Animal Poems and Stories III ~ Pawprints and Purrs, Inc.

"If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans." ~ James Herriot, English Veterinarian and Author

The Integrity of Ugly

Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and, shall we say, love.

The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail had long been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch.

Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby, striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!"

All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around your feet in forgiveness.

Whenever he spied children, he would come running, meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him, up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.

One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbor's huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end.

Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home, I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. It must be hurting him terribly, I thought.

Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear. Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying, was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.

At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.

Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I cared for.

Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be Ugly.

~ Author Unknown ~

An Old Man's Prayer For His Cat

So many years ago she came to me, a trusting tiny ball of fluff that climbed on my leg to play and sleep upon my lap. For all those years and still, we share our joys and love; but now both are grown old, and soon must die. Her eyes, like mine, are clouded and would no longer serve to catch her prey. She would not understand the missing saucer, the cold hearth and empty bed, nor bend her ways to suit some stranger's house.

Pray, take her first, Oh Lord, that I may see her resting safe beneath the apple tree that once she loved to climb with such agility, beyond my reach.

I shall grieve with understanding ... then anyone can bury me.

~ Author Unknown ~

Rescued Dog
Once I was a lonely dog,
Just looking for a home.
I had no place to go,
No one to call my own.
I wandered up and down the streets,
In rain in heat and snow.
I ate whatever I could find,
I was always on the go.
My skin would itch, my feet were sore,
My body ached with pain.
And no one stopped to give a pat
Or to gently say my name.
I never saw a loving glance,
I was always on the run.
For people thought that hurting me
Was really lots of fun.
And then one day I heard a voice
So gentle, kind and sweet,
And arms so soft reached down to me
And took me off my feet.
"No one again will hurt you,"
Was whispered in my ear.
"You'll have a home to call your own
Where you will know no fear.
You will be dry, you will be warm,
You'll have enough to eat.
And rest assured that when you sleep,
Your dreams will all be sweet."
I was afraid I must admit,
I've lived so long in fear.
I can't remember when I let
A human came so near.
And as she tended to my wounds
And bathed and brushed my fur
She told me about the rescue group
And what it meant to her.
She said, "We are a circle, A line that never ends.
And in the center there is you
Protected by new friends."

"And all around you are
The ones that check the pounds,
And those that share their home
After you've been found.
And all the other folk
Are searching near and far.
To find the perfect home for you,
Where you can be a star."
She said, "There is a family,
That's waiting patiently,
And just you wait and see.
And then they'll join our circle
They'll help to make it grow,
So there'll be room for more like you,
Who have no place to go."
I waited very patiently,
The days they came and went.
Today's the day I thought,
My family will be sent.
Then just when I began to think
It wasn't meant to be,
There were people standing there
Just gazing down at me.
I knew them in a heartbeat,
I could tell they felt it too.
They said, "We have been waiting
For a special dog like you."
Now every night I say a prayer
To all the gods that be.
"Thank you for the life I live
And all you've given me.
But most of all protect the dogs
In the pound and on the street.
And send a Rescue Person
To lift them off their feet."

~ Arlene Pace ~
September 18, 1998
©Copyright

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: When I wrote this poem it was inspired by my foster Sheltie "Patchie" who, by the way, is in a home where he is the light of their eyes. I think now that it is more in the way I see the rescue efforts of all the people that are doing such a great a job all over this country. So I wish to dedicate this poem to all of you in rescue, the doers, the helpers, the donators of money and/or time and tears.

Please feel free to recopy, reprint or resend to anyone you would like to.

The following story is a real-life story. It is protected by copyright law and is NOT to be downloaded from this site. If you have any questions regarding this story and/or its copyright, the author's contact email is located immediately following its conclusion.

My Little Martian

The tiny cat looked like a cartoon Martian. Huge yellow eyes stared out of a dark face, while skinny legs squirmed in animated flicks. As I opened the storm door, she yelled, and even her voice suited a space-alien cartoon character: a nasal squall, Siamese in essence if not in details. The stimulus for this unlikely sound might’ve been the nervously shuffling group of children clustered on my porch, one of them holding her, all of them staring hopefully at me.

My stomach sank. Our neighborhood was riddled with feral cats, and this had to be one of the kittens unchecked breeding always produces. Feral cats are nearly impossible to catch and dangerous to handle. If the kids had managed to grab this half-grown one and hold her for longer than it took to be bitten or scratched, she was probably sick.

Cats are known by species for fastidious grooming. When one gets so unkempt, you know there are problems. I had no trouble spotting some of them, in fact hundreds of them. An outdoorsy infestation of fleas swarmed under her short coat, and they weren’t her only parasites. Tapeworm segments crawled around the area under her tail, much healthier and more active than their lethargic hostess.

The cat’s gender was a guess, but she was a tortoiseshell, and you could bet your last dime on that genetic matching of coat pattern and paired X-chromosomes. My confidence in probability cancelled a need to look more closely under her tail, but her hopeless attempts to scratch bothered me. Sooner or later, this undersized wild animal would maul the little girl dangling her in obvious appeal. She was about six, and clearly knew nothing about handling cats. That gave me my excuse for taking charge of the beast.

Once the cat was in my hands, I was able to inspect a pair of ears that looked like satellite dishes. Like most outdoor cats, this one had ear mites. A magnifying glass would probably reveal the tiny insects and their eggs, but I hardly needed one. Her ears were clogged with sticky black discharge. When I rubbed one ear gently, I was rewarded with a purr that seemed too big for her emaciated body. No doubt my attentions were relieving an awful itch.

I clicked my tongue, snapped my fingers. The ears swiveled. The bugs hadn’t stolen the poor cat’s hearing yet, but without a good dose of ear drops over a period of about ten days, they would eventually secrete enough eggs and feces to deafen her, perhaps permanently.

She kept purring, letting me pet and scratch while I inspected her infestations and injuries. Even when I prodded a large swollen area at the base of her tail, making her blink and flinch away, she didn’t bite or hiss. I’d been wrong about her; she wasn’t dangerous. She was a people kitty, with a good disposition.

She’d been turned out or lost. From her condition, she hadn’t been managing well on her own. If I took her in, she’d need emergency veterinary treatment, and even then, she might not make it. Along with her obvious parasites, she could have others, not to mention diseases like rabies, distemper, respiratory infections, or even feline leukemia. My own three cats were vaccinated, but possible exposure was still a threat. The kindest gesture might be to take this cat straight to the local humane shelter. She might be adopted. If not, she’d at least be painlessly removed from what had clearly been a short and miserable life.

The delegation of kids seemed to take my interest for temporary acceptance. They all wanted to talk at once, eagerly answering my pointed questions. No, they couldn’t keep her. Their guardian had told them to put the cat under a Dumpster at a small neighborhood grocery, which was where they’d found her. Yes, they’d tried to find her owner. No one would claim the desperate little beggar, who had befriended these kids in exchange for a scrap of food and a friendly hand. No, they couldn’t give her to the shelter. None of the half-dozen was old enough to drive, and their guardian would have nothing to do with a situation that wasn’t her responsibility.

I began to see why this motley collection of foster children had come to me. They understood the problems of a throwaway cat, because the world had been cruel to kitten and kids in exactly the same way. They didn’t want to compound the wrong already done by abandoning her again, and, with a kid’s own brand of logic, they’d all reasoned that a lady with three cats wouldn’t refuse one more. "She don’t eat much," one boy assured me plaintively, sensing a grownup refusal coming.

That kid’s instincts were good, because I had no plans to keep this troubled cat. My only concern was finding an excuse for her absence that wouldn’t hurt the children’s feelings too much. I hated the idea, but I’d have to take her to the humane shelter myself.

I didn’t reckon with the cat, who seemed to know her future was on the line. She looked at me with those big, sad golden eyes, and let loose another comment in her second-language Siamese. Just a brief resigned squall, but I understood.

The little cat was saying, "You don’t want me, either, do you?"

That, of course, was that.

Cursing myself, I swept her inside without a word of thanks, and found the flea spray. Once she was doused from head to tail, I isolated her from my other cats until she could be taken to the vet. Upon seeing her, it was his professional opinion that I had a hole in my head for taking in this infested stray, but his distaste didn’t last. The little cat came on all charming, and he melted.

She turned out to be reasonably healthy, despite parasites and pustules. Once the required treatments and immunizations were given, the worming tablet presented, and the miticide prescribed, she was released into my custody, which meant I could stop at the desk and make an appointment for spaying, as well as pay the bill. It also meant that I could name her, for the vet’s records.

Even though she looked and sounded like a cartoon Martian, I didn’t name her Marvin. She became Gummi-Bear, after a Halloween treat her rescuers liked.

The name fits. She’s remained small and sweet, with a tendency to stick to you where you least expect it. Even our other cats loved her, and, when we moved, her exuberant curiosity helped her fellow felines adjust to their new home. She’s a survivor, and the first rule of survival is to adapt when things change.

She’s beautiful, too. Cured of fleas and assorted marks of abandonment, her coat shines in colors of black and orange, with a hint of white here and there. Well-fed at last, she’s become a sleek little bundle of energy who always wants to play…most often at four a.m.

She’s full of life, a life she owes to the kindness of small children. We adults say that children must always be taught to do the right thing, but most of the kids who brought Gummi to my door were too young for lessons like practicality and sensibility. If some adult had taught them those lessons, they would have left Gummi searching for food in the grim gray space under a Dumpster…only they didn’t. I’ll leave the reader to draw a moral.

Me, I’m going back to playing with Gummi-Bear. We play toss-the-ball a lot, because she loves to chase things. She loves long pieces of string too, so we invented a game I call cat fishing. Without those kids, I wouldn’t get to have so much fun…and maybe I can tire Gummi out enough that she’ll sleep through the four-a.m. play session.

If not, there’s always tomorrow. Gummi has tomorrows now.

Reprinted by express written permission per the author:
Margaret R. Cartwright
Kalamazoo, MI USA
Copyright © 1999 All Rights Reserved

Notation: Cats (indeed, all animals) have no voice to speak for them. Responsible humans can and do give them the voice they lack. Sadly, there are few who take the time and effort to help an animal in distress. By reading this story of little Gummi, those with compassion and a sense of responsibility immediately will be able to discern the moral (and an empathy lesson renewed by the author) at the story's ending. However, for those who aren't able to distinguish the difference between apathy and empathy, Ms. Cartwright explains the moral of My Little Martian:

"The story is a thank-you to a group of special kids. They didn't know they weren't supposed to care about such a nasty, flea-bitten little creature. I'm embarrassed to say that I almost taught them that lesson myself...but I came to my senses in time!"

When I expressed my delight and thanks to Ms. Cartwright for sharing this true "story with a moral" to be viewed from my site, she graciously wrote:

"Your compliments are wonderful, but my husband deserves a share of the credit for sheer tolerance and love of cats. He thought Gummi was the scraggliest cat he'd ever seen, but he never said anything. He even let her sleep in the bed on her first night, and she repaid him in her usual charming fashion. She curled up between his neck and shoulder, and by morning he was a convert. Even though he was scratching a few fleas that didn't catch the spray.

"Thank you so much. Gummi would thank you, too, but she's catching her beauty nap and has no idea she's about to be famous. She'll have me up at 4 a.m. again, but I'm used to it by now."

Pets Bill of Rights

We have the right to be full members of your family. We thrive on social interaction, praise, and love.

We have the right to stimulation. We need new games, new toys, new experiences, and new smells to be happy.

We have the right to regular exercise. Without it, we could become hyper, sluggish...or fat.

We have the right to have fun. We enjoy acting like clowns now and then; don't expect us to be predictable all the time.

We have the right to quality health care. Please stay good friends with our vet!

We have the right to a good diet. Like some people, we don't know what's best for us. We depend on you.

We have the right not to be rejected because of your expectations that we be great show dogs or show cats, watchdogs, hunters, or baby-sitters.

We have the right to receive proper training. Otherwise, our good relationship could be marred by confusion and strife - and we could become dangerous to ourselves and others.

We have the right to guidance and correction based on understanding and compassion, rather than abuse.

We have the right to live with dignity...and to die with dignity when the time comes.

~ Author Unknown ~

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