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Many so called "experts" say that animals do not possess the higher intelligence that is commonly associated with humans. I know for a fact that animals not only possess such brain power, but if they are properly nurtured, their reasoning and intelligence can far outstrip that of mankind. Let me give you just a few examples from my observations of my own and other's pets.

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Can animals think? OF COURSE THEY CAN! Not only can they think, they can plot. They can scheme. And they can carry out their revenge. A good case in point was a little female copper colored rat terrier named, appropriately enough, Penny.

Penny adored my father and followed him everywhere. Every spring, Dad carefully tilled and set out a vegetable garden in the lower part of our yard. He planted all sorts of wonderful things in that garden: corn, potatoes, beans, peppers, berries, cantaloupes, and the heart of this tale, tomatoes.

One summer, Dad noticed that just before the tomatoes were ready to be picked, they would mysteriously disappear. So he went about setting a trap for the culprit. He sat near the garden where he could see it, but he could not be seen. In due time, a little orange colored ball of fur ambled in. She sniffed the tomatoes until she found one that was ripe, and pulled it off the vine and proceeded to devour it with great pleasure.

My Dad grabbed her and scolded her soundly, yelling and cussing as he dragged her all the way back to the house.

For several weeks, there were no more tomato disappearances, and my father, as well as everyone else, thought that Penny had learned her lesson.

Then, one morning, Dad went into the garden. There was never such a scream in all the world as the one that he let out. Not just the tomatoes, but in fact, every single fruit and vegetable in the garden, ripe or not, had one bite taken out of it. There was no question who had done the deed, because Penny sat at the edge of the garden, tail wagging furiously. If a dog could grin, that dog was grinning ear to ear.

When Jack and I were first married, we adopted a yorkie terrier mix puppy from the pound. We named him Tiger, because he was afraid of his own shadow. When Tiger was about four months old, he fell sick. The vet diagnosed him with distemper. He said that he had an experimental treatment from the University of Pittsburgh, and that he wanted to try it on Tiger. Of course, we gave our immediate approval.

For the next two months, there was a routine of medications every four hours, daily visits to the vet for shots, and numerous tests and examinations. Except for an occasional yelp at the shots, Tiger took all of this without a single complaint. With each passing day, Tiger seemed to be getting better. His periods of convulsion became fewer and less severe, his strength returned, his fur started to grow back and his appetite returned. Finally a week went by without a single spasm or other symptoms. The vet said that if Tiger could make through the next week symptom free, he would consider him cured.

Three days later, Tiger went into the worst convulsion he had ever had. Bawling like he was one of my children, I carefully wrapped him in a blanket and rushed him to the vet. Not only was I crying, but Jack was crying too.

The vet only shook his head and took Tiger into the examining room. A few minutes later he returned and handed me Tiger's blanket. He was crying visibly.

"How much do I owe you"?" I asked. Up to this point, he had not charged me a penny for all the treatments.

"No charge." He said softly. "How could I possibly charge you for that?"

This is the story of King. The most remarkable dog I have ever known. I swear that the person who draws the Marmaduke cartoons lived in my neighborhood. Every time I see one of those cartoons I am reminded of King.

It begins a few weeks after Tiger lost his battle with distemper. My husband and I had made a solemn vow that there would be no more pets. The heartbreak was just too great.

One day, the phone rang. It was the vet. It seems someone had pulled into his parking lot during the middle of the night and left this puppy behind. Would we be interested in having him?

"The answer is a resounding NO!" I angrily replied. "We have decided that we don't want any more animals."

"I'm supposed to turn any abandoned animals over to the S.P.C.A., but if you won't keep him, would you at least hold him until I can find a good home for him?" He asked. I believe he knew what my answer would be from the start.

"Well ... We might be able to do that."

I went to his office.

"He's about four months old and as near as I can determine he is part German Shepherd and part Great Dane." The vet said as he led me to his cage. The dog had the conformation of the Dane and the markings of the Shepherd. He was gorgeous. The dog looked at me. I looked into his liquid brown eyes. I was lost. I was his.

"How much does he eat?" I asked.

"Oh, about two to three pounds of food a day." He replied. "Or one mailman, whichever comes first." He added with a grin. Fortunately, King never bothered the mailman. In fact, I think they were actually friends.

Jack would just have to understand.

King rode home in the back seat of the car.

King did not have the slightest conception that he was a dog. I think he thought he was one of the children with a funny nose. I used to tell everyone that when he was a puppy, nobody had the heart to tell him he was a dog, and when he grew up, no one had the guts. He was 39 inches at the shoulders and stood well over six feet tall on his hind legs and weighed 140 pounds. Would you want to tell him that he was a dog? Not me!

The first sign that King was not your ordinary run of the mill dog occurred a few weeks after I brought him home. He began vomiting. He couldn't keep anything down. Remembering Tiger, I frantically called the vet.

He came out of the examining room, smiling. "It's only a mild stomach inflammation. I've given him a shot for the nausea and I'll give you some antibiotics to take home. Just feed him the same as you would a baby. He should be all right in a few days."

For the next few days, King lived on a diet of oatmeal (butter and brown sugar, if you please), and strained baby foods. As the vet predicted, the stomach problems soon disappeared. However, King still wanted his oatmeal every morning. He would go to the cabinet where it was stored and whine and cry until he got it. It didn't matter what the rest of us were eating, HE WANTED HIS OATMEAL! It took several weeks and a lot of crying and whining (on his part) (and incidentally on mine, too.) to convince him that he wasn't going to get it.

King's adored my daughters, Pat and Sherry. Jack fathered them. I bore them. But they were HIS kids. They could do anything they wanted to him. They teethed on his ears and paws. He was their favorite stuffed animal. It was so comical to see these tiny toddlers (They were only sixteen months apart.) dragging this huge dog around by the tail. He never snapped or did anything and he always came back for more. I believe that he actually enjoyed it.

His loyalties went as follows: Pat and Sherry. Every other kid. Me. The rest of the world. Often, if I had to discipline one of the girls, I would have to put him in the cellar. Otherwise, he would raise a fuss. He would argue with me, and I would argue back "Now, King, you know she has been bad and she deserves ... What am I doing! I'm arguing with a dog! And losing!"

One summer, my neighbor Ruthie and I had gone together and bought a small swimming pool for our children. Her children, Emmy and Buddy were only a few months apart in age from mine. We lived next door to each other and shared a common backyard. I came out one hot summer day to find the kids sitting on the porch in their swimsuits looking decidedly dejected.

"Why aren't you playing in the pool?" I asked.

"King won't let us." They said.

Sure enough, there was King, lying on his back in the pool. It took Ruthie and I and several other neighbors to pull and practically drag him out of the pool. Almost immediately he got back in.

We finally had to buy him his own pool so that the kids could enjoy theirs.

When Pat was about four years old, the two of them were playing in the back yard while I cleaned the house. Sherry was taking a nap. As I said before, King stood 39 inches at the shoulders and well over six feet tall on hind legs. He was almost as tall as the fence and could have jumped it easily, but he never did. This day, I must have left the back gate unlocked, because when I went to check on them, they were gone. I searched the neighborhood. No sign of Pat or King. I asked everyone I met. No one had seen them. Frantically I called the sheriff. We lived in a small town, and I was afraid that they would get out on the highway and be hit by a car or get lost. The sheriff's office agreed to have the patrols keep an eye out for them.

After about an hour, I got a call from the sheriff's office. Yes, they had Pat and King. I could come to the police station and get them both, but would I bring King's license papers and shot records with me? They would explain when I got there.

When I arrived, there was Pat, sitting on the sergeant's desk, eating a candy bar. King was nowhere in sight.

"Where's my dog? " I asked.

According to the deputies' report, the two of them had, indeed gotten onto the highway, where the deputies found them walking along the side of the road. Everything was fine until one of the deputies tried to put Pat into the patrol car. That's when King went berserk. He bit the one deputy several times, and tore the other's pants to shreds. Finally, they shot him with a tranquilizer dart and he was now sleeping it off in a cell in the back of the police station.

"Since he attacked the deputies, we have to classify him as a vicious animal." The sergeant continued. "Under the law, that means that you have to keep him chained up at all times. If we see him running loose, we have to turn him over to the animal control authorities to be destroyed."

King had been obedience trained as a puppy. The only times he was ever on a leash was when he went to the vet or some other place where he had to be controlled. To keep him tied up would just about kill him.

"VICIOUS!" I yelled. "You guys have known King since he was a puppy. You know that he is the gentlest thing on four or even two feet. HE CAN'T READ! He didn't know you were policemen! All he knew was that there were two men trying to put HIS baby in a car and he wasn't about to let that happen. If it had been anyone but you doing that, you would be pinning a medal on him for saving her life. And now you want to punish him? YOU are the ones who are vicious!"

"Of course you're right." The sergeant said. "That's why the deputy shot him with a tranquilizer dart. If it had been any other dog, he would have probably killed it outright. But still, according to the law, if we see him running loose, we have to destroy him." He leaned close to me. "But I can tell you now, no one from this office will be looking for him."

After I agreed to buy a new pair of pants for the one deputy and pay for the doctor bills for the other one, King was released in my custody. I now had the only dog in town with a police record.

His favorite game was "Tickle Barbara." I am very ticklish. Pat, Sherry, and Jack are not. The house we lived in was Pullman style. Living room, then a long hall which connected the bedrooms and kitchen. If I left the house, King would be waiting in the middle of the hallway where he could see both the front and back door. It didn't matter if I came in the front or back, the rules were the same. If I could make it into the hall before he caught me, all bets were off. If not, I was fair game. He would knock me down, gently of course, and sit on me. Then he would put his mouth around my side and ever so gently squeeze. Of course, this would send me into spasms of laughter. He would keep it up until I somehow managed to get him off, or someone else would pull him off, or he tired of the game, whichever came first.

It might have been a holdover from the days of the stomach problems, but King was an omnivore. He would eat anything. His favorite food was raw carrots. Giving him a carrot was like giving catnip to a cat. He would toss and catch it. He would fight with it. He would roll on it. And, after all play possibilities were exhausted, then, and only then, would he eat it.

In the summer, King knew when the Ice Cream truck came around. I made a little cloth pouch which clipped on his collar. I would put the money in the pouch and he would wait patiently on the porch until the truck came by. Then he would wait in line with the other children (after all, he too, was a kid). The Ice Cream man would take the money and give him an ice cream cup, which King would take to the porch and sit and eat it with the other kids.

Don't you DARE go to McDonalds and not bring him a Big Mac - No pickles please. (He could smell it on your breath, and there was hell to pay if he didn't get his.)

For all his size, he never chased cars. Well, no cars except Volkswagens, that is. I think he thought that since they were so small, he had a better than even chance of catching them. Occasionally, he even did get one. More than once I would go out in the street to find him standing with his front paws on the hood of one of them, while the panic stricken driver was frantically beeping his horn.

His most famous escapade is the title of this piece. As I said earlier, we lived in a small town just outside of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. Like most of the towns in that area, it was built on the side of a hill (read mountain). We lived on Seventeenth Street, at the top of the hill. The downtown part of the town was on Second Street, near the bottom.

For convenience sake, nearly everyone in town had an account with the cab company. One month, I received my bill. There were a number of entries - 2nd St. to 17th St. ... 2nd St. to 17th St. ... 2nd St. to 17th St.

I immediately called a family meeting. On the dates in question, no one in the family had even been downtown, let alone ridden a cab.

I called the cab company.

"That was your dog." Was the reply.

As I mentioned earlier, he wouldn't jump the back fence, but don't leave the gate or the front door open and unattended. That was like an engraved invitation to him. He was gone in a shot. Going into town was mostly downhill. But coming back, of course, was all uphill. Since King was either too tired or too lazy after a day of roaming the downtown area, he would go to the cab stand and wait for the next cab. (The first few times were probably accidental, but it did not take King long to make the connection.) Since nearly everyone knew everyone else in the town, and everyone knew King was my dog, the drivers would ride him up the hill and charge it to my account.

"O.K. If the dog is going to ride cabs, the dog is going to have his own account." I decided. I opened an account in King's name. Each of the cab drivers, (there were only seven,) had a stamp pad. When King got in the cab, they would put his paw on the pad and then on the ticket. It was an excellent advertising gimmick for the cab company, and it was even written up in the local paper. After that, King was known as "The Dog Who Rode Cabs". I have since lost the copy of the paper with the story and his picture in the cab in it. Probably when we moved to Ohio.

When we moved to Ohio, we moved into a small apartment where we couldn't have pets. With extremely heavy hearts, we had to leave King with Ruthie and her family. We visited several times, and every time, King recognized us with much face licking and tail wagging.

To the best of my knowledge, King continued his antics until he died peacefully in his sleep at the age of thirteen. Never knowing he was a dog.

While we had King, we were 'adopted' by a stray black and white cat we called Thomas. (He DEFINITELY chose us. We certainly DID NOT choose him.) He just came to the house one day and decided that this was where he wanted to live.

I was not fond of cats. My father raised Championship show Persians for a time, and one of my jobs was to clean out the Cattery. This was in the days long before Deodorized Cat Litter. In the summer ... Well, you get the picture.

Thomas did nothing to change my feelings toward cats. He was impossible to train. I would put him in the room with the litter box and he would go on the floor right next to it. He was a thief. I would have to have everyone seated at the table before I could put the food out or he would steal it. His favorite place to sleep (and to do his business) was under Pat's bed.

I did everything to discourage Thomas from staying in the house, but nothing worked. I chased him outside with a broom, even threw him bodily out. It didn't matter, a few minutes later, there would be a meowing at the door from the kitchen to the cellar, and in would trot Thomas. We never figured out how he got into the cellar. We even had a builder come out and examine the walls. He swore there was no openings to the outside except for the door, which was always kept locked. Nevertheless, Thomas came and went through the cellar at will.

For the most part, King, gentleman that he was, ignored Thomas. Thomas, however, did not ignore King. He tormented him every chance that he got. King would bear it as long as he could, and then Thomas would go flying across the room, courtesy of King's right front paw. Properly chastised, Thomas would behave himself for a few days, and then it would start all over again.

Finally, we determined that Thomas would have to go. We took him to the S.P.C.A. Two weeks later, Thomas was back. They said he had escaped when they inadvertently lift his cage door open. We put him in a burlap sack and into the back of the car. We drove in a very random pattern, frequently doubling back and taking many dead end roads. Finally, after about forty miles, we opened the sack and put it by the side of the road. We drove back to town by another maze-like route. Two days later, I heard a meowing at the cellar door. There was Thomas!

I think subconsciously, Thomas may have been one of the factors that influenced our decision to move to Ohio. We figured if the cat wouldn't leave, we would have to. I half expected to look out of the rear view mirror of the moving van and see Thomas chasing after it. No such luck, thank heaven. Whoever bought our house, Thomas was now their problem.

Our next dog was Boots, so named because she was a tan sheltie with four white paws. I think a more appropriate name for her should have been Hooker. I think Boots was born pregnant. The first time she came in heat she had a litter, which appeared to have been sired by every male dog in the neighborhood. We decided that as soon as she had weaned these pups, she would be spayed. We took her to the vet. Too late. Spaying would have to wait until after thesepuppies were whelped. The only problem with that was as soon as one litter was weaned, another was on the way.

We finally solved the problem by keeping one of the pups, (a male) and giving Boots away.

Samson was a black-and-tan hound dog who possessed amazing strength, hence his name. The house we lived at this time in was a rented one, and we couldn't put up a fence, so we kept Samson chained to the wall on about 20 feet of chain. Even though he was a small dog, he was so strong he kept breaking the standard dog chains, so we finally ended up tying him out on 200 pound test swing chain which was bolted through the foundation of the house.

The neighbor children often used our yard as a shortcut from one street to another. There was one little girl who seemed to take special delight in tormenting Samson. I repeatedly warned her that even though he was basically friendly and generally loved everyone, he didn't know his own strength and if provoked, he could … and probably would … bite.

One day, as I was walking to the house, my neighbor called me aside. She told me that Samson had bitten the little girl. She had seen it all. The girl stood just outside the limit of the chain and was waving a chicken leg at Samson. He would lunge for it and she would pull it back and laugh. She kept doing this over and over. I guess this one time she didn't pull back fast enough and Samson bit her on the thumb as he was going for the chicken leg.

I immediately went over to the neighbor's house to see what I could do. The mother was furious. She yelled at me from the moment she opened the door about what a cruel and vicious monster my dog was, attacking her precious little angel for no reason. I was to pay for her little darling's doctor treatments and I was to have that despicable animal destroyed or she was going to report me to the police!

"Wait a minute." I said. "In the first place, your daughter has repeatedly tormented my dog despite my warnings to leave him alone. Second, I have an eye witness who saw the whole episode. The dog bit her accidentally while she was teasing him with a chicken leg. Third, she was on my property without my permission. That's trespassing. If anyone calls the police, it will be me. Finally, my dog has had all of his shots. Has your daughter? If he gets sick from this, I expect you to pay all of HIS bills." I turned and stormed out the door.

Over the next several weeks, I was visited by the Bexley Police, the Columbus Police, the Franklin County Sheriffs Department and the Ohio Highway Patrol.

Each said they had been told that I was: a) keeping wild animals. b) involved in gambling activity. c) growing pot. or d) the leader of a prostitution and drug ring.

There were also visits from the Board of Health regarding the huge mounds of filth in the back yard, which turned out to be a tiny pile of dog droppings that I had not had the chance to clean that day.

The Humane Society, S.P.C.A. and the Animal Control Department were also called about my huge viscous dog that was terrorizing the neighborhood.

I patiently explained to each of them the circumstances, and that this was all a ploy on her part to get me to pay for the dog bite, which I was not about to do. They all agreed with me that the accusations were false.

While I was explaining this to the Animal Control Officer we were sitting in the back porch. Samson brought his ball for the officer to play catch with him. Every time he threw the ball, Samson would fetch it and bring it back, tail wagging furiously, and licking the officer's face. The officer would the pat him and scratch his ears. This only made Samson come back for more. "Good vicious dog! Pretty vicious dog!" The officer kept saying.

I finally had to go to court and get a restraining order on the neighbor to stop her harassment. A few weeks later, I found Samson dead. An autopsy showed that he had been poisoned. Although I knew that the neighbor had done it, it was a case of Know who ... Know why ... No proof.

Benji came to us as a result of Sherry's high school biology class. At the end of the school year, the teacher sold all of the rat progeny to the students for a quarter apiece. With the parent's approval, of course. Benji's place in history was the role he played in writing my psychology paper for college.

At this point in time, Jack and I had divorced. Not because of another woman, but because he loved the bottle more than he did me. Having attended AA and Al-Anon to help me cope with the problem, and from personal experience, I was very familiar with the effects of Alcoholism. Since the professor suggested that we write our term papers on a subject that we knew, this seemed like the logical subject.

Benji loved raisins, and since he had been trained to run a simple maze as part of the biology class, the logical course for my investigations was to feed him an alcoholic mixture and observe and record his actions in the maze as he tried to get to the raisins at the center. I weighed him and calculated the amount of whisky and sugar water necessary to equal one ounce of alcohol in a human. I then fed him ever increasing amounts of the mixture and repeatedly ran him through the maze. Without going into too much detail, he performed his part quite remarkably. After he had consumed the equivalent of six drinks in an hour, just like a human he was barely able to stand, let alone maneuver the corridors. I ended the experiment at this point.

Benji recovered from his binge, and if you have ever seen a hung over rat, it is quite comical. He lived out the rest of his short life relatively normally.

Incidentally, we (Benji and I) did get an "A" on the paper.

I lived in a house at the end of a seven house cul-de-sac. One day as I was sitting on the front steps, a large, orange, medium-haired male cat came up to me. As I stated earlier, I am not fond of cats, but this one was different. He started rubbing on me and purring. Soon I reached down and absently began scratching his ears. This continued for several minutes and then he left. The next day he was back. And the next.

I named him Garfield and I began giving him small treats. Soon, cat food was a regular item on my shopping list. He appeared to be well fed and groomed, but since there were woods nearby with plenty of mice and other small animals for nutrition, and I knew that cats were very fastidious about hygiene, I thought no more about it.

One day, I was sitting in the yard, Garfield contentedly purring in my lap, when a neighbor boy came up to me.

"I see you've met Tigger." He said.

"Tigger? Is he your cat?" I asked.

"Well, not exactly. He showed up at our door a couple of weeks ago. He comes around our house every couple of days. Mom feeds him and we play with him." With that, he ran off and Garfield / Tigger followed him.

I mentioned this to one of the other neighbors, an elderly widow. "Oh, you must mean Rags." She said. "Several weeks ago, I found him sleeping on my porch swing. He's there almost every day now. Every morning, we share a saucer of milk, I have coffee, of course. I brush him, and we talk. I've been very lonely since my husband died, and I think Rags was sent to keep me company, sort of like a guardian angel."

I talked to the other neighbors. Depending on who you talked to, Garfield / Tigger / Rags / Buster / Big Boy was working the neighborhood. In every instance the cat suddenly appeared about a month before. He had several places to sleep, and almost everyone fed him and paid attention to him. One neighbor (Buster's "owner") even took him to the vet. Garfield / Tigger / Rags / Buster / Big Boy had a sweet racket going and he knew it. And now everyone else knew it too.

After that, he became the neighborhood cat, and everyone chipped in to look after his welfare. This continued for several years. Then Garfield / Tigger / Rags / Buster / Big Boy disappeared as mysteriously as he had came. Perhaps he met his end. Or, perhaps he moved on to another neighborhood ... And another set of names.

Although Bear was not my dog, he was a remarkable animal and deserves mention for reasons that will become clearer later. Bear was an English Sheepdog mix that originally belonged to my brother. When he left to build his home in Florida, he left Bear with my mother.

The bond that followed was instant and unbelievably strong. Mother was nearly deaf and legally blind. She also had suffered several heart attacks. Although he had no special training, Bear knew. He would walk in front of Mom and warn her of any obstacles in her path. If she dropped anything, Bear was right there to pick it up and place it in her hands. If the phone or the doorbell rang, he showed her which one.

When my brother finished his house, he came back to reclaim his dog, but when he saw the love between Bear and Mom, he knew he couldn't break her (or Bear's) heart by taking him away. This delighted my mother no end. For over four years after that, they were an inseparable team. Then, Bear was diagnosed with a non cancerous, but inoperable stomach tumor that was depriving him of needed nutrition. His appetite was good, but because of the tumor, he was slowly starving to death. With the heaviest heart possible, Mom bade good-bye to her beloved companion.

A few months later, Mom underwent emergency gall bladder surgery. While she was recovering, my daughter Pat and I moved in with her. It soon became apparent that she could no longer adequately care for herself, so the arrangement was made permanent.

It was a cold and rainy November night when we pulled into the parking lot of a nearby restaurant. As I got out of the car, I heard a very faint meowing. I looked down and there was the skinniest, most bedraggled, most pitiful black kitten I had ever seen. He couldn't have been more than four or five weeks old, since all he had was his fang teeth, and he didn't even weigh a pound. He was soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. I picked him up and held him close. Immediately he began purring.

"What do you think you are going to do with THAT?" Mother said. "I told you that after Bear, there would be no more pets and I mean it."

"But if we leave him here, he'll surely be dead in only a few more hours. He's nearly half dead now. In the morning I'll take him to Cat Welfare. I promise. As cute as he is, he shouldn't have any trouble getting adopted."

"Okay. You can keep him. Just for tonight. But in the morning, He goes. Swear to it!"

"I swear." I said. But I had my fingers crossed behind my back, just in case I could find a loophole.

I stopped at the grocery store on our way home and got some canned cat food and litter. I fed him the food mixed with warm milk and he just about inhaled it. No telling when he had eaten last. We cleaned him up. Not only was he completely black, but the tip of his tail was white, as though someone had dipped it in bleach or white paint. We gave him the temporary name Merlin, because his tail looked like a magician's wand. Mother took no part in any of this, but kept reminding us of our promise to take him to Cat Welfare. I made a small cage out of two milk crates. In it I put a pan of litter, some more food, some water, and of course, the kitten.

The next morning, I went to the crate. No cat. I panicked. We have a fourteen room house, and there are a million places where a frightened little kitten could hide. I searched the house. Top to bottom. Inside and out. The kitten was nowhere to be found.

"What am I going to do now?" I thought. "When mom finds out the kitten is lost, she's going to kill me … Then when we find the kitten, she's going to kill the kitten … And then she's going to kill me ... Again." Summoning up what little courage I had, I went into her room. There next to her on the bed, lay Merlin, sleeping contentedly. I carefully picked him up. Mom opened her eyes and glared at me.

"How did he get here?" I asked.

"Well, he was crying so loud it was keeping me awake, and the only way I could shut him up was to bring him up here with me."

Now, remember Mother was 87 years old, deaf and nearly blind, and couldn't walk across the room without assistance. And her room was on the opposite side of the house and up a flight of stairs to boot. Yet, she heard this tiny thing meowing, went to the kitchen in the dark, got him, and carried him back to bed. Just to keep him quiet. Right! Uh huh! Sure!

I started to the door.

"Where are you going?" Mother asked.

"I'm going to take him to Cat Welfare like I promised."

"You aren't going anywhere with MY CAT!"

He was definitely her cat. He followed her like a second shadow. When she sat down, he was in her lap. Although she insisted that he was not going to be spoiled, she was the one who fed him table scraps and she was the one who made the biggest fuss over him. We bought him his own pet bed, because Mother insisted that he would not get used to sleeping in a bed, but every morning, there he'd be, snuggled in her arms. In her bed.

When she died two years later, Merlin Aloysius (she gave him that name) mourned inconsolably for her. For days, he roamed the house, calling for her. And, until we finally dismantled it about a year later, he continued to sleep on her bed.

Merlin was about eight weeks old when we let him in the backyard for the first time. We had a neighbor who had a Doberman with a fairly rotten disposition. Whenever anyone came too close to the fence, he would bark and growl and bare his teeth until they left the area.

I don't know what that little eight week old kitten did to that fully grown Doberman, but every time Merlin was in the yard, the Doberman cowered under the porch until Merlin left the area. In time, the neighbors moved and took the Doberman with them.

Merlin was also obsessed with the telephone. When it would ring, he would be right there, trying to get between you and the receiver. We even bought him a toy phone thinking that would do the trick. No deal. It had to be the real one.

A friend of mine said "Don't be surprised if one day that cat answers the phone."

That prompted the message on my answering machine even to this day. It goes " M-e-o-o-w. My name is Merlin Aloysius Pussycat. My pet humans, Barb and Pat Roman can't come to the phone right now. So if you'll just m-e-o-o-w your name, number and a brief message, I'll see that they get it. M-e-e-o-w."

You'd be surprised how many people actually include a meow or two in their messages. And several messages have consisted of nothing but meows. We also get a number of hang ups in a row. It's as if someone dials the number, hears the message, and then tells everyone else. "Hey call this number and listen to the message. It's really cute." My brother in law even directs his message to Merlin i.e. "Merlin. Tell Barb I'll be there around 3 p.m. Don't forget now. Meow."

Merlin has since passed on, but we keep the message as a memorial to him.

It was Merlin who introduced us to our next cat, or more precisely to his mother. Samantha was a stray that Merlin brought to us. She made her home under the bushes in our backyard. From the start, it was obvious that she was pregnant. I knew that Merlin was not the father, since he had been fixed, but that did not stop him from taking care of Samantha. He brought her bits of his food, mice, and an occasional toy.

When she had her kittens, it was obvious who Charlie's father was, a huge gray and white spotted feral tom that everyone called Goliath. The kitten looked exactly like him. Samantha cared for him until he was about three weeks old, and then suddenly rejected him. (I think she knew he was not quite right.) There were two other kittens in the litter, and she took them away, but left Charlie behind. So I took him in. I had no choice. It was either that or leave him to die. His eyes were barely open and he had to be fed with an eyedropper every three hours.

I think because of this, he partially imprinted on people. While he knows he's a cat, I don't think he's too sure what a cat is supposed to be.

We named him Charlie because he has a gray mustache. My granddaughter pointed out that it was "Just like Charlie Chaplain". My grandson thought that the gray spots looked like pebbles, so he became Charlie Pebbles.

Merlin had, of course seen Charlie in the yard and never bothered him. But, when we brought him in the house and it became apparent after a few days that he wasn't going to leave, that was a different story. Merlin literally beat the crap out of him. He boxed that kitten all over the house until he messed himself. Finally, the kitten got the message and rolled over onto his back in the position of submission. After I cleaned him up, Merlin licked him all over, and they were the best of friends from then on. Merlin just had to show Charlie who was boss.

Almost from the start, it was apparent that Charlie was very slow on the uptake. He didn't know the things most cats know instinctively, like how to use the litter box. We had to housebreak him just like you would a puppy. He is afraid of the dark. We still have to leave a night light on for him or he gets very hyper.

He is afraid of heights. One time, he got into the "attic" I built in the garage out of sheets of heavy plywood laid across the rafters. Everyone told me to just leave him alone and he would come down by himself. After three days of listening to him crying and screaming nonstop, I finally went up after him. He had secreted himself in the farthest corner of the attic, and I had to crawl backwards nearly the whole length of the garage and then down the ladder with a terrified cat velcroed to me. It didn't help matters any that I am acrophobic either. How he got up there, no one ever knew, but he never went there again.

He is not very graceful, in fact he is very clumsy. If anything goes crash, bang or thud, you can safely bet that Charlie will be close by, looking silly faced.

He also does not have the good sense to come in out of the rain. On more than one occasion someone has had to retrieve a soggy, wet, frustrated, crying, pussycat from the sidewalk during a rainstorm.

He does have one irritating habit though, and it is deliberate. When he is pissed off, he gets up on the kitchen counter and boots everything onto the floor. We have learned not to leave anything breakable on the counter.

Several people have suggested that I have Charlie put to sleep. He may be a little retarded, but he is fourteen pounds of unsolicited, unquestioning, undying love. When I come home from work and I hate the whole world and the whole world hates me, all Charlie has to do is climb in my lap and start purring, and suddenly the world is not so bad anymore.

Charlie has never got the hang of hunting and killing, though Merlin tried his best to teach him. Merlin killed and ate several rabbits and mice in front of Charlie, but Charlie never got the point. The only kill that I know of that Charlie made was a mole, and that was accidental. Charlie had been playing with the mole and when it accidentally bit him on the nose, Charlie instinctively bit it back and killed it. He sat there for several minutes gently pawing it to continue playing. When it didn't, he began to cry. One time, I did see him in the back yard eagerly devouring the remains of a chipmunk. Whether Charlie killed it or not, I will never know.

One day Charlie came to the door carrying a rabbit in his mouth. I thought that at last he had made a kill and was bringing it to me to show it off. Upon closer inspection though, I could see that it was grievously wounded but still alive. Charlie gently deposited the rabbit on the ground and looked up at me with pleading eyes as if to say "Can you make it all better?"

Although it was obvious that the rabbit was doomed, I cleaned and dressed its wounds. Then I put it in a box lined with a towel and sat it on the table. Charlie stationed himself at the side of the box and refused to move. He kept his vigil until the rabbit finally died. We buried the rabbit in the rose garden, with Charlie as the chief mourner.

Charlie was also the Friskies Calendar Cat for March 2002. There was a note on the side of the cat food can to send your pet's picture and story for use on the calendar. I sent them Charlie's picture and they used it. For this he got a years supply of cat food, which in Charlie's case is a lot of food.

Inky and Blackie (They had those names when we got them) came to us as second hand cats. I was at Cat Welfare one day delivering a stack of newspapers, when a young woman came in carrying a box with two black kittens in it. They were brother and sister and she had bought them at a pet store only to discover that her apartment lease had a 'No Pets' clause in it. Since

Cat Welfare was full and had no room for them, the only other alternative was to take them to the Humane Society, where they would almost certainly be put to sleep, since they were overcrowded too.

Immediately, I thought of my friend, Phil, who owned a farm near Logan. He told me he had been looking for some barn cats recently. I called him from the Cat Welfare office. "Of course I'll take them, but I won't be able to come to Columbus to pick them up until sometime next week. Can you hold them for me?"

Remembering Merlin's treatment of Charlie, I hesitantly said yes. Sure enough, when I got home, Merlin began to beat up on Blackie. Fortunately, Blackie had the good sense to roll over into the position of submission right away. As soon as Blackie acknowledged Merlin as Top Cat, they were best of friends. As for Inky, Merlin did not pay very much attention to her. After all, she was only a ... girl.

When Phil did not come by to pick up the kittens the following week, I called him. It seemed that over the weekend, someone had left a box with six kittens in his driveway. He could not take in any more cats. By this time, we were attached to Inky and Blackie, who were promptly renamed Inkwell Tabitha and Blackstone Abraxas.

Each of the cats has a distinct and well defined personality. Merlin is the father figure. He takes care of the others, and me and my daughter as well. He is also the lover of the group. Although he has been fixed, he still has an eye for pretty females of just about any species. According to the vet, neutering does not necessarily take away the desire, only the results. Several times, I have witnessed him mounting a female.

When Samantha, Charlie's mother was finished weaning her other kittens, Merlin tried to court her. He pranced, postured, and did all the things that a male cat must do to win a female's attention. Samantha, however paid no attention to Merlin's overtures. She hissed, flipped her tail at him, stuck her nose in the air, and sauntered away. It nearly broke his little kitty heart.

Charlie, as I have already stated, is fourteen pounds of love. However, he is my forever kitten. He tends to mother the rest of the group, grooming them and in general watching over them. All of our animals have been neutered or spayed, although in Charlie's case, I wonder why I bothered. I have every reason to believe that Charlie is still a virgin. Inky, the female, had such a crush on him. She did everything except put herself between his legs to try to give him the idea, but he never caught on. Eventually, Inky gave up.

Blackie is my scholar. He is constantly investigating everything, as though he has to find out what makes it tick. He is also mildly aggressive. He wants to be petted and fussed when HE wants to be petted and fussed. If you try to do anything he doesn't want you to do to him, he lets you know. And I have the scars to prove it. (Figuratively, of course. The worst he has ever done is nip.) Blackie does not meow, he roars, like a miniature panther.

Inky is the female of the group, and she is very much the lady. Quiet, shy, and very conservative she leaves the rough and tumble stuff to the boys. She loves to be pampered. You cannot fuss with that cat enough. She has her own brush, and if you even think of picking it up, she is there, wanting to be brushed. When you stop, she will gently nip you to remind you to keep brushing. I think if you brushed her twenty three hours a day, she would still want more.

Like most females, Inky likes the soap operas. Days Of Our Lives is her favorite. She watches it faithfully from her perch on a small footstool. She also loves Saturday morning cartoons. Somehow, she knows when it is Saturday, and will start meowing when it is time for them. Road Runner is her favorite.

She also likes to study the computer, and is sitting by my side as I type this out. I fully expect some day soon, to see her working the computer by herself.

I belong to an online writers group and I used her in a story I wrote. It was about two cats communicating over the Internet. It won an award from the group. Quite a few people who have read it have asked if there will be any more "Inky Stories". I tell them I can't get any more. Inky has her files password protected.

Merlin also likes the television. The only difference between him and Inky is that he knows how to work the remote control. He knows which buttons he has to push until he gets it to the channel he wants. Animal Planet, of course, is his favorite. It isn't by accident. He does it deliberately. I've seen him do it a number of times. If you try to change the channel, he will just change it back. It's pretty bad when your choice of TV watching depends on a cat. Fortunately, he doesn't do it very often.

Unlike most cats, all of our cats like to go for car rides. Merlin insists on being in his cat carrier. Otherwise he crawls into the smallest space he can find and refuses to be dislodged. Inky can ride either way, but she prefers to be in the carrier. Blackie wants to sit on the rear ledge and watch the traffic. He looks like one of those bobblehead dolls. Charlie, of course, has to be different. He hates the carrier. He sits on my lap and wants to drive. He puts his paws on the steering wheel and won't get down. I have to keep reminding him that he does not have a driver's license.

Each of them has a different colored collar and a matching leash. They know which ones are theirs, and heaven help you if you put the wrong leash on the wrong cat.

Merlin has asthma. He needs a special dust free cat litter or else he goes into spasms. Charlie gets kidney stones. Three times I have had to rush him to the vet's to have them removed. The vet says that he has a very small urinary tract and that crystals that other cats would pass easily get trapped in Charlie. When I told my granddaughter this, she asked. "Does that mean that he has a teenie weenie?" When I told that to the vet, he laughed and said yes. Because of this, he has to have a special low ash cat food. Of course, what you feed to one, you have to feed to all. This, coupled with the special litter for Merlin, which is also used by all, means my food bills are sky high. (I wish there was a way I could take them off my income tax as dependents.)

Blackie has severe arthritis. Some days, he can barely move. I'm positive that this has a direct bearing on his temperament. Inky has a heart murmur. All of them take regular medication, and every morning I line up their pills and then do my best to get the right pill down the right cat.

Also, since there are at least two or three emergency trips to the vet in addition to the regular vaccinations and checkups each year, I have invested a small fortune in my cats. Fortunately, they now have medical insurance for pets, and I was one of the first to take it out. It has paid for itself many times over.

There are times, when, for ten cents and a bent pin, you could have the lot of them, but I won't take a million dollars for any one of them.

We have an apple tree in out backyard, and I hung a bird feeder on it. Blackie's favorite outdoor hobby was to climb the tree and harass the birds as they came to feed. He wouldn't try to eat or harm them, just scare the living daylights out of them. It worked. On more than one occasion I would see a flock of birds leaving the feeder in a panic. There would be Blackie, sitting on the branch looking very smug and self-satisfied with himself. As if to gloat over what a great and powerful hunter he was.

One day, I heard this terrible screeching and screaming coming from the yard. I rushed to the window. I wish I had a camcorder with me, because what I saw would have definitely won a prize on Funniest Videos.

There was Blackie running frantically around the yard being chased by a very irate Blue Jay. I don't know what that cat did to that bird, but whatever it was, the Blue Jay took it personally. He chased Blackie all over the yard. Blackie dove into the bushes. The Jay followed. He tried to scale the fence. The Jay was there first, pecking at his paws and head until Blackie gave up on that route of escape. Blackie tried rolling over into the position of submission, thinking that might satisfy the bird. He got his stomach raked for his efforts.

Finally, I had seen enough of the carnage. Laughing hysterically, I opened the back door. Blackie was inside in a shot, cowering and shaking. The Jay stopped at the porch roof and kept screeching at Blackie to come back out. Apparently he wasn't finished yet. After a few minutes though, the Jay left to pursue other things.

I turned my efforts to treating my injured pet. He had numerous missing tufts of fur, several superficial puncture wounds where the bird had pecked him, and quite a few claw scratches, but no serious injuries. The worst injury was to his pride. Nothing that a treatment with some antibiotic ointment, a few kitty treats, and many large doses of TLC wouldn't heal.

Blackie wouldn't go outside for several days after that. He never climbed the apple tree again and of course, he never harassed the birds either. In fact, if there was even so much as a tiny starling in the yard, Blackie wouldn't go out at all. From that time on, he preferred his birds from KFC.

Sasha and Sheba were mother and daughter Belgian Shepherds. (Which look like long haired German Shepherds.) Sheba, the mother belonged to my daughter Sherry, who lives in the country. When Sheba had her litter, and we were given our pick. We chose a little female and named her Sasha.

Merlin and the others accepted Sasha fairly well. When she was about three months old, they all came to an agreement. Sasha wouldn't bother the cats, and the cats wouldn't shred her nose. It took several periods of negotiation (and several episodes of nose shredding) before Sasha accepted the terms of the agreement.

Sheba, meantime had run afoul of the law. Belgian Shepherds are excellent hunting dogs, and since my daughter lives in the country, there is a lot of hunting on or near her farm every fall. Every time Sheba heard shooting, she would take off after the sounds and frequently interfered with, or even made off with the hunter's kill. This was eventually reported to the local sheriff, who ordered my son-in-law to keep her under control or she would have to be destroyed. Pens and chaining didn't work. She would climb / jump the fence and slip the chains with the greatest of ease.

Finally, they asked me if I could take her at least until hunting season was over. Since I had a large fenced in yard where Sasha spent most of her days, I agreed. For the first few weeks, there was no problem. Sasha and Sheba played happily in the yard. Then, one day, I found them sitting at the front door whining to be let in. I let them in and put them back in the yard. The next day, it was the same thing. How were they getting out of the yard? The fence was six feet tall, much too high for either of them to jump, and the gate was kept chained and padlocked. I set out to find out. I didn't have to wait long. Presently, Sasha and Sheba went to the gate. By both of them pressing on the bottom of the gate, they were able to create an opening about one foot wide. Sasha would then lay down and crawl through the hole up to her shoulders. Sheba would then crawl through the gate over Sasha and put her shoulders in the opening while Sasha crawled through.

I put a second chain and padlock on the bottom of the gate. This stopped them for a few days. Then they dug a hole underneath the gate. I dug a trench along the bottom of the gate and filled it with concrete.

I came home from work one day to find a message on my answering machine from the manager of a new car lot in the shopping complex near the rear of my property. The dogs had somehow gotten out and had wandered onto his lot. Would I come and get them? All of my animals have tags with their names and my telephone number on it, just in cast they would get lost or injured, I could be notified.

I went to the lot.

They said that the dogs appeared to be starving (They had been fed that morning), so one of the employees gave them part of his lunch. The dogs ate it greedily, and the first time the door was opened, they took off. I checked the messages on my answering machine from my cell phone. There was a message from the manager of a nearby small shopping mall. My dogs were in the food court, mooching food from the customers. Come and get them before the manager called the pound. I hurried over. They were gone. When they had eaten their fill, they took off as soon as the next customer came in. I called my answering machine again. This time it was the KFC a few blocks from the mall. Same message. I went to KFC. They had just left. This time I spotted them at the Wendy's across the street, rummaging through the dumpster. I put them in the car and yelled at them all the way back home.

Their escape route was most ingenious. They had climbed the rose trellis, went over the back porch roof, and jumped to the ground. I knocked down the trellis. That kept them in check for quite a while. They still managed to get out occasionally, but usually because someone forgot to lock the gate.

About this time, a new neighbor moved on the block. This woman was not friendly and she complained about anything and everything. Kids running through her front yard, noise levels, "wild" parties, speeding cars, Etc. Etc. Everything displeased her and she did not hesitate to voice this fact at every possible opportunity.

Almost every time the dogs were out of the yard, I was sure to get a phone call from her. They had fouled her lawn. They dug up her garden. They barked all night. (If they barked, there was a reason.) They terrorized her cat. Etc. Etc. Etc. Finally, I could take it no longer. I started making phone calls to various organizations such as Guard Dogs and Seeing Eye. They could not take the dogs at this time, but Seeing Eye referred me to Canine Companions, which provides helper dogs for the elderly and handicapped.

Yes, Canine Companions was very interested in Sasha and Sheba. I took them to their offices for an interview. They were exactly the intelligent, well behaved (they had undergone obedience training), and gentle sort of dogs Canine Companions was looking for. They would undergo a rigorous six month training course and be placed with an elderly or handicapped person in order to help them lead more normal lives. With many tears, and much hugging, I bid my beloved bad girls goodbye.

I telephoned Canine Companions several times during the next six months to check on their progress. Although they were not permitted to give me any particulars of where or who, they did tell me that they had passed the training, and they each had been assigned to a handicapped person.

Although I miss them terribly, perhaps they were only loaned to me by some Higher Power, so that they could fulfill their ultimate destiny.

- - - - - - - - - -

While the subject of this story is certainly not my pet, in fact it is not a pet at all, the story definitely fits in with the general theme.

There is a family of squirrels that have made the oak tree in my front yard their home for several generations.

I have a series of plastic bins on my back porch and during the winter months I put out pans of dog and cat food. I also put out a pie tin filled with a mix of rabbit chow, nuts, dried corn and seeds. This is not only for the squirrels, but also for any other hungry creature that might happen along. It also discourages them from raiding the bird feeder. One day, I must have forgotten to fill the pan. I heard this loud banging on the porch and there was a squirrel, holding the pie pan in his/her paws and forcibly banging it on the floor. He/she saw me and stopped banging for a few seconds, as though to say "O.K. Where's my food?" Then he/she continued banging. When I opened the door to get the pan, the squirrel retreated to a safe distance, but stayed where he/she could see the pan. After I put out the food, he/she waited a while and then went and ate his/her fill. The next day, I deliberately did not fill the pan, and, sure enough, there was the squirrel, banging the plate once more.

Max was a male smoke gray Persian tuxedo cat with the greenest eyes I had ever seen who showed up on our doorstep one day and did not want to leave. We took him in, but he never really did seem to enjoy the domestic life as much as he did the great outdoors.

Periodically, he'd take off on some great adventure, and we'd think that would be the last we would see of him. Eventually though, he'd return. He'd usually stay put for the winter months, but in the spring, he'd be gone again on his recurring excursions.

One winter, we had a severe ice storm that literally blanketed the area under about 1 to 2 inches of solid ice. Just before it hit, Max had been outside. When he didn't return, I thought he had gone on one of his periodic travels.

The following February, I got a call from a man in Delaware county. He had found the partially decomposed carcass of a gray cat on the back of his property. The cat had apparently frozen to death. The tag on the collar identified him as mine. He wanted to know what I wanted done with him.

I told him to bury the cat where he lay, but to send me the collar and tags.

How Max got from our house, which is in the far southeastern part of Franklin County to Delaware County, which is northwest of Franklin County, no one knows for certain. The only thing we can figure out is that he became disoriented during the storm.

When he was ten years old, I decided to put Charlie into the Therapy Pet program because of his sweet temperament. Once a week, he goes to nursing homes where his job is to love the residents and to have them love him back. He does his job extremely well. In fact, he has his own fan club. They call themselves "Charlie's Angels".

I know you have heard that pets can help ill persons in many ways. They can ease pain, raise spirits, and even lower blood pressure. Charlie proved this shortly after he began his job as a therapy pet.

The nursing home asked if I would mind if they conducted an experiment just to see how true this was. They had a woman there who had extremely high blood pressure, into the stroke range. With her consent, and her doctor's permission, they did not give her medication on the morning we were to be there. (Of course, she was the first person we saw that day.) They took her pressure. It was something like 190 over 150. Then we put Charlie on her lap and she petted him and fussed with him for about twenty minutes. Then they took her pressure again. It had dropped nearly 20 points! They were amazed! Of course they took no chances. They immediately gave her the medication

Charlie has also been credited with a miracle. They had a woman who had a massive stroke and was totally unresponsive. According to the doctors, the damage was so extensive that there was no hope that she would ever recover. She was there as a hospice patient.

The first time I took Charlie to Pearl's room I laid him on her chest and put her hand on his back. Pearl showed no sign that she recognized what had been done. She just kept staring into space.

The second week. Same response. Nothing.

The third time though, both the nurse and I noticed that Pearl's hand was slowly moving back and forth over Charlie's back. I thought the nurse was going to fall off her shoes! The nurse got the therapist and the therapist called her doctor. They were amazed! That was the first time Pearl had responded to anything since she was brought in.

Every day for the next several months, I'd bring Charlie in for two or three hours and they'd work with her. By the end of six months, Pearl could sit up. She could feed herself with help, and she could say about 200 words (You had to know what she was saying, of course.) Her two favorite words were Wub (love) and Shawwie (Charlie). Everyone acknowledged that all of this miraculous progress was due to the bond that had formed between Pearl and Charlie.

She was moved to a long term intensive care facility soon after. She kept asking "Shawwie go too?" We told her that the facility already had a resident pet. A dog named Joey. "No like Joey. He no Shawwie. No Shawwie. No go."

I took "Shawwie" to visit her at the new place as often as I could. She always recognized him and her face would light up like a Christmas tree when she saw him.

Pearl has since passed, but I know her final days were made happier and brighter by her beloved "Shawwie".

For his birthday for the past several years, the residents at the nursing home have given Charlie a party, complete with cake and ice cream. Usually the party is held in the Activities Room with just a few of his favorite residents in attendance. For his eighteenth birthday however, there were so many people who wanted to come, they decided to hold it in the dining room.

"But you can't take animals into the dining room." I reminded them. "It's against the health department rules."

"Charlie's an animal?" The Activities Director said in mock horror.

"In case you didn't notice, he's a cat."

"So he is." She admitted. "But you can't have a birthday party without the birthday boy. So for his birthday, I hereby declare that Charlie is an honorary person. That way, he can go into the dining room."

They also had a band made up of some of the residents, playing for him and all his guests. As I said, and as you will see later, they just adore him.

I was at work one evening when I got a call from my daughter. Two Rotweillers had come into our back yard and had attacked Charlie. They were biting and shaking him like he was a toy. Of course, Charlie wasn't taking this without a fight. Still it took four adults to pull the dogs off the cat. A neighbor wrapped Charlie in a towel and she and Pat took him to the vet's.

From my office to the vet's office is a good twenty miles or more through city traffic. I made it there in less than 15 minutes.

According to the vet, Charlie had a punctured lung, a punctured abdomen and numerous bites and bruises all over his body. He would have to stay there at least overnight.

Four days later, they called me and said I could come and take Charlie home. When I got to the desk, the receptionist said that they weren't going to release Charlie after all.

I panicked. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Has he had a relapse or something?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. He's doing fine." She smiled. "It's just that some of the things the technicians had to do to him were very painful. Through it all, he never once complained or tried to hurt them. It was as if he knew we were trying to help him get better. Everyone just fell in love with him, so we're going to keep him as ours."

"OVER MY DEAD BODY!"

When they brought him out, the vet told me "When they brought Charlie in here, I wouldn't have given you two beans for his chances of survival. But by some miracle, he made it through with flying colors."

They call him the miracle cat at the vets. So do I.

The owner of the Rotweillers came to see how Charlie was doing. She apologized profusely and said that the dogs were actually her ex-husbands and that he had trained them to be mean. They had escaped from a 6 foot tall locked cage in a fenced in and locked yard and had traveled several blocks to my yard.

Charlie had given as good as he got, maybe even better. He had put out one of the dog's eyes and opened his chest. The other dog's nose was hanging on by just a thread of skin, and his face was almost completely shredded. The woman said that it would have taken several thousand dollars of reconstructive surgery to repair the damage. "It wasn't worth it." She said. "This time they attacked a cat. The next time it could be a child or even an adult." She decided to have them put to sleep.

Charlie recovered completely.

- - - - - - - - - -

Since I started writing this story several years ago, Merlin has gone to that great scratching post in the sky, the victim of a car accident. He was nine years old. We tearfully buried him in the rose garden by the back fence. I know he is now in heaven, once more being spoiled by my mother.

A few months later, Forgotten Four Paws in Lancaster called me. I had done some volunteer work for them, and they knew how much I liked cats. Two boys had found a kitten in a plastic bag by the side of the road. He was still alive, but barely. He looked as though he had been starved and severely abused and then left to die. They said he was about six weeks old. (According to my vet, he was actually closer to six months!) Because of his abuse, and starvation, he weighed only two pounds. They said it would probably be on a hospice basis, since they didn't expect him to live.

Soft headed thing that I am, I agreed to take him ... but not as a hospice. I said if he's going to die, he's going to die with a home and love.

I took my grandson with me to Four Paws to pick him up. He was the tiniest, thinnest, most bedraggled thing I had ever seen. Although he was black, you could still see the lumps and bruises where he had been beaten.

As we were riding home, Jason looked at me. "He's really struggling hard to get better. He's a real fighter. Just like Rocky Balboa in the movies."

Jason was right of course, so I had no alternative but to name him Rocky.

It was night by the time we reached the house, so I put up a small confinement cage for Rocky. Just so the other cats would not inadvertently harm him. I intended to introduce him to the rest of the group in the morning.

The next morning, there was Rocky, contentedly sleeping on the bottom of my bed, between Blackie and Charlie. I picked him up. "How did you get out of that cage?" I asked.

I checked the cage. The door was securely fastened and all the connections were tight. I put him in and closed the door, just to see what he would do. Immediately, he stuck his paw through an almost microscopic opening between two sides of the cage. By wiggling and pushing, he managed to get his other paw in the opening. Next, came his head, and with much squirming and twisting, the rest of him followed. In less than five minutes the cat had escaped from confinement. He stood before me with a look of pride at his accomplishment.

I picked him up and nuzzled him. "You're nothing but a little Houdini, aren't you?" I said.

And so, Rockwell Houdini joined my family.

Rocky has a condition called Spastic Colon Syndrome. What it means is that when he has to go, he has to go NOW! Consequently, we have had to put litter boxes all over the house. He also needs a special high protein food, which costs nearly triple what regular cat food costs. It's worth it though. Rocky gives the best back rubs in the world. I lie on the floor or on the bed and he walks up and down me, kneading and treading all the way. Great for removing those kinks. I think I would have kept him for that reason alone. Much cheaper than going to a spa.

Rocky also made an excellent Therapy pet. I think it was because he had suffered so much, he could relate to the residents of the nursing home where he did his visits. The residents there idolized him, and he returned the feeling. It was the highlight of his week when he went there.

Unfortunately, shortly after his eighth birthday, Rocky began losing weight rapidly. Not that he ever had that much to lose. In less than six weeks, he went from a little over seven pounds to under six. I immediately took him to the vet. After a series of tests, he was diagnosed with Chronic Renal Failure. According to the sonogram they did, as a result of his abuse as a kitten, he had only one working kidney. That one kidney was now only a little over 30% functional and toxins were rapidly building up in his body. For the next two months, he underwent intensive dialysis treatments three days a week both in the vet's office and at home.

Finally, his frail little body could take no more. One Sunday, I found him lying on the living room floor. He couldn't get up, and I could tell that the fight was gone from his eyes. I called the vet (a woman) who was chiefly responsible for his care.

"Rocky is dying." I told her.

"We are closed on Sundays, and ordinarily I'd tell you to take him to the OSU Emergency Clinic." She said. "But since it's Rocky we're talking about, bring him to the office. I'll be right there."

I live less than a mile from the vet clinic. I don't know where she lives, but she was waiting for us when we got there.

After she did a few tests on him, she agreed that his body was shutting down. "We could force feed him oxygen in a hyperbaric chamber and pump some high powered IV's into him. That might stabilize him."

"And then what?"

She only shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"No. It's not worth it. Not to me and especially not to him. He's been through enough in his short little life. Let him go." It was with the heaviest heart imaginable that I ended his suffering.

When I called the nursing home to tell them, the director wanted to know if I wanted her to tell the residents.

"No. I owe it to them to tell them in person." I said.

There wasn't a dry eye in the place. We all spent the rest of the day crying and consoling each other over the loss of our beloved companion. The residents decided to give him a full scale funeral. One of the residents was a retired minister and he conducted the service as though Rocky was an actual person. I had him cremated, and half his ashes are buried in the courtyard of the nursing home, the other half are buried in the rose garden beside Merlin's.

A few weeks later, a small statue of a praying angel appeared over his grave in the courtyard of the nursing home. No one will admit to buying it.

Because of my association with Canine Companions, I have occasionally fostered dogs for them. I get the dogs as puppies and keep them until they are two years old. I obedience train them and see that they get as much exposure as possible to different situations that they would likely encounter in their service as a companion dog.

The last two I got were sisters. They were Golden Retrievers, their names were Missy and Chrissy, and they were about eight weeks old. My first chore was to housebreak them.

As a matter of fact, the cats were the ones who did the deed for me. The puppies saw them going in the litter box and they figured that was where you went. So that's where they went. We then gradually moved the box to the back door, and they were housebroken. Even when they were grown, if for some reason they couldn't get outside, they would use the cat's litter box. It was so comical to see these huge animals squatting in the tiny box. But then it was far better than having them go on the floor or the rug. I was just glad they were females. If they had been males ...

The girls were quick learners and very well behaved. It seemed like the two years passed before I knew it and it was time for them to go back. It isn't easy to let go of any of the dogs I fostered, but I know that they are not mine. I'm only there to shepherd them to their ultimate destiny. I know that they are going to make a big difference in somebody's life. That does make it a little easier.

When I turned them back to Canine Companions for their final training, I told the trainer to be sure and tell whoever gets them to keep a littler box handy for them. Just in case they couldn't get outside. He thought that was cute ... and a good idea. Since then, Canine Companions has been recommending that the dogs be litter box trained. Just in case ...

After their six week training, they were placed with someone who needed them. And yes, each of the persons provided a litter box for them.

Less than three weeks after Rocky died, I was at the Cat Welfare shelter, making my usual delivery of papers, blankets and towels, and grocery bags. I was sitting there waiting for my receipt when a large orange tom about four years old jumped on my lap. I put him down. He jumped back up. I put him down. I thought that this might be his special chair, so I moved to another one. He got on my lap again. This time, I heard a voice in the back of my head saying "O.K. You've mourned long enough. It's time for another cat, and I'm the one."

I quickly pushed him off. "NO!" I said. " It's too soon. I'm not ready."

He climbed back on. "Yes you are." The voice said.

I pushed him off. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are!"

This routine continued for several minutes.

He got back up. "Don't argue with me. You know I'm right."

I threw up my hands. "Okay. You win."

The cat had been at Cat Welfare since he was about a year old. He had severe asthma, just like Merlin, and because of this, he was not considered a good candidate for adoption. Cat Welfare is a no kill shelter, so he would have had a home there for his entire life. But how good a life could he have had with sixty or seventy other cats vying for love and attention, and no one to call his very own person? They agreed to let me adopt him because I had experience with asthmatic cats.

The strange thing is that since I brought him home, he has had only a few attacks, and they have been very mild. It's entirely possible that he could have been allergic to something at the shelter, and that was what triggered his symptoms.

I took out my cell phone and called my daughter. "Put up the containment cage." I told her.

"Don't tell me you're coming home with a cat."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

They had named him "Stevie" at the shelter. He was anything but a "Stevie". The first thing we did was to start going through the Book Of Baby Names. When we reached the name Alexander, he perked up, as if to say "… That's My Name!"

Because he was gold colored with a large head and was covered with thick fur, he looked like a miniature lion, so he got the middle name of Leo. Everyone began calling him "Alexander the great, so Rex Magnus was added to his title. He was now officially Alexander Leo Rex Magnus. "Alexander, the great king of the lions" ... His Majesty for short.

And a very regal cat he is. He looks every inch a king. He doesn't like to be held very much - one does not cuddle the sovereign ruler after all. His favorite place to sit is on the end table by my chair. He loves to be brushed. Once you start, you had better not stop. If you do, he will gently tap you on the arm as if to say "We don't recall giving you permission to stop." (The royal "we") He does not ordinarily take part in the typical cat activities like chasing a catnip mouse on a string or playing with rolled up aluminum foil balls. That is for the peasant rabble and therefore far beneath him.

At night he sleeps curled around my head ... And he snores! At first, it kept me awake, but now I find it a very comforting sound.

I thought for a time that he would make an acceptable successor for Rocky, so I began to take him to the nursing home. Because of his standoffish nature, things did not work out too well. Every therapy cat has to undergo an evaluation by a panel of veterinarians in order to be certified. At the evaluation, one of the things the evaluators do is see how well the animal reacts to being handled by a number of people. Unfortunately, he nipped one of the evaluators when he decided that he had enough of everyone fussing over him. (As I said earlier, he doesn't like to be held much.) This is a first class no-no, and he was dropped from the program.

He has a deep seated hatred of the vet. When we adopted him, Cat Welfare told us that the end of his tail had been broken several times. He had no control over that part of it, and it kept dragging and becoming infected. The vet recommended that we amputate that part of the tail, which we did.

Ever since then, whenever he has to go to the vet's, normally he has to be sedated even before they even try to examine him. Otherwise it takes three people to hold him down. And at least one of those people is guaranteed to get at least one scratch or bite.

When Inky was almost fifteen, she began losing weight and was having a difficult time eating. She also developed sores on her mouth. I took her to the vet and after a few tests and a biopsy, the vet said that she had inoperable cancer of the mouth. There was nothing she could do for her. Again, it was with tears and a heavy heart I ended her suffering. She, too is buried in the rose garden with my other pets.

Two days later, I was at the Humane Society, also delivering papers and bags to them. I hadn't even gotten Inky's ashes back from the crematorium. I had not the slightest thought about getting another cat.

Just as it happened at Cat Welfare, one of the kittens, a little dark calico ball of fur started wrapping herself around my legs as I waited for my receipt. I kept shooing her away. She kept coming back. She was very persistent. Finally, I picked her up. That was all it took.

Her name is Lindsay, and she is part Maine Coon Cat, part American Shorthair. Maine Coon Cats can go 25 or more pounds and look like a small dog. She was only thirteen weeks old and had been found in a cardboard box on a heavily traveled road with her three sisters when they were barely three weeks old.

She had just been returned from fostering the day before. The Humane Society would have to hold her until she could be spayed and microchipped and given her shots. Then I could take her home. That would take another week.

We brought her home Halloween afternoon. They had given her the name Lindsay, and it seemed to suit her, so we kept that. Because her coat is mostly orange and black with a white underbelly - Halloween colors - and considering the day we brought her home, we decided that her middle name should be Sabrina, after the TV show Sabrina The Teenage Witch.

Since cat society is a matriarchy - the female rules - Lindsay wasted no time in establishing her dominance. She does not hesitate to rule with an iron paw and she will firmly swat anyone who displeased her. We humans are included in her domain. Several times I have felt her wrath when I have done something that irritates her. Even Alexander knows better than to get in her way when she's in a bad mood.

To spite this, Lindsay is the most laid back cat I have ever seen. Her idea of strenuous exercise is to get off the couch, go to the food dish, the litter box, and then back to the couch. She's done. Because of this, and the fact that she eats everything in sight, she now weighs almost twenty two pounds. I tell everyone that Lindsay eats everything that doesn't eat Lindsay. And half the stuff that might.

I started taking her to the nursing home that I had been taking Rocky and Alexander to. Just to see what would happen. It was a perfect match. She, like Charlie and Rocky, loves all the attention she gets, and of course, the residents quickly grew to love her. Her motto is "Pet Me And I'm Yours".

Because of her breed and her weight, it is nearly impossible to carry her. I made an improvised cart out of a laundry carrier and a large plastic fruit basket I 'liberated' from a local grocery store and bolted to the frame of the carrier. It's perfect. It's easy to push her around and it's the ideal height for the people in wheelchairs and in bed to pet and fuss her.

- - - - - - - - - -

Shortly after Charlie's fifteenth birthday, I noticed a lump on his back. I took him to the vet, and the biopsy showed that it was fibrosarcoma. My heart sank. After the experience with Inky, I wasn't ready to go through that again. The vet assured me that this was an entirely different situation. The cancer was in a place where it could be easily removed, and Charlie had an excellent chance of pulling through and recovering completely.

He was scheduled for surgery in two weeks. When I told this the residents of the nursing home that Charlie went to, one of the residents asked if it would be all right if they started a prayer chain for him.

"Of course it's all right." I replied. "He is one of God's creatures, after all."

Every day, one or more of the residents would take a turn praying for their friend.

On the day of his surgery, the director gave me a huge poster sized get well card that the residents had made and everybody had signed. She told me to have the vet tape it to his cage so that when he came out of the anesthetic, it would be the first thing he saw.

I gave it to the vet tech and she thought that was a really sweet thing for them to do. She hung it in his cage, and after, she told me that when Charlie woke up, he saw the card and his head went back and forth as though he was actually reading it. I think he really was, and that he knew that his friends were praying for him.

He has had two surgeries and undergone the required chemo and radiation therapy. Because of this, he lost all his hair, and just like a human, was very sick with almost non stop vomiting and diarrhea for several months. People say 'sick as a dog', but I don't think they have ever seen a sick cat.

Gradually, he recovered, and his hair grew in again. He has regained some of his weight back - he's up to just a shade under ten pounds. The vet is satisfied with that, so am I.

He has been cancer free for three years now, and is back doing the thing he loves - his therapy work.

After Inky died, Blackie, her brother and litter mate went into a deep depression. He refused to eat very much and would not play or take any interest in anything. He would just lay around and mope. He was obviously morning his sister. After all, they had been together from the womb and now that she was gone, there was a big void in his life that nothing or no one could fill.

Finally, things got so bad, I had to take him to the vet. Since he was barely eating enough to sustain himself, he was down to skin and bones, and he was so weak he could hardly stand. We both agreed that although he was not critically ill in the accepted sense of the word, the most humane thing I could do would be to send him to join his sister Inky in pet heaven.

This time, I knew better than to say that there would be no more pets because from past experience I knew that at the proper time another pet would enter my life. I didn't have to wait very long. About a month later, I let my four remaining cats out for their morning romp in the yard.

When I opened the door to let them back in about a half hour later, FIVE cats came back in. It was plain to see that this extra cat didn't have a home. At the very least, he had not had one for a very long time. He was so dirty you could barely tell that he was tan colored, and he was covered with fleas, lice, ticks and other parasites ... and he had worms. He was skinnier than skinny. You could not only feel his ribs, you could see them as well. I took him by the scruff, and holding him at arms length, put him back outside. The next time I opened the door, there he was, sitting on the porch looking at me like I had committed some monstrous crime. He walked in and began feeding from the cat's food dish. I gingerly picked him up and put him back outside. The next time I opened the door, the same thing. After the fourth time, I told him. "Well. I guess you're not going to leave, so I had better get you cleaned up and take you to the vet." He stuck his tail in the air and sauntered through the house like he owned the place.

With a great deal of trepidation, and a great deal of help from my daughter, we managed to get him bathed. Actually, he took it quite well, considering that this was probably the first time in a long time (if ever) he had been introduced to soap and water.

The next day, I took him to the vet's office. The vet estimated that he was about four or five months old. According to her, she "defleaed him, dewormed him, deflowered him, microchipped him, and gave him all his shots." Because he stood for all these indignities, as well as the bath the day before so well, the vet suggested that he might make a good therapy pet too.

First though, he needed a name. We couldn't keep calling him "the cat". We tried a number of names on him, but nothing seemed to fit. We were watching M*A*S*H at the time. "Why don't we just call him BJ?" My daughter suggested. It seemed like a good name for him, so BJ he was. Like the character on M*A*S*H, that was his entire name. When asked what BJ stands for, I answer that "BJ stands for truth justice and the feline way." Later we added the middle name Hawkeye, after another M*A*S*H character.

The vet was right. He was a natural. The first time I took BJ to the nursing home, it was as though this was what he was born to do. This is why he had to find me. He took to the routine with only minimal training. As expected, the residents fell in love with him, too.

Because of Charlie's age (he is now 18 years old) and his physical condition from the cancer, he tires very easily. So BJ and Charlie alternate duties. Charlie goes one week and BJ goes the next. Practically no one believes it when I tell them that BJ was once a feral cat. They can't believe how well he has adapted to domestic life.

The nursing home that I take Lindsay to was putting up an addition to their building. One day, as I was taking Lindsay to her session, there was a loud bang as one of the construction trucks backfired. Lindsay panicked, and in less than a split second, was out of her cart, had slipped her collar, and was gone before I could even react.

I searched the immediate area, but Lindsay was nowhere in to be found.

I immediately plastered the area with 'lost cat' posters with her picture, a description, and my phone number.

I don't know who reported it to the TV news crew, but that night it was on the news that there was a lost therapy cat in the area and they were asking people to keep an eye out for her.

About a week later, I got a call from someone who said that she had found my cat. When I arrived, I immediately knew that it wasn't Lindsay. The cat was a calico all right, and the markings were vaguely similar, but that was where the resemblance ended. Lindsay, as I said before was very large and slightly overweight. This cat was small and thin. Lindsay's colors were bold. This cat's colors were muted.

"I'm sorry." I told the woman. "But this is not my cat. Thank you anyway."

"If she's not yours, then the only thing I can do is turn her over to the authorities. I cannot keep her since my daughter is very allergic to animals. They'll probably end up putting her to sleep."

You know I couldn't let anything like that happen to an obviously healthy animal.

"Let me take her to my vet. She runs an animal adoption service from her clinic. Maybe she can find her a good home."

I took her home and immediately made an appointment to take her to the vet. That night I gave her a bath. While she was wet, I noticed that her belly was very distended. "Either she's pregnant or she's extremely malnourished." I thought.

I called the vet the next day and asked to have a pregnancy test done on her when I brought her in. It wasn't necessary. That afternoon, she gave birth to four kittens. I named her "Angel" and the kittens were dubbed "The Cherubs".

We gave them temporary names. The first kitten born was a gray and white spotted male who looked like Charlie, so he got the name Charlie the second, or C2. The next was a black and white male we called Baker, after the phonetic alphabet - Alpha, Baker, etc. The third was another male, a gray kitten with a large white "V" on his back. He became Victor.

The last kitten was a dark gray tiger striped one. The only female. At first we were calling her Delta, again after the phonetic alphabet. After a short time, we changed it to Diva. And a little diva she was. At feeding time, she would literally shove one of her brothers off a nipple so that she could feed first. She was the one who swatted the others around. She was a female after all.

When I took Angel and her cherubs to the vet, she pronounced that everyone was in excellent health, and she gave Angel her shots. "As for the pregnancy test ... " She said grinning. " ... It was positive."

We found good homes for all of the kittens, but we decided to keep Angel. Of course we had her spayed.

A few weeks later, I got a call from a man in the area. He had Lindsay. And yes, he was positive it was her.

He said that she had been staying under his porch for several days and she seemed to get along with his two cats. He was going to keep her. Then he remembered seeing a poster about a lost cat who had been microchipped, and took her to his vet. Through the information on the microchip, they were able to trace her back to me.

"My cats aren't microchipped." He told me. "But after seeing how they were able to return Lindsay to you, I'm going to have mine chipped too."

Lindsay and Angel took an instant dislike to each other from the start. In cat society, an unaltered female ranks higher than a spayed female, so while the kittens were being raised, Angel had been the "Female In Charge", and she lorded it over Lindsay. When the kittens had been found homes of their own, and Angel was spayed, things changed radically. Now the two of them were on an equal footing in the hierarchy. Angel had been top cat up until now, and she wasn't ready to give up that position to someone she considered to be an interloper.

Lindsay was here first, and she wasn't about to let this newcomer steal her thunder as 'Boss Cat'.

The two of them fought periodically over the next two weeks. Then one night, there was a no holds barred free for all. The screaming and yelling was almost unbearable. By the next morning, it was over. The two bloody and bedraggled cats had reached a truce of sorts. Angel had acknowledged Lindsay's place as the matriarch. Although Angel was the older cat, Lindsay was bigger and could hit harder. Occasionally, though, they will still take a swipe at each other, and both of them will frequently sport a scratch or two from the encounter.

Angel has decided that my grandson Jason, who also lives with me, is her life mate. He is the only one who can hold her and fuss with her for any length of time. She knows when he comes home from work, and she waits patiently in the window. When she sees him, she practically turns herself inside out with joy. She will posture and present herself to him.

We have tried to explain to her that interspecies relationships do not work, but it hasn't made any difference. I told Jason that when he moves out, he is going to have to take Angel with him or he will break her little kitty cat heart

In September of 2008, Charlie's cancer returned. Although the Vet said that it was operable, she did not think that because of his age ... he was almost nineteen years old ... that he would likely survive the surgery. Also, because this was the second time, it was very possible that even if he did survive, the cancer would probably return again and again.

We decided against chemo and radiation as well. I did not have the heart to subject him to the pain and suffering that this would entail. Since the cancer was primarily in the skin and upper muscles, and was relatively painless and did not readily metastasize, we decided just to monitor it.

He was still able to continue his therapy work. I believe that this extended his life far beyond that the vet or I thought possible.

On Wednesday, May 20, 2009, it was BJ's turn to go to the nursing home, but Charlie stood at the carrier and refused to move. It was as though he was saying that he had to go. I could see that he was not in good health, but he was insistent, so I took him. It was a good thing that I did. It was his chance to say a final goodbye to all of his friends.

When I woke up the following Saturday, May 23, 2009, I could see that he was telling me that it was time. The fight had gone out of his eyes and his little kitty body could take no more.

So, again with the heaviest of hearts, I sent him on his way to the Rainbow Bridge.

The residents at that nursing home also gave Charlie a full scale funeral service. Like Rocky, half his ashes are buried in my rose garden, and half are buried under an angel statue in the courtyard of the home.

I knew better than to tell myself that I wouldn't get another pet after Charlie. I also knew that when the time was right, one would eventually find me. I did say however, that I would allow a decent time of morning for Charlie, since he had been such an important part of my life for so long.

Apparently, This was not to be the case. It was less than two weeks after Charlie died. I was at the computer researching a project that had nothing to do with animals, when I heard a 'Voice' in the back of my head.

"Check the animal shelters." It said loudly.

"Okay." I answered. "As soon as I am finished with what I'm doing."

"Now." The Voice replied.

"But I ..."

"NOW!"

I had no choice but to quit what I was doing and Google 'Animal Shelters'

The first name in the list was 'Cozy Cat Cottage'. I didn't even get the chance to open the site.

"Go there." The Voice demanded.

"I can't go right now. But maybe tomorrow."

"NOW!" The Voice ordered.

I live near Canal Winchester, almost in Fairfield County. Cozy Cat Cottage is in Powell, only a few hundred feet over the Delaware County line. The opposite end of the known world. Again, I had no choice but to stop what I was doing, get in the car and drive up there. I did have the foresight, though to take a carrier with me. Just in case.

When I got there, one of the first things the woman who was in charge asked me was where I was from. When I told her, she said. "There are a lot of shelters and pet shops between there and here. Why come all that way?"

"I just happened to be in the neighborhood." I lied. I couldn't very well tell her that the 'Voice' in the back of my head demanded that I come. They'd have carted me off to the place that has the jackets that zip up the back and the rooms with the padded walls.

She brought out several kittens, but none of them struck a chord until she brought out Roland. He was a gray and white spotted Oriental cat (A Siamese / American Shorthair mix) who was born at the shelter and had gone up for adoption just that day. I knew the minute I saw him that he was the one.

I found out why I had to go there in such a hurry. As I was filling out the paperwork to adopt him, another couple came in.

"You have our cat." They said. "We saw his picture on the website and we came to adopt him." Fortunately, they chose another kitten.

I kept the name Roland, but added the middle name Charles because he looked so much like Charlie.

Roland was almost immediately 'adopted' by our cat Lindsay. She looked after him as though he was her kitten. Lord help any of the other cats who pestered or hurt him. The fury of a 22 pound Shorthair / Maine Coon cat was turned against them.

Like Charlie, he is a gentle sweet cat. I decided to see if he would have the temperament to become a Therapy Cat. Although it took a while until he was mature enough, he quickly joined the Therapy Cat ranks. Today, he rotates with BJ about once a month.

In early November, 2011, I noticed that Alexander was starting to lose weight, but the vet didn't think it was anything to worry about since all of his tests were within normal ranges. She suggested that I start him on high potency vitamins and a high calorie cat food. (Of course, that costs twice what the regular stuff costs.) But, if it helps, it's worth it. For a time, it did, and he started gaining weight again.

Then in January, he started losing weight once more. Again I took him to the vet. These tests showed that his BUN level (a test for kidney failure) was slightly elevated. "Still, nothing to be concerned about." The vet assured me. She put him on a special diet for CRF (Chronic Renal Failure) cats (It, too is much more expensive than the regular stuff - and much much more that the high calorie food). Still, he continued to lose weight. From January to April, he went from 10 1/2 pounds to just a little over 6 pounds.

Next she suggested we put him on dialysis like we had done with Rocky. I said no to that. CRF is fatal 99% of the time. I remembered the suffering Rocky went through. I couldn't put Alexander through that ... and I wasn't certain I could handle it either. I decided just to monitor him and make him as comfortable as possible.

On April 23, 2012, he, like Rocky had done before him, gave up trying. Again, I had to make that dreaded decision. I called the vet and took him in.

As I had said before, Alexander had a deep seated hatred of the vet and always struggled vigorously when he had to go there. This time was different, though. It was as though he knew. He sat on my lap and allowed the vet to make a preliminary exam without so much as a move, let alone a growl or a nip. Then, when it was time, he struggled to hold his head up high, and he breathed his last with the dignity and nobility that was befitting royalty.

He, too is buried in the rose garden. And as with the others, with a solemn funeral that was appropriate for the royalty he was.

The nursing home that I had been taking Charlie, and then BJ and Roland to for more than ten years, changed their format. They went from a primary nursing facility to a Transitional Care Facility. That meant that they now act as a stepping stone from the hospital to home care. Patients that are well enough to leave the hospital, but not well enough to return home go there for short term rehabilitation. They no longer accepted long term patients, and moved the ones they had to other accommodations. They claimed that according to state law, Transitional Care Facilities cannot accommodate therapy pets. While I think this is a bunch of Bull Cookies, unfortunately, I do not make the rules. It was with sad hearts that the center and I parted company.

After a few weeks of enforced idleness, BJ ... and Roland to some extent ... were beginning to show signs of depression. I started making calls to various other nursing facilities in the area. I was extremely fortunate to find one nearby that not only accepted them, but was very grateful to have them to come and love their residents. BJ, and occasionally Lindsay and Roland, now go there to love and be loved.

After the first few visits, the residents and even some of the staff asked if they could have their picture taken with BJ. Just as I had done at the other nursing facilities, I started taking a camera with me and taking pictures of the residents and staff. Now almost every week, I take one or more pictures and give them to the person. They treasure these and many of them post the pictures on their walls. I also put the pictures in an album so everyone can enjoy them.

We are all looking forward to a long and happy relationship with these people.

After Alexander's death, I had pretty much made up my mind that four cats was enough for me to handle. That I didn't need to go looking for another one.

It was just a few weeks after Alexander's passing that I was in a grocery store when I spotted a sign on a bulletin board. It said 'Reynoldsburg Animal Hospital.- Puppies and kitties for sale. - Come see them'.

I'm not sure how or why, but the next thing I knew I was at Reynoldsburg Animal Hospital's reception desk. There was a dark tortoise kitten sitting on the desk. She looked at me and I heard. "You do too need another cat, and I'm the one you need."

I shook my head no.

The receptionist asked me if I wanted to adopt 'Zelda'. I said no, and explained that I had four other cats and that was enough for me. She handed me an adoption form to fill out ... just in case. I filled it out ... just in case ... but I kept telling myself that it was an exercise in futility. I was NOT going to get any more cats!!! Period!!! End of sentence!!! NO WAY!!! (And if you believe that, I have some beachfront property on the Jersey Shore ...)

When I returned home, I told Pat about the hospital and the little Tortie kitten. I was careful to remind her that I was not interested.

Pat looked at me rather strangely. "Well, let's go get her." She said out of the blue. I was dumbfounded. This was the same person who always said that if I brought home any more pets, the lot of us would be on the sidewalk the next morning.

Nevertheless, we went to the hospital, carrier in hand. When we returned home, the kitten was with us.

As I said before, every time I bring home a new animal, I place it in a training crate for a few days so that the other animals can get used to the new arrival. This time was no exception.

While I was setting up the crate, Lindsay, my Maine Coon came over to the carrier with 'Zelda' in it. She sniffed her for a few minutes. Then she began pawing at the bars on the crate and whining. I took 'Zelda' out and sat her on the floor. The bond was immediate. The kitten won Lindsay's heart and Lindsay had won the kitten's. It was as if the were meant for each other. Lindsay gently picked the kitten up by the scruff and took her to the couch. Once there she began grooming her. 'Zelda' never made it into the crate. From that point on, she was Lindsay's little girl.

During the next few days, the kitten explored the house, with Lindsay never far behind her. Of course, being only three months old, the kitten did everything at lightning speed. It was obvious she was full of jazz. And soon she became "Jasmine".

She, like Roland is an Oriental (Siamese/ American Shorthair) mix and so we decided that she needed and oriental middle name. Leila Ali was on TV doing a commercial, and the name sounded oriental enough, so Jasmine Leila Pussycat became the newest member of the household.

She is now a year old, and still does everything at least double speed. She can also jump incredible heights from a standing start and is into everything. Nothing is safe, especially closets and cabinets. I say she is 7 and a half pounds of piss and vinegar.

I can hardly wait to see what happens in the next few months. If she's anything like my other animals, it will be a very interesting time.

The following stories are of pets that belong to others but they are also remarkable pets and are worthy enough to be included here.

A friend of mine told me about a rabbit he owned as a young boy and I thought it definitely belonged with these stories.

As a boy, Andy acquired Flopsey at about the same time he got a puppy, so the two of them (puppy and bunny) grew up at the same time. Flopsey - while Andy believed she knew she was a rabbit and not a dog - did enjoy running with the other dogs in the neighborhood, and they accepted her as one of the pack.

Every once in a while, though, the rabbit in her would come out. She would deliberately harass one or more of the dogs until they could not stand it any more. Then she would take off at a dead run, with the pack following behind her. They would wind through the neighborhood, the rabbit always a safe distance in front, and the dogs frantically chasing her. Andy would frequently watch this impromptu race, all the while holding his sides from laughing. He knew how it would end.

It always ended in his back yard. Or more precisely at the garage in the back of the house. Flopsey would run to the wooden garage door. Since rabbits can turn on a dime, when Flopsey got about a foot from the door, she would suddenly make a ninety degree turn. The dogs, not being that nimble or graceful, would go crashing one after another into the door. According to Andy, you could hear the resulting thuds for about a half a block away.

The dogs apparently never caught on to Flopsey's trick, for she was able to pull it off on the dogs on a regular basis for many years.

Submitted by Norma Liles (Dictated by Rosie; Queen of Chihuahua/Terriers)

I knew he was hooked as my slave the moment I saw this human reach out his huge hands to me. I'm thinking, 'what have I got to lose' so I plunged right into them with all four feet. Whoope ding! He was just what I was looking for as he had a notion that it was time to share with a special breed and I had the credentials. I have heard him tagged with many handles such as: Bubba, Dad, Son and a few unmentionables.

The only drawback was that he had a female human sharing his bed and after all, I should be number one as I am at the top of the hierarchy. But since she had been there first, I had to relinquish a section of the bed to her, although I was none too happy to acquiesce.

To my surprise, when I arrived at my new home, I was not the only four legged critter. They had also adopted a female feline. She thought I was her baby so I went along with her and she even shared her food with me although the humans expected me to eat what they wanted but I balked at that one. My feline friend and I became as if we shared the same bloodline. She may have not known the difference but I did. But I thought why upset her expectations. I would satisfy her requests to run and tumble. This seemed to amuse the inhabitants of the household so we were pleased to follow through.

I decided that it was only fair that when the big guy went out to purchase his coffee that I go along and he agreed. I would ride shotgun as he trucked along knowing he was safer with me as his bodyguard, and I very vocally resented anyone approaching our comradeship.

He had some rules that I didn't think were quite fair. He made it quite clear that any food that I digested or any liquids that I put through my system should be deposited outside. Not within the boundaries of the home. Crazy as this seemed to me, I had no choice but to bow to his unbending rule. After awhile, I began to feel as though I was the one who had thought about doing that from the beginning.

When it came to eating, I found my feline's food to be more to my preference than the dog food the humans felt that I should be taking in nourishment so I devised a plan to only eat when they hand fed me .... 'twas a great idea as I got away with it for a long time and was even treated with special trips to purchase my delights; my own freshly cooked burger. Eventually, though I did acquiesce and ate what they offered me. I still sort of demanded their human food whenever I thought I could get away with it, which was reasonably often.

If you think camping is for humans only, I have news for you. I have gone along with the ones that I protected and I must admit that I made their laid back days more enjoyable. And I enjoyed it too!

In time to come, the one who I had learned to love with all my heart went across the Great Divide and I was left with the remaining female human. I thought it was in my best interest to allow her to become my slave and now I feel as if we have always been a pair. I give her an extra thrill by being her shadow at all times and now I ride shotgun when she travels in her new motor home. And I love that as well.

Life doesn't get any better than this for a Lady of ultimate breeds.

Felinus Domesticus Unusualus

Toscik, (Pronounced Toss-kick) my neighbor's cat , has never ... and will probably never ... see the light of day except through a window. He is an exclusively nocturnal creature. Every night at precisely ten thirty, he begs to be let out for his nightly excursions.

When he wants back inside, he is fully aware that they can't see him through the window-paned door of their back porch in the pitch black of night. So he climbs up the panes one after another until he reaches the height of their eyes. He then purposely presses only the pure white fur of his chest and abdomen against the glass - the only visible parts of his body - and meows loudly and waits.

According to my neighbor, that when they are alone in the house on a stormy night, catching this image out of the corner of one's eye and hearing Toscik's eerie yowling can be a hair-raising experience!

- - - - - - - - - -

"Where'd the cookies go? They were here a minute ago!" My friend Sylvia shouted from the living room.

It was Christmas Eve and she was crouched under the artificial tree, staring at an empty dish resting on the tree skirt. A few crumbs were visible, but otherwise, there was little trace of what had been there. Only a short while earlier, she had set a dish of crunchy oatmeal raisin cookies under the tree. She had made them for Santa Claus. But someone had gotten to the treats before Ol' Saint Nick had a chance to shimmy down the chimney.

It didn't take us long to finger the culprit. Sunshine, my friend's pet Chihuahua/terrier mix, was licking her chops as she came trotting from under the tree.

"Sunshine!" Sylvia scolded the dog as she scooped her into her arms. "I can't believe you ate all of those cookies. They'll hurt your tummy." But Sunshine didn't show any remorse. She simply gazed affectionately at my friend and seemed pleased that she'd discovered the treasure under the tree.

This was relayed to me from my friend Pat in Denver:

We have discovered that our bull terrier Thor doesn't like to climb up mountains but he loves to run down them!

Imagine this: it's a peaceful afternoon - you have just carried your 50-pound bull terrier up a steep mountainside trail because he refused to go up of his own will. You are looking down the other side of this rather tall, wet and very muddy mountain enjoying the breathtaking view when your dog sees some small animal maybe ten to fifteen feet ahead of you? Or maybe he has just decided that he'll exact payback for dragging him up there - he takes off at full speed after the creature with you still attached to his leash!

Forget trying to hold your ground - the ground is wet and muddy from the previous night's rainstorm - your only hope is to stay upright and keep up! The dog who wouldn't climb up to save his own life has suddenly developed agility beyond measure as he drags you down this huge mountainside. (Was that a bear that you just slid past?).

Your spouse yells DUCK! (In between gales of laughter) just at the time you get whacked in the face with a tree branch and you spend the rest of this descent on your back hoping your nose isn't broken.

When you get to the end, does your dog apologize? ABSOLUTELY NOT! Does he make sure you are not crippled for life? NOPE! He immediately decides to aggravate the aforementioned burrowing creature by digging up its home and kicking the dirt right at you as you lay there helplessly waiting for the paramedics to rescue you.

This one is from Joanne Cottam of Nestor Falls, Ontario, Canada.

Our dog Bailee Boo is golden retriever, black lab and German shepherd mix. She loves lollipops. One day, she came with us in the SUV and we had to run into the store for something and left her in the car with it running. One of the kids had bought a bunch of these natural-flavored strawberry suckers. We get back in the car and we hear this sucking noise, and I turned around and said, "Bailee" and she popped her head up from the back seat with a sucker hanging out of her mouth. She was sucking on it. It was so funny to see her with it hanging out of her mouth! She loves them. She loves Halloween because of the lollipops.

She is a very special dog to us. She was run over by another big SUV when she was 5 months old, and the vet said he had never seen a dog with such will to live and be so loyal to her family. She had a dislocated hip, bruised uterus and internal bleeding, broken ribs, etc. She was on oxygen for three days and survived it all, and she has a wonderful personality.

She loves to lie upside down and smile. She shakes both paws, high fives, sits pretty and will sneeze on command.

This was in the Montgomery County Chronicle, Caney Kansas.

When Sassy, a white Bengal tiger at the Safari Zoological Park in Caney, Kansas, stopped nursing her tiger cubs less than a day after they were born, zoo owners Tom and Allie Harvey had an idea to get the cubs fed. They called in Isabella, a 1-year-old golden retriever who had just finished weaning her own puppies, to stand is as a surrogate mom—licking, cleaning, feeding and loving the cubs as if they were her own.

Allie says she got the idea from a show she saw on Animal Planet. "Another zoo had some golden retrievers and some labs they used to help nurture and stimulate baby animals ... so that's when I thought of my golden retrievers," she says. "Isabella just happened to be lactating when the mama tiger abandoned her cubs, so we put them on (Isabella), and away they went."

We would like to thank Patricia Elias for this great story!

"While visiting my mother-in-law in a small town in Illinois, I took her shopping in nearby Richmond. Traveling on I94 on the way home, we saw a small black dog run across all 4 lanes of the highway. I pulled to the side of the road and got out of the car.

The dog was a small black poodle with terrible mats in his hair and very frightened. When I tried to catch him he would run away, stop and look back. As I neared him again, he did the same thing. Frustrated after several tries, I looked to the sky and said, "God, you know how dangerous it is out here on the highway. If I don't catch this dog it will get hit by a car and die".

I know the Lord heard me because the dog immediately stopped and sat down. I walked over to him, picked him up and put him in my car. He was full of burrs and all kinds of ticks. His ears were black and gooey, his eyes runny, and he was very thin and dirty. When I got back home, I called the number on the tag on his collar, but a recording said that the number had been disconnected. I then called a local vet and asked about the tics. She said that there were a number of different types of tics, and by my description, the dog had them all.

I gave him food and water, a bath, cut the mats out of his hair, and sat on the porch and picked the tics off him with rubber gloves on for well over an hour. I cleaned his ears and eyes. He was very weak, but he ate and drank and licked my hand. Because I had to fly back home the following day, I had to do something about him, and fast.

I called the local animal shelter and they connected me to a retired couple who was looking for a poodle as a pet. I called them and told them of "Lucky" and his plight. I had removed all of the tics - more than 40 of them - and he was clean.

I took him to the couple's home, and they fell in love with him immediately. They took him to the vet I had called, who told them that Lucky would only have lasted a few more hours and he would have been dead from dehydration and from weakness because of all the tics.

Lucky now has a fine home with people who love him and care for him, and I am a happy person to know his life means something to someone now."

Submitted by Lise Sentell, Zelienople, Pennsylvania.

Halfway through my first pregnancy, I was riding my horse Ruby along a trail in the Pennsylvania countryside, about three miles from home. We waded into a pond so she could take a drink.

On the way out, she slipped, and the two of us slid backward into the water. Ruby was on her side in the water, flailing and kicking. I tried to dismount but my left foot was stuck in the stirrup.

One good thrash of Ruby’s legs, I feared, would mean the end of my baby and serious injuries for me. I yelled, "Ruby, stop! I'm stuck, girl." Instantly she froze.

I managed to pry my foot free, got up and trudged out of the pond, soaked. Only when I was safely out of the way did Ruby kick and get all of her 1,200 pounds up and out of the water. My daughter, Tessa, was born five months later. She’s six now. Ruby, 25, is protective of her and is very careful when she’s around.

Our thanks to Suzi Bailey, Los Angeles CA. who kindly contributed Pumpkin's story.

I met Pumpkin in 1996. Some people would say he was a "stray" cat, but I've come to understand that he is actually a "wandering minister" who chooses certain people or families who need a special gift of love.

Folks who live on my street, know Pumpkin the cat because he is a very friendly fellow. He stops by regularly to visit anyone who welcomes him, sometimes even when they don't!

Pumpkin appeared in my life six years ago just when I needed a "furry friend". It was the winter of 1995/1996, and a very sad time for me. My dog Pepsi, died in February. For the first time in 16 years I was returning home from work with no one waiting "just for me." However, there was this big orange cat visiting in my cul-de-sac that winter. He would "hang out" in my garden and my neighbor's children named him Pumpkin.

He was much too skinny under all that hair for a cat his size. I had been distracted by my grief and hadn’t even noticed how thin he was or that he never seemed to "go home". Then one day the light bulb went off in my head! This darling cat didn't have a home! I hurried to the store to buy cat food!

The charming, gentle Pumpkin quickly became part of our family. We appreciated his intelligence, gracious manners and funny antics. I began to look forward to coming home from work, because Pumpkin was always right there waiting for me. I also feel Pumpkin helped me get through one the most difficult times of my life.

One summer, Pumpkin sauntered inside my neighbor's house for a "visit" and no one saw him enter. They were packing up and leaving for a 10 day vacation! After a week of searching for him, we thought he had disappeared. When our neighbors returned they found Pumpkin inside their house and he was okay! He'd survived on left-over dog bones and got water from the toilet to drink! Thankfully, they'd left the toilet seat up! Pumpkin revealed his impeccable manners by using only ONE bathroom rug on which he'd relieved himself. My kind-hearted neighbors were happy to only have that one rug to toss in the garbage and we were all delighted that Pumpkin was safe and unharmed!

It broke my heart when Pumpkin went in search of a new home. He found Tom and Sandy, who lived at the other end of Chickamauga Lane. Perhaps not coincidentally, Tom and Sandy had also recently lost their family dog and they too had never had a cat of their own! I think it must have been "time" for Pumpkin to find Tom and Sandy. He was great joy to them for the three years they lived here.

Last year Tom and Sandy had to move out of state and we all decided together that it would be best not take Pumpkin with them, since ministering to the folks on Chickamauga Lane appears to be Pumpkin's chosen vocation in life.

After Tom and Sandy moved away, Pumpkin picked the Muskgrove's to be his newest "home base" family where he is welcomed, fed, and offered laps to nap on.

I can’t extend enough praise and thanks to them for caring for this beautiful, magical, marvelous cat. He also visits Helen who lives a few houses down from the Muskgroves'. Helen has said, "I think that cat has ESP!" The Muskgroves and many of my friends have made this comment about Pumpkin: "There is something very special about him... his eyes, his face... he just looks so wise. And he seems to always know what we’re thinking and saying!"

I often take walks down the street with chicken treats for Pumpkin. He gets along perfectly with my new dog Abby. (Abby was "trained" by Pumpkin to respect ALL cats, which Pumpkin appreciates, I’m sure.) Even though it's been many years since he lived with me, he knows my whistle, and will come running to greet me, talking and "chirping" the whole way to my feet, where he immediately flops down and rolls over for a scratch.

I send my thanks to ALL the kind folks on our street who stop to speak to Pumpkin, who invite him in for visits and offer him special treats. He is a missionary to human beings, the "Cat of Consolation" on Chickamauga Lane, a furry friend who blesses all who have the opportunity to know him.

Jan Peck, of Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul told this story.

During summer vacations, I would volunteer at the vet's, so I'd seen a lot of dogs. Minnie was by far the funniest-looking dog I'd ever seen. Thin curly hair barely covered her sausage-shaped body. Her bugged-out eyes always seemed surprised. And her tail looked like a rat's tail.

She was brought to the vet to be put to sleep because her owners didn't want her anymore. I thought Minnie had a sweet personality, though. "No one should judge her by her looks," I thought. So the vet spayed her and gave her the necessary shots. Finally, I advertised Minnie in the local paper: "Funny-looking dog, well behaved, needs loving family."

When a young man called, I warned him that Minnie was strange looking. The boy on the phone told me that his grandfather's sixteen-year-old dog had just died. They wanted Minnie no matter what. I gave Minnie a good bath and fluffed up what was left of her scraggly hair. Then we waited for them to arrive.

At last, an old car drove up in front of the vet's. Two kids raced to the door. They scooped Minnie into their arms and rushed her out to their grandfather, who was waiting in the car. I hurried behind them to see his reaction to Minnie.

Inside the car, the grandfather cradled Minnie in his arms and stroked her soft hair. She licked his face. Her rattail wagged around so quickly that it looked like it might fly off her body. It was love at first lick.

"She's perfect!" the old man exclaimed.

I was thankful that Minnie had found the good home that she deserved.

That's when I saw that the grandfather's eyes were a milky white color - he was blind.

I found this on the Internet, source unknown

"A hundred dollars a pound for a little, round, bald-headed, big eared and bright-eyed Cairn Terrier?" I exclaimed. And we certainly did not need another dog, especially one who had a mind of her own.

Barely six inches long, she'd snatch whatever she wanted and make it her own. Strutting, dancing, back arched, tail straight in the air, she'd slip under the couch, holding her prize.

We called her Yoda after the Star Wars character who used her ancient powers to teach others to survive. Star Wars' Yoda taught our Yoda to fly. One day in the back yard, sniffing, never satisfied with the first spot she found, our Yoda literally flew over a fence and scampered across the neighbor's lawn. No sweet calling would bring her back, but little bits of cheese placed carefully across the lawn finally won her over. Her marvelous sense of smell drew her. This time she slipped under the fence and ate her way right back into the house.

Our Yoda always looked like a puppy until last fall when she developed pancreatitis. Her little stomach grew very big and hard and her personality changed. She lay in a small cage at the vets, not even curious when other dogs or children came into view. It was time to "put her down." She must have heard that because the next day she demanded water and she began to talk, "Yoda-da-lay-lee. Lay-lee". She wanted to go out!

After the vet expressed her amazement, Yoda returned home. She was on a mature-dog diet, but her appetite was excellent and her hearing and her barking were better than they had ever been.

Now Yoda has hit old age. She turned thirteen years old last month and is languishing again. Another trip to the vet confirms bad news. Yoda has diabetes and needs an insulin shot every morning. But it doesn't bother her! All of a sudden her youth has returned. She dashes up and down the steps, backs up for a chase whenever a hand is reached toward her and tosses her toys around in gay abandon. Her little body wiggles whenever a child walks through the neighborhood or comes for a visit. Her joy is infectious; she has earned her keep and for a good long time to come.

This story was extensively covered on TV and in the newspapers, and a video of it, made by a bystander at the incident, went viral on Youtube. Most of the drama was shot on home video by Brian Le Lion, and extensively photographed by zoo visitors.

Jambo , (pronounced "Yambo") a Silver back Gorilla at the Jersey Zoo in the Channel islands, shot to international news stardom overnight on August 31, 1986, when five year old Levan Merritt fell into the gorilla enclosure and lost consciousness.

Levan had fallen onto the concrete drainage path 12 ft below. He was perfectly still with blood coming from back of head. He had suffered a mild concussion on the wall when he fell. His father looked at him and thought he was dead. Jambo stood guard over the boy, when he was unconscious, placing himself between the boy and other gorillas.

People watched in horror as Nandi, a female gorilla, and her offspring moved towards Levan. Jambo closely followed. As Nandi approached Levan, Jambo took charge and placed himself between them as if to say, "Don’t touch!" This is thought to have been either Jambo protecting his family and perhaps at the same time satisfying his curiosity before any other members of the troop decided to find out what this human boy was doing in their home. Jambo then began looking over the boy. Jambo then sat next to Levan and looked up curiously at the crowd as if to say, "What is he doing here?" He then started stroking the unconscious boy in what animal behavior specialists analyze as a protective gesture, very much like a protective parent, as if to calm him.

By now a large crowd had gathered and they thought that Jambo would harm the child. Because Levan was quiet, Jambo did not regard the child as a threat. The greatest threat was actually the crowd. There was a lot of screaming and some of them said they should throw rocks to scare the gorillas away

When the boy regained consciousness and started to cry, Jambo and the other gorillas retreated, and paramedics and two keepers were able to rescue the boy.

Jambo was a beautiful friendly creature who died a few years later There is a monument in his name at the zoo.

The boy recovered from the ordeal completely, and his family was one of the chief contributors to Jambo's sculpture. Levin has since become a zoologist himself and works with gorillas.

The following series of stories were posted in the GUIDEPOST magazine blog by Edward Grinnan, about his dog, Millie.

May 11, 2012

I'll have to make this quick—I have an errand to run. I need to pick out a couple of inspirational Mother's Day cards for Julee. One from me and one from Millie. Unless you knew better you might ask, "Why doesn't Millie pick out her own inspiring card?" She can't. You see Millie is a golden retriever who won’t even know Sunday is Mother’s Day.

Through the years I've always made sure our various dogs have remembered to give Julee inspirational (or sometimes humorous) cards on all the necessary occasions. Yes, I know. It's a silly charade. Dogs understand a startling number of things about the human lifestyle but holidays and greeting cards don't register. When I've shown them the greetings cards they are going to give "Mom" they've generally sniffed them indifferently, apparently disappointed they weren't edible.

And I must admit that I am sometimes mildly freaked out by people who assume a parental persona when it comes to their animals. The other day in the grocery store a woman charged up to me and said, "I'm Barney’s mom!" It took me a minute to understand she was talking about Barney the beagle. At least I didn't say anything stupid in the awkward interim like, "Has Barney found a job yet?" or "How’d Barney do on his SATs?"

But Julee and I never had children. I think that’s why I've always made sure she has a card from our dogs on Mother’s Day. Maybe they're not human children, but our pets are as close to us as family. We nurse them when they are sick, train them well so they will behave, praise them when they are good, laugh at their antics, become frantic when they run off on some canine adventure in the woods, hold them close when we need comfort. And we will grieve them when they die. They are not of us, yet they are part of us. Sometimes it is an animal that helps us find our own humanity, connects us to God and heaven. And judging from the stories I've heard, your pets are really animal angels, angels in disguise. Angels with cold noses.

Okay. So the card thing is still a bit ridiculous, still a charade. But Julee would be disappointed if Millie "forgot" Mother's Day. And she won't. God gave us domain over the creatures of the earth but some of them rule our hearts. Mother's Day, or any other day for that matter, wouldn’t be the same without them.

June 1, 2012

I once wrote about a neighbor of mine who was terrified of dogs. He was a shy, quiet sort to begin with but dogs struck terror in his heart. Yorkie or mastiff, it didn't matter. "It's not your dogs, it's me!" he’d cry.

So I always tried to stay clear of him with all my other dogs ... Rudy and Sally and especially my giant Lab, Marty. We'd be sure to cross the street or wait for another elevator.

Then came Millie, and she was having none of this. The neighbor was just as afraid of my lovely, creamy golden retriever puppy as all the other dogs. He would retreat at the sight of her, but Millie would persist, gently, slowly, head lowered, eyes soft and reassuring. She understood his fear and knew there was no need for it. She wouldn't give up on showing my neighbor he had nothing to be afraid of and slowly, miraculously, she won his heart.

Within a few weeks he was down on his haunches hugging her and being dog-kissed all over his face. A few months later he adopted his own dog from a New York shelter. He met someone while he was walking his dog and, well, you can easily guess the rest. They moved out and are living happily ever after.

July 6, 2012

I try not to write about the weather. It feels like a copout. But how can I ignore the blistering heat wave we've been having? I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. It's making everyone’s life miserable.

I was out on our block, West 30th St., walking Millie extra early this morning and already the city air was shimmering with heat, the humidity rising as fast as the temperature, another hot and slimy day in a seemingly endless onslaught of dangerously high temperatures.

Normally I think the dreaded "heat index" is as silly as the "wind-chill factor.' The temperature is the temperature, right? Why create measurements that make it seem even worse? This weather, though, has me worried. The heat index was predicted to be well into triple digits today. There are a lot of people who could suffer.

I live with two females who not do well in warm weather, which means a heat wave like this is double trouble for me. Julee, my wife, can never decide which she hates more, heat or humidity, so she complains about both with equal vehemence and keeps the air conditioner on high continuously. I am forbidden to adjust it. "You should live in a mall.' I always tell her.

And Millie is pathetic in the heat, especially considering that she was born in Florida. "You should do fine with this weather!" I tell her. Instead she droops her head, her tongue lolling out, panting, as she slinks to a crawl. She looks up at me as if it is all my fault, as if I've somehow let things get out of control. Last night one of the guys at the newsstand poured a bottle of cold water over her head. That helped a little bit.

So this morning we got out extra early in order to beat the heat. I was a little worried about waking Julee up. Not a problem. You could hardly hear anything over the roar of the air conditioner.

Millie and I walked east and uptown a block until we found ourselves in front of St. Francis of Assisi Church, on West 31st. St. A few Franciscans were milling outside in their heavy brown cassocks. "How do they deal with the heat dressed like that?" I wondered. Most New Yorkers were wearing as little clothing as possible.

Millie wiggled her way over, eager to say hi. She is the most sociable dog I've ever had and the heat does not inhibit her in this regard. She always wants to make friends. One of the Franciscans crouched down to greet her.

"How is she doing in this heat?" He asked.

"Hates it," I said.

"Give her lots of fresh water."

"I do."

"With a little ice in it."

"Absolutely."

"May I say a prayer for her?"

"That would be great."

"Father of all creatures, please keep this gentle, beautiful animal cool and comfortable today, and all those who are like her. Amen "

"And add one for my wife, when you get a chance?"

"Certainly. God bless you."

"Thank you, Father. You too."

Millie and I turned the corner and headed home. I think there was a little spring in my dog’s step. Prayer can do that. I would remember to say a few of my own for all the people who are suffering in this heat wave. It’s the least I can do until the weather breaks.

July 13, 2012

I've spent this week up in the Berkshires with Millie and her BFF, Winky, the lab, whom I was watching for her owner, Amy, who was in New York nursing a blown-out knee. Julee was out in Sedona, Arizona, having a mini-reunion with some high school friends from Creston. So it was just the girls and me all week.

We'd done a lot of hiking. This morning we had just started out on the Appalachian Trail, hiking south from the parking lot on Route 23 toward South Mountain. I've done that section many, many times and Millie is very familiar with it. I think I could practically do it with my eyes closed. We planned to hike several miles in to a beautiful spot called the Ledges.

We were not far into the woods, which are tremendously green and lush this time of year, almost tropical. Millie was 20 feet or so out in front, leading, as is her habit. Winky was right beside me, slightly to my rear. Millie disappeared around a slight bend in the trail. Suddenly I heard furious barking coming in urgent bursts.

I assumed it was a deer. Millie likes to chase them. Makes her feel tough and she always turns and grins at me in self-delight. Or maybe it was just another hiker taking a break in the bushes. But as I neared the bend and caught sight of Millie I didn't detect the usual friendly body language she displays when meeting up with a person. Her tail was high and rigid and her fur was up. Her jaws were snapping. I followed her stare to the right. Ten feet into the trees was a large dark shape. Not a deer. Not a hiker.

A bear.

Millie was right in front of it, barking and growling. The bear reared up on its hind legs and stood very still. For an absurd second I thought it looked like someone had hauled a large stuffed black bear and stood it up in the woods. But no, this was a very real bear very close to us and not, apparently, going anywhere.

I stopped about 10 feet behind Millie, putting me around 20 feet from the bear. Winky stopped at my side. Her eyesight isn’t great so I don't think she could actually see the bear, but she poked her nose high in the air and sniffed.

"Stay calm." I told myself. That was the first order of business. Panic would only provoke the bear. The second order of business was to draw Millie back. Big and strong as she is, she was no match for a bear. It occurred to me that the bear might have doubts too about taking on two large dogs and a human. For the moment this appeared to be a standoff.

I tried to keep my voice calm and firm: "Millie, come!"

She looked at me, looked at the bear. She kept barking and snarling, holding her ground stubbornly, protectively.

"Millie! Come! Now!"

Winky was glued to me. I reached down and snagged her collar in case she had any ideas about charging to Millie’s side.

"MILLIE!"

She glanced at me and began backing off cautiously, not turning her back to the bear. She kept up the barking. I went over in my mind all the bear-encounter advice I’d heard over the years. Don’t run. Don’t turn your back. Make noise.

By now Millie was right in front of me. Now we had to retreat somehow. I moved backward very slowly. It was clear, though, that we’d have to turn around at some point and start moving quickly.

I said an urgent prayer: "Lord, I'm going to have to turn my back on this bear in a second. It’s a risk but I don't see any other way. Please watch my back and keep that bear off of us."

I turned slowly, pushing Winky ahead of me. "GO!" I said, and began striding up the trail away from the bear. Not running, not strolling, just moving purposefully and as confidently as I could manage. I tried to move Millie around to the front but she was having none of it. She wanted to stay between us and the bear. But she kept up, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. I kept looking back, too, and listening for the crackle of twigs and breaking branches.

Nothing.

I checked left to see if the bear was tracking us on the parallel. No sign of it.

We made it back to Route 23 in a few minutes, crossed over to the parking area, where I ordered the dogs into the Pathfinder, jumped behind the wheel, pulled out of my parking spot and turned toward the south trail. If the bear followed us I fully intended to run him over with my truck. I figured even a big bear was no match for a V8. But we had respected his territory and he had apparently respected our retreat.

I let out a massive sigh of relief. It felt like I hadn’t breathed for the last 10 minutes. Then I turned and praised the girls for their smarts and their bravery. I looked north. We could change our route and hike in that direction toward Beartown State Forest (yikes!) and Benedict Pond. Route 23 was a pretty reliable barrier, and what were the chances of encountering two bears in a single day? Then I remembered the date, Friday the 13th. I’m not an especially superstitious person but I decided to say a prayer of thanks and call it a day.

And how is your vacation going?

by Roger Dean Kiser from "Stories from The Life and Times of Roger Dean Kiser".

This was the last litter of puppies we were going to allow our Cocker Spaniel to have. It had been a very long night for me. Precious, our black cocker, was having a very difficult time with the delivery of her puppies. I laid on the floor beside her large four-foot square cage, watching her every movement. Watching and waiting just in case we had to rush her to the veterinarian. After six hours the puppies started to appear. The first born was a black and white party dog. The second and third puppies were tan and brown in color. The fourth and fifth were also spotted black and white."One, two, three, four, five," I counted to myself as I walked down the hallway to wake up Judy and tell her that everything was fine.

As we walked back down the hallway and into the spare bedroom, I noticed a sixth puppy had been born and was now laying all by itself over to the side of the cage. I picked up the small puppy and laid it on top of the large pile of puppies, who were whining and trying nurse on the mother. Instantly Precious pushed the small puppy away from rest of the group and refused to recognize it as a member of her family. "Something's wrong," said Judy. I reached over and picked up the puppy. My heart sank inside my chest when I saw the little puppy was hare-lipped and could not close its little mouth. We had gone through this once before last year with another one of our cockers. That experience like to have killed me when the puppy died and I had to bury it. If there was any way to save this animal I was going to give it my best shot.

All the puppies born that night, with the exception of the small hare lipped pup, were very valuable because of their unusual coloring. Most would bring between five to seven hundred dollars each. The next day I took the puppy to the vet. I was told nothing could be done unless we were willing to spend about a thousand dollars to try and correct the defect. He told us that the puppy would die mainly because it could not suckle. After returning home Judy and I decided that we could not afford to spend that kind of money without getting some type of assurances from the vet that the puppy had a chance to live. However, that did not stop me from purchasing a syringe and feeding the puppy by hand. Which I did every day and night, every two hours, for more than ten days. The fifth week I placed an ad in the newspaper, and within a week we had taken deposits on all of the pups, except the one with the deformity. The little guy had learned to eat on his own as long as it was soft canned food.

Late that afternoon I had gone to the store to pick up a few groceries. Upon returning I happened to see the old retired school teacher, who lived across the street from us, waving at me. She had read in the paper that we had puppies for sale and was wondering if she might buy one from us for her grandson. I told her all the puppies had been sold, but I would keep my eyes open for anyone else who might have a Cocker Spaniel for sale. I also mentioned we never kept a deposit should someone change their mind, and if so I would let her know.

Within days all but one of the puppies had been picked up by their new owners. This left me with one brown and tan cocker as well as the smaller hare lipped puppy. Two days passed without me hearing anything from the gentleman, who had placed a deposit on the tan and brown pup. So I telephoned the school teacher and told her I had one puppy left and that she was welcome to come and look at it. She advised me that she was going to pick up her grandson and would come over at about eight o'clock that evening. Judy and I were eating supper when we heard a knock on the front door. When I opened the door, the man, who had placed a $100 deposit on the dog, was standing there. We walked inside where I filled out the paperwork, he paid me the balance of the money, and I handed him the puppy. Judy and I did not know what to do or say if the teacher showed up with her grandson. Sure enough at exactly eight o'clock the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was the school teacher with her grandson standing behind her. I explained to her the man had come for the puppy just an hour before, and there were no puppies left. "I'm sorry, Jeffery. They sold all the puppies," she told her grandson. Just at that moment, the small puppy left in the bedroom began to yelp. "My puppy! My puppy!" yelled the little boy as he ran out from behind his grandmother. I just about fell over when I saw the small child was hare lipped. The boy ran past me as fast as he could, down the hallway to where the puppy was still yelping. When the three of us made it to the bedroom, the small boy was holding the puppy in his arms. He looked up at his grandmother and said, "Look Grandma. They sold all the puppies except the pretty one, and he looks just like me."

Well, Grandma wasn't the only one with tears in her eyes that day. Judy and I stood there, not knowing what to do. "Is this puppy for sale?" Asked the school teacher.

"My grandma told me these kind of puppies are real expensive and that I have to take real good care of it," said the little boy, who was now hugging the puppy.

"Yes, ma'am. This puppy is for sale."

The lady opened her purse, and I could see several one-hundred dollar bills sticking out of her wallet. I reached over and pushed her hand back down into her purse so that she would not pull her wallet out.

"How much do you think this puppy is worth?" I asked the boy. "About a dollar?" He replied. "No. This puppy is very, very expensive. More than a dollar?" I told him. "I'm afraid so." Said his grandmother. The boy stood there pressing the small puppy against his cheek.

"We could not possibly take less than two dollars for this puppy," Judy said, squeezing my hand. "Like you said, "It's the pretty one." She continued. The school teacher took out two dollars and handed it to the young boy. "It's your dog now, Jeffery. You pay the man."

I think it must be a wonderful feeling for any young person to look at their selves into the mirror and see nothing, except "The pretty one."

This is just a legend, but it is such a beautiful one, I had to include it.

One day, the Baby Jesus was not feeling well. He was very fussy and would not stop whining and crying. Poor Mother Mary was nearly at her wit's end trying to calm him. She tried everything. Walking with him in her arms. Rocking him. Singing to him. She tried feeding him, but he would not nurse. Nothing worked for more than a few minutes.

Just as she was about to give up, a little gray tiger striped kitten climbed into the cradle. He licked the tears from the Baby Jesus's cheeks and lay down beside the infant. Then he began to purr. Almost immediately, Baby Jesus stopped crying. He put his little arms around the kitten and went to sleep.

Mother Mary was so grateful to the kitten for soothing the tiny baby, she began to gently pet him on the head. When she stopped, there was the letter 'M' on the kitten's forehead.

Ever since then, every striped cat, no matter what its color, has the letter 'M' on its forehead. If you don't believe this, check the next striped cat you see. It will have an 'M' on its head. For some it's very clear. On others, you have to look closely to find it, but it is still there.

The legend also says that the cats that have the clearest 'M' are the most mischievous.

I have a plaque in my den that says: " The ancient Egyptians worshipped the cat as a god. The cat has not forgotten this." This is so true.

- - - - - - - - - -

According to my cats, it is their house, and they let me live in it. As long as I keep the food dish full and the litter box empty, I can stay. I know that if I ever neglect my duties though, my suitcases will be on the driveway the next morning and they will be advertising for a new housekeeper.

- - - - - - - - - -

There must be an invisible sign in the front yard that reads: "Softhearted person lives here. Good for a meal and a place to crash, and if you look pitiful enough she'll even take you in."

- - - - - - - - - -

On my back porch I have several large plastic bins that I put straw and blankets in, particularly in the winter. There are several large wooded areas around our house and they are full of all sorts of critters. I also put out pans of food and seeds, so that the animals don't starve. I have seen birds, dogs, cats, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, and possum take advantage of my free hotel services. Sometimes all on the same night. I've even had deer come to the house on occasion.

- - - - - - - - - -

All of my pets found me. I did not go looking for any one of them. It was as if God, or fate, or whatever Higher Power there is in the universe, has decreed that I am to be the earthbound protector of stray animals.

- - - - - - - - - -

Someone ...I forget who ... when told that animals couldn't go to heaven because they didn't have a soul, indignantly replied. "They certainly do have souls. How can you experience the love and devotion they give to us and say that isn't evidence of a soul? And if they have souls, they most certainly can go to heaven. If there are no pets in heaven, then I for one, don't want to go there."

I agree with him wholeheartedly!

- - - - - - - - - -

There was a sign in a pet store:

Puppies and Kittens. The only love money can buy.

- - - - - - - - - -

I doubt it

I am certain that this is not the end of this tale, since, every day I discover new things about the wonderful animals that I have been privileged to know. Add to that the stories that have been told to me by other pet owners about their remarkable pets, and this tale could go on forever.

There is a poem that I found and I want to share it with you. It has brought me much comfort when I have had to send a pet on his or her way.

There is a bridge connecting Heaven and Earth

It is called the Rainbow Bridge because of its many colors.

Just this side of the Rainbow Bridge there is a land of meadows

Hills and valleys with lush green grass.

When a beloved pet dies, the pet goes to this place.

There is always food and water and warm Spring weather.

The old and frail animals are made young again.

Those who are maimed are made whole again

They play all day with each other.

There is only one thing missing.

They are not with their Special person who loved them on Earth.

So, each day, they run and play until that day comes

When one suddenly stops playing and looks up.

The nose twitches! The ears are up! The eyes are staring!

And this one suddenly runs from the group.

You have been seen and when you and your special friend meet,

You take him or her in your arms and embrace.

Your face is kissed again, and again, and again, and you look

Once more into the eyes of your trusting pet.

Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together.

Never again to be separated.