get to keep Jack forever. After nine years, one day he just

disappeared. He slipped from our lives as unexpectedly as hed entered. We never saw him

again, but he left his mark on our hearts.

After sharing a real home with us, Jack seemed undamaged by the life of a typical alley

cat; he forgot what it was like to forage for food or dodge traffic. He slept on the bed at night.

He took uninterrupted naps. He made fast friends with the other cats in the house.

Jack proved his amiability, even as a stray. We loved him.

We didnt get Jack from a pet store or from an ad for free kittens. Jack spent the first

few weeks of his life on a highway avoiding cars and sponging fries off good Samaritans. All he

needed was a chance to show his worth.

The lesson here is that things may not always be as they first appear. Jack was a stray

but in name only. If you are still skeptical about stray cats, if you think they wont make good

pets, or if you buy into the opinion that strays are unable to become lovable animals -- then,

quite frankly -- you dont know Jack.


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Coal

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog

By Sgt. Ed Geib, MBPD K-9

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any

reaction, both are transformed.

~Carl Jung

In the spring of 2000, I met my new partner. I was one of the old guys, with eighteen

years on the job in a local police department, and he was another rookie to train. On his first

day I drove thirty-five miles to pick him up for work. My first thought when I met him was that

he was such a skinny little guy, kind of skittish and shy. But Id seen worse. My new partner was

a two-year-old black Lab named Coal, and he was going to be trained for drug detection. The

canine trainer, who was a retired police chief and a salty no-nonsense fellow, introduced me to

Coal and said, Here he is, now go give him a bath. A little different from the usual

introduction to a new partner.

As we trained, Coal amazed me with his ability to do his job. I quickly learned that we

were a team and that if we werent performing up to standards, the problem was usually me.

With the proper diet and exercise, Coal filled out and became a very handsome and fit animal,

drawing the attention of everyone around him. He also became a friend to the community,

visiting schools, church groups, and civic organizations to help build relationships with the

citizens we serve. Those relationships served us well when the mayor decided he that he was

going to disband the K-9 program. The townsfolk overwhelmed the municipal offices with calls

and visits to ask for reconsideration. Fortunately, Coals friends in the community did change

the minds of those in charge and we spent eight years and seven months as a working team.

During our time together I realized that I had become one of those grumpy old cops

who make people roll their eyes. Coal, however, became my icebreaker. He was a conversation

starter, and he helped me to interact with the people I met rather than just command them.

Dont get me wrong. There are still plenty of humans among us who could take behavior

lessons from our pets, and they, on occasion, still need to be commanded and corrected. In

retrospect I would say that my partner didnt weaken me, but he softened me. This animal

made me a better human.

Our bond grew steadily as we spent all of our time together, and before I knew it Coal

had become a huge part of me. I learned very quickly that my thoughts and emotions traveledfrom my head and my heart, down my arm, through the lead, and into my partner. He knew if I

perceived that the person in front of me was going to be a problem or a threat, and he was

immediately on guard without command. He would also sense when the person who I was

interacting with was okay, and he would relax. On the rare occasion that he wasnt by my side, I

would find myself talking to him, or reaching for him and getting a handful of air.
http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/27108.htmlhttp://www.quotationspage.com/quote/27108.htmlhttp://www.quotationspage.com/quote/27108.htmlhttp://www.quotationspage.com/quote/27108.html


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Coal retired two months ago and now he stays home while Im at work. He is slowly

getting used to it, but he has aged quickly since his retirement. Coal is not the only one having

difficulty with the adjustment. Now I dont know what to do with the last bite of my lunch, and

on several occasions I found myself parking by the woods where he used to run while he was on

duty. I open the back door to let him out just to find that my partner is missing and there is

nothing in the back of the car but a cold, empty seat.

About a month after Coal retired, we learned that he had cancer. That news was

devastating for my wife and me, although Coal has no idea that he is sick. He still plays, cuddles

up on the couch with me, and gets excited when he sees the old camouflage bag that we carry

back and forth to the boat. With aggressive treatment he seems to be doing alright, and there is

a strong chance that he will live a long and happy life.

I have learned from Coal each and every day, and I feel extremely lucky to have been

blessed with an incredible teacher. He was once a skinny, skittish black Lab, and he grew into an

icon of the community and the best buddy I have ever had. If we could just take an example

from mans best friend and be honest and true to those around us, we would have better

relationships that last a lifetime.


24/24

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