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

stay ahead of it. But we just kept going. A grueling ten hours had passed since I’d arrived that Tuesday morning. With a few hours of daylight left, and my van empty of rescued animals, I decided to make one last check at the Red Cross shelter. No one had yet told us that we couldn’t go back for more animals.
    A woman ran up to my van before I’d even parked. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with a smooth, blonde pageboy that framed wide, anxious eyes. I knew she was searching for a pet.
    She grasped the bottom of my window frame as I stopped the van and blurted out, “Please, miss, can you help me? I gave my address to one of your colleagues yesterday, but I haven’t heard from anyone. It’s my kitten. She’s only eight weeks old. The poor thing must be so . . . frightened.” Her voice broke as she spoke.
    “Why don’t you give me the information again, and I’ll see if I can find your kitten,” I told the woman as I pulled a blank piece of paper from my notebook. “Where’s your house?”
    “Aldercroft Heights. A fireman told me early this morning there were still some houses that hadn’t burned.”
    I could see the hope in her face. But I knew that when the wind changed that afternoon, the fire had headed back in the direction of the Heights—probably to burn what was left.
    “My house isn’t very big. You could search it in less than five minutes. The kitten likes to lie on the rug in my sewing room, especially when I’m in there working.’’ The recollection brought more tears to the woman’s eyes.
    Her expression was a mirror image of all of the other displaced people with whom I’d had contact in the past two days. I wanted so much to help them, to ease the anguish and frustration.
    “What’s the quickest way to your place?” I asked, looking at my map.
    The woman used her finger to point out the best route. As she gave me directions, I asked for landmarks. By now a lot of the street signs had melted.
    “Okay. I think I have what I need,” I said, attaching the paper to my clipboard. “Oh, one last thing. What’s your name?”
    “April. April Larkin.”
    I followed April’s directions without getting lost. As I got closer to Aldercroft Heights, I could see that the homes I’d passed the day before were now gone. All that remained standing were the chimneys. As I wound up the steep hillside, my gut told me what I’d find. There was no way April’s kitten could have survived this inferno.
    April had told me her house was exactly one mile up from the horseshoe curve. I watched my odometer. Eighttenths. Nine-tenths. I was getting close to the devastation. Too close. What I saw made me want to close my eyes. I stopped the van and covered my mouth with my hands.
    The house was gone.
    I leaned my head back against the car seat and stared at the ceiling. Tears ran down my cheeks. This was hard . . . really hard. I don’t know how long I sat there. But before I left, there was something I knew I had to do. I’d have to look for the kitten. Unfortunately, there wouldn’t be a live kitten to place in April’s arms. She had told me she’d wait at the Red Cross shelter until I returned. How could I tell her the kitten had died, much less that her whole house was gone?
    I knew I didn’t want April to see whatever remained of the kitten when she returned. I had to find it and bury it. I got out of the van and forced myself forward.
    Through my boots I could feel the heat from the blanket of ash as I wandered through what had once been a home. I used my shovel to poke my way through the rubble. There was so little left, a teacup handle, a twisted metal frame, a chipped ceramic vase—but no kitten. My search seemed futile.
    I was on my way back to the van when I heard something. I stopped, but all I recognized was the sound of an approaching helicopter and the persistent wind. After the helicopter passed over, I remained by the van, listening. Hoping. Was it a kitten I’d heard? I