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

he came to an abrupt halt under the horse’s nose, mere inches from his powerful front legs.
    Clearly startled, but maintaining his poise, Niatross widened his eyes and craned his neck to peer down at the tiny blond boy, who was around five years old and looked like a doll in the heavy, motorized chair. I said hello to the child, who perhaps because of his handicap, was unable to speak. The fingers of his right hand were clutched around a button that propelled his chair; the fingers on the left hand were frozen around a Niatross poster. He looked at me intently, his eyes burning a hole through my face.
    “Would you like Niatross to sign your poster?” I asked. With great solemnity, he nodded his head yes. I pulled the poster from his fingers, tapped Niatross’s foot to get him to lift it, placed the poster beneath it and traced his hoof.
    “There,” I said, slipping the poster back between his fingers, “Niatross signed his name for you.” The child said nothing, but continued his fixed gaze at me.
    “Do you want to give Niatross a pat?” I asked. Again, he solemnly moved his head up and down. Yes.
    A mild panic came over me. How could we do this? The boy couldn’t extend a hand or unclench his fingers, his arms were frozen at his side. How could he reach up to pat a horse? I turned to Chris, not knowing what to do, but knowing we couldn’t disappoint this child.
    “Chris?” I said, hoping he’d have an idea. Without hesitation, Chris placed his hand a few inches beneath Niatross’s soft muzzle. Niatross lowered his velvety nose into Chris’ hand. Slowly, cautiously, Chris moved his hand, with Niatross following, lower and lower, past the boy’s head, past his tiny shoulders. Chris pulled his hand away and Niatross, closing his eyes, rested his head in the boy’s lap.
    The boy’s intent expression melted into a faint, tranquil smile. The tension gone from his frail body, he laid his head alongside Niatross’s powerful head, the same head that jerked a man off his feet just hours before. The two were secure in the only kind of embrace a horse and a wheelchair-bound child could have. Boy and horse looked like old friends, exchanging a wordless greeting understood only by them.
    Slowly, steadily, Niatross lifted up his head to look down at his new friend. With a flick of his finger, the child spun the wheelchair around. Still smiling and sitting a little taller now, he disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared, into the chilly night.
    Ellen Harvey

A Duchess in the Desert
    In January 1996 when I visited Qatar, on the Arabian Peninsula, the emir invited me to return in March for their annual “Festival of the Horse”—and, most intriguingly, to ride in the International Qatar Horse Marathon, popularly known as “Desert Storm.”
    The race, I knew, was one of the most grueling in the world. It asked everything from rider and horse alike to go twenty-six miles over sand. I was reasonably fit at the time, but I wasn’t riding fit. Could I withstand hours of competition in hundred-degree heat?
    Still, I was tempted by the emir’s proposal. If I rode, an oil company would sponsor me and they would donate a significant sum to Children in Crisis. I decided to do it.
    As soon as I declared I would race, the press pegged me as a mad and frivolous publicity hound. The betting was that I would pack up a quarter of the way through, pose for the cameras, and thumb a ride to the nearest oasis. The Daily Express even ran the headline, FERGIE RIDING FOR A FALL.
    But I had given my word, and the more that I heard I couldn’t do it, the more intent I became.
    In England I went on a fiercely healthy diet, pushed my workouts to seven days a week. By the time I returned to Qatar, the race had taken on larger significance. Now it was a question of integrity, of my ability to stay the course and be the serious person I claimed. I could not expect to win the race, but I knew that I had to finish. Only then could I show my