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

aunt and uncle, but they wanna get rid of her.”
    As I reached down to examine the dog, she jerked its chain. “I gotta warn ya, she’s a bad dog. She barks all day, and she don’t like kids.”
    “She barks in the house?” I inquired.
    “No, she don’t come in the house. They keep her tied out in the yard.”
    Poor Fanny was frightened and jumpy. Grooming her was not easy or pleasant. When she emerged, de-fleaed and de-skunked, her bones jutted out from her bare skin. Yet somehow she looked eerily familiar.
    “Who does she remind you of?” I asked David.
    “Sinead O’Connor?” he guessed.
    “No! Doesn’t she look like Daisy, George’s old dog?”
    It would take some convincing. George had sworn he would never have another pet.
    “I just can’t go through it again,” he told me. “I don’t deserve it after what happened to Daisy.”
    “But, George, you know you’ve been lonely,” I prodded, as determined as a used-car salesman.
    “Everybody’s lonely,” he grumped. “What else is new?”
    “The poor thing spends her life tied to a rusty chain in a muddy backyard. She’s totally unsocialized.” I warmed to my subject. “Maybe you shouldn’t take her after all. She’s going to need an awful lot of training, patience and love. You might not be up to it.”
    “I guess I could take her on a trial basis,” he mumbled.
    “Well, if it doesn’t work out, you can always give her back,” I offered brightly.
    The first thing George did was to rename the dog Daisy II. Her coat grew out, soft and fluffy, and she learned to walk on a leash and come when called. She still got anxious when he left her for grooming, then exploded in a yapping fury when he came to pick her up.
    “Watch this,” he said one December day, placing his car keys on the chair beside my counter. “Daisy, want to go get doughnuts?”
    In a furry flash, she raced to the chair, jumping up and then landing squarely at his feet, head cocked to one side and keys gripped tightly in her mouth. George beamed proudly.
    David and I stood in the doorway, watching the happy pairwalk across the snow-dusted parking lot as the church bells chimed a Christmas carol. “Merry Christmas, George!” I called after him. “And don’t forget—if it doesn’t work out, you can always give her back!”
    Kathy Salzberg

Devotion
    T o your dog, you are the greatest, the smartest, the nicest human being who was ever born.
    Louis Sabin
    The truck chugged into the parking space beside me in front of the supermarket and shuddered to a stop. Its rusty hinges protested as the man leaned his shoulder against the door to force it open. The truck was old, its red paint so faded and oxidized, six coats of wax could not have coaxed a shine from its ancient hide. The man, too, was old, stooped and faded like his truck. His washed-out red and black checkered flannel shirt and colorless trousers were a perfect match for the aura of age surrounding him and his truck. A farmer, I thought, judging by the leathery, tanned skin of his heavily lined face and gnarled, dirt-encrusted hands. The creases radiating from the corners of his eyes bore witness to years of squinting against the sun. As he stepped out of the truck, he turned to address the only youthful thing in the whole picture, a lively young springer spaniel attempting to follow him.
    “No, Lady,” he said. “You stay here and guard our truck. I won’t be long.” He didn’t roll up the window, apparently secure the dog would hold her post.
    As he entered the grocery store, the dog moved over to assume a position behind the steering wheel, her eyes following the man’s progress. As the door closed behind him, she settled back on her haunches, staring almost unblinking at the closed door.
    The minutes passed. The dog did not move, and I began to feel her anxiety.
    “Don’t worry, girl,” I said. “He’ll be back soon.”
    I knew she heard me by the way her long brown ears perked up and by the sound of