Free Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield

doesn’t get his dog to the vet soon, he’ll have somebody else to grieve for.”
    For almost a year, I had been upset whenever George brought his terrier mix, Daisy, in for grooming. I had noticed small lumps growing on her body, but each time I suggested he take the little Benji look-alike to the vet, he changed the subject. I agonized over the situation with David, who also worked as a psychiatric nurse. “People like George will not act until they are ready,” he told me. “In the mental-health field, we refer to this as denial.”
    I empathized with George’s dread. In his mind, if he didn’t name the demon, it didn’t exist. And Daisy was much more than a pet to the lonely widower. A heavy smoker and drinker in his younger years, George’s retirement had been hastened by poor health, but now he worked at keeping fit. His daily walks with Daisy were a big part of his regimen.
    His life revolved around the little dog. There was the morning ride to the doughnut shop where Ruthie the waitress always saved him a plain, and Daisy a coconut, cruller. “I know it’s not health food, but it’s my only vice,” he told me. Once home, they’d relax in his recliner to watch The Price Is Right, then take awalk before lunch. After a nap, they arose in time to greet the school kids getting off the bus in front of their house. Nomatter what the chore— leaf raking, fence painting, bulb planting or lawn mowing— Daisy happily tagged along at hermaster’s heels as he addressed her with a steady stream of chatter.
    His pride in the little mongrel showed every time he picked her up after grooming. “Well, well, don’t you look pretty,” he’d enthuse as Daisy wagged her whole body with delight. “Show us how you dance!”
    The little dog dutifully twirled on her hind legs, then yipped for a cookie. “Show Kathy how you go for a walk,” he’d tell her, as she picked up the leash in her mouth and trotted to the door.
    “Now let’s go visit your mother and show her those pretty bows.” Off they would go to tend the flowers on Evie’s grave.
    Another winter came and went before George got to the vet with Daisy. By this time, the lumps were harder and larger. I felt a sense of grim foreboding when he said the vet had decided not to operate. “He said she would be more comfortable if you gave her medicated baths.” Somehow I did not believe those were the vet’s only instructions.
    As the months passed, Daisy grew less energetic. She found it increasingly hard to stand, so I took to trimming her while she was lying down. She still performed her little tricks at the end of each visit. “Show Kathy how you act shy,” he told her as she ducked her head and covered her eyes with a paw.
    When I returned from my summer vacation, my new assistant, Trudy, conveyed the news I had been dreading: Daisy had passed away. “George was very upset that you weren’t here,” she told me. “He even called the vet a quack. It got worse when he started crying.”
    Unable to reach him by phone, I sent George a letter expressing our condolences. Months later, when he dropped by to see us, he looked as though he had aged several years. We reminisced about Daisy, her funny tricks and endearing ways. “My son keeps telling me to pull myself together. If he tells me once more, ‘Dad, it was only a dog. . . .’” All I could offer was a hug.
    “The worst part is, it was all my fault,” he said tearfully. “I blamed the vet, but if I had taken her to see him when you folks told me to, I’d still have her now.”
    David gently placed his arm around the old man’s shoulder. “We’ve all learned some lessons the hard way, George,” he told him.
    A few weeks later, fate intervened when a young woman came into the shop, dragging a dirt-caked terrier mix that was matted from head to tail. The raggedy creature’s pungent odor told me it had recently gotten up close and personal with a skunk.
    “This here is Fanny. She belongs to my