* * *

The minute we saw the farm, we knew it would be just perfect. Located about five miles out of the city, on a country road not yet marred by tract-home developers, it had the kind of rural beauty we were looking for, and the peace that the suburban neighborhood where we lived could not provide. We were ready to breathe again in the presence of pure Nature, and find purpose in connecting with the land.

The farmhouse was a modest size, mellowed by its years. Having embraced its occupants, it seemed reluctant to see them move on, though it might have known they had reached a time when the farm work had become too much for them.

Over the years, they had cultivated and cared for several acres of filbert, walnut, and fruit trees. Dozens of flowering shrubs, a lovely rose garden, and massive oak trees for shade clearly showed the love these people had for this land. We were to be the benefactors of this love.

There was another gift that would be ours, though no experience we’d had previously would prepare us for it.

Moving day arrived. As we were having our final meeting with the sellers on the deck, we were surprised to see a friendly gray tabby cat sidle-up to us.

“Oh, by the way,” spoke the farmer, “This is George. He’s an old fella, and has always been here with us. We didn’t have the heart to transplant him to our new town place. He’d never be happy there.

“One time,” the farmer continued, “we tried to take George to another home along the highway here, but he quickly found his way back home. It was a long trek for him, but with that need and determination, there was nothing we could do but welcome him back. Now he’s yours, just part of the deal. Hope you don’t mind.”

Of course we didn’t mind! We loved animals, and our hearts embraced him on the spot.

Then the farmer spoke again. He said, “Oh, and there’s another kitty. A barn cat, that won’t let people near her.

“She’s spooky and fearful,” he said, “because the day we chose to spay her, she knew, and did all she could to elude us. Finally, we caught and caged her. Her resignation was painful to watch. It was then her resentment was born. We could never get near her again.

“She’s a pretty girl,” he added, “yellow and white, healthy and aloof. She’s also yours now, but at least she won’t be another mouth to feed.”

That’s how we became ‘adoptive cat parents.’ It was going to be a pleasure to share this lovely place with these two indigenous residents. It just felt right to allow them to live out their lives in the comfort of the only home they’d known.

One day, after settling in, I felt curious about the kitty in the barn. I wanted to see whether I could meet her, and maybe coax her to come to me.

She was bedded in the hayloft, so I had to climb a ladder to reach her. I knew it was best to keep enough distance, that way I wouldn’t startle or displace her.

When I reached her, she was sleeping in the hay. I spoke very softly to her in the way to which kitties usually respond. But much as I tried, there was no movement toward me. I could see her reluctance, even her distain for my intrusion. I quietly moved down the ladder, but first told her I’d be back to see her another time. I don’t think she cared one bit.

As the days warmed in that spring season, I would spot the kitty in the fields nearby catching her dinners. She was always swift and sure at this, with the precision that nature provides for the hunters of the animal kingdom.

I’d sit under the apple tree by the grassy place that was her hunting ground, determined to somehow reach her and to befriend her. I persisted at calling her and telling her she’d be safe with me…that I understood her resistance, and would only be her caring friend. It was then I decided to name her Phantom. It suited her elusive demeanor and the bit of mystery about her.

I know there is a bridge in the stream of intelligence that flows through all life on this earth. I know it is shared by all sentient kingdoms. I’ve heard that even plants respond to human focus and voice vibrations directed toward them, even from miles away.

The animal kingdom is very interactive with us. Some of them are meant to be attracted to and comfortable with us, even serving our special needs by bringing us a kind of joy that teaches, guides, and heals our own lives. This kitty needed to remember her instincts for this, and learn to trust again.

One day, while I was sunning on the deck outside the kitchen, Phantom came near the steps. I held my breath and lay motionless, giving her the assurance that I would not be a threat to her safety or independence. She seemed to want to lie in the sun too, and watch the butterflies flit about the rose garden. I was secretly thrilled that at least she was willing to share a space, though at a distance.

Again, I called her name softly, inviting her to come closer. She simply looked at me, but didn’t move away or closer. Progress, I thought! I’ll take it very slowly and be patient with her timing. But Phantom lived her name, and just didn’t move beyond her comfortable parameters. There wasn’t really any true interaction yet.

There was a trellis that covered part of that deck, with pretty vines creeping up the side toward the slatted top. Sometimes I’d sit in a chair there, and George, friendly guy that he was, would jump into my lap.

One day, George got more adventuresome than I’d ever seen him. He made his way up the trellis to the slatted canopy. Because his footing was not secure, he slipped trying to back down from that upper perch. Phantom, who’d been nearby, tore up the trellis to reach George in his crisis, answering his feline distress call. She tried her best to cushion his fall.

What a thing to witness! This shared consciousness in action. It was an incident that at once awed me and warmed my heart. These two were certainly buddies, and the caring was indisputable. Yes, my heart smiled.

One moonlit evening, at the point of early darkness, I looked out the kitchen door to see George sitting on the deck. His back was to me. He faced the sky, where a moon, full and yellow, graced the evening with a light that put George in a silhouette. It caught my breath. I thought, how interesting—he’s surveying his kingdom.

Next day my husband had some errands to do in town. He said he’d be back later in the afternoon.

About five minutes after he’d left, I heard the car return. Surprised, I found him walking back to the house and I asked what was up?

He spoke slowly, tears welling up in his eyes. “George is dead,” he said. “He’s been hit by a car just down the road, and was lying in the gutter.”

I screamed. “No, no! Where is he now!?”

His words didn’t seem real, as he said, “I put him in the back of the car and brought him home.”

I ran to the car in disbelief and anguish. George was still warm, but his vital self was no longer there. I cried again, and felt so helpless for a moment.

Then, knowing we would have to bury him, said, “Let’s put him by the bird bath where he always liked to drink. It was his favorite place.”

So my husband got a shovel and dug a place near the bird bath, while I got a clean pillowcase in which to wrap George.

A couple of days passed, while we each quietly grieved.

Though George was always an outdoor cat, his presence on the deck, or there in a chair, or sunning on the pebbly driveway always seemed—well, right. He would indeed be missed.

Most of our lives are lived on what we call the visible plane. But we also know that our thoughts, ideas, feelings, inspirations, creative processes, intuition, telepathy and dreaming, to name a few, are not of the physical substance we regard as “reality”. They are of the ethereal dimensions where the like of angels, spirit guides and teachers, have their Being, giving us nudges on occasion, to remind us that we are indeed more than what our five senses convey, more than our personalities, even more than our intellect.

What took place next can only be called a kind of miracle. Although, what it really did was simply open wider for us the doorway to that dimension just beyond the physical.

There was a glass and wood-frame enclosure around the cellar door and kitchen entrance to keep out the wind, rain and snows of the more inclement seasons. In order for George to come into that protected area to eat his food and drink fresh water, there was a standard-type kitty door. After George’s passing, I took away the dishes at the place near the cellar door where he’d found his meals. It was sad, as it left us with a feeling of emptiness.

It was a pleasant sunny afternoon. I decided to indulge myself in some deck-basking.

Seeing Phantom in the yard, I called to her. She moved toward me, and stepped onto the deck.

She had never responded this way, and a surge of excitement swept through me. Something was different! Could it be she would come to me?

Very cautiously, I got up and moved to the door into the enclosure at the kitchen. Something prompted me to go in, grab some cat food left from George’s supply, and replace the dishes at the spot near the cellar door. Would she come in through the kitty door and eat the food?

I sat on those inside steps and waited.

“Come kitty, come Phantom,” I called.

Yes!! In through the doorway she pushed her furry self and walked up to the dish.

I took a chance and carefully stood up so that I could get closer to her. As she began tasting the food, I gently reached down to touch her back. Amazingly she didn’t move away, she just kept eating the food!

For the first time since that day I saw her in the hayloft, I touched this lovely creature, stroking her, as she finished the meal. I could scarcely hold in my delight. Sitting back on the steps, I just waited for what might happen now.

I kept talking to her, saying things like “Beautiful girl,” and “It’s alright.” “Thank you for coming here!”

I thought I would melt with happiness when she moved up the steps and crawled under my knees, back-and-forth, as I stroked her head and back.

“Good heavens” I thought, “Is this really happening!? What is this sudden alteration in her behavior?”

Later that day, we saw her sitting on the deck. It was like looking at George. Her body posture, head position, even facial expression looked exactly as we had seen George look so many times.

In astonishment, I remarked to my husband, “I believe George’s spirit has moved in with Phantom’s! I think he knows how much we need this animal companionship in our lives, and how we miss his role. George is giving his friend, Phantom, a way to fulfill our need, and heal our grief.

“Oh my goodness,” I said, joyfully. “What a gift to us! Thank you, thank you, George.”

This is a true story. It took place in 1993, in a small country town in Oregon, USA.



© Alyce Whelan 2011
© Finn McCool, the Magic Leprechaun Cat. All rights reserved.
Illustrations by Cheyenne Booker – All rights reserved

I was looking through them over coffee, and one in particular caught my eye and made me laugh out loud. It wasn’t the picture per se that made me laugh, but rather the story behind the lovely horse, pictured with his back to the camera, moving off up the path, his head turned in such a way as to appear to be looking over his shoulder. His name was Cooncan.

I was all of 19-years-old, and had just purchased my first AQHA roping horse. Purchasing Cooncan on my own was a major achievement, and I was very proud. He was a well-muscled sorrel with a bald face, wonderful conformation, great action and he rode like a Cadillac.

The rancher that I’d bought Cooncan from was a soft-spoken fella, who wore a huge grey cowboy hat, and one of those crinkly cowboy grins, that westerners naturally associate with an honest and gentlemanly nature.

I knew I had made the right decision when Cooncan walked right into the trailer as though he was as eager to start his new life with me, as I with him.

On arriving home, he unloaded quietly, and I immediately saddled him up for an inspection of his new turf.

He glided across the Arizona fields, over the rocks, through the pines and back to the barn as sweet as honey. No spooking, no bolting, nothing seemed to concern him.

Then, I rode him into the arena, where we did some concentrated work. He even did a very nice side pass. It appeared he was well educated for a roping horse.

It had been a splendid afternoon, and I was eager to share the news of Cooncan’s arrival with my friends.

It was about 11:00 p.m., that I first heard what sounded like a gator in a southern swamp at night. Those of you who live in gator country will know what I mean. But, this was Arizona, and there hadn’t been a swamp here in a million years. So, an investigation was in order.

Armed with my trusty flashlight, I followed the deep rumbling sound to the paddock. I crept up to the stall, where I thought my wonderful new horse would be soundly sleeping, but the stall was empty.

He must have gone for a moon-lit walk in the paddock, I thought. So, I walked through his fragrant straw bedding and peered out the stall door into the night. It was too dark to see clearly, so I flipped on the outdoor floodlights.

My hand froze on the switch. There, standing in the paddock, gleaming in the floodlight like a newly minted copper penny, was my beloved Cooncan, his front teeth firmly grasping the fence rail hawking in air, sitting back on his haunches for leverage, his neck bent so that he had that exaggerated arch displayed by Arabian stallions in a halter class.

I had bought a cribber!

A cribber, for those unfamiliar with the term, is a horse that has developed the bad habit of sucking air into his lungs by grasping hold of most any object, fence rail, bucket, feed bin, you name it, if he can get his teeth on it, he will suck air. This is not only an annoying, destructive habit, but unhealthy for the horse, as well.

I don’t exactly remember what my emotions were after the first shock wore off, as everything was a blur, but insurmountable fury was a good possibility.

^top^

After a sleepless night, I returned the next morning to the ranch where I had purchased Cooncan the day before. I hunted down that cowboy, with the vengeance of a werewolf on the night of a harvest moon.

I found, what I now viewed as an evil, wicked man, in a field, mounted on a lovely, grey Quarter Horse, loping after a herd of Herefords.

I screamed some very unladylike obscenities at him, and then drove my jeep right out across the field towards him.

Politely, he stopped, tipped his hat, and with that crinkly grin, now more reminiscent of a smug collections lawyer, then the honest man I first thought him to be, said, “Howdy, ma’am, how’s the new horse?”

The only thing that kept me from running him down — several times — was the beautiful, probably, non-cribbing horse he was sitting on.

I yelled at him about his having sold me a cribbing horse. That it was a cruel thing to do to me, and how heinous it was for him to have hidden this horrid affliction from me.

Then, through gritted teeth, I asked him why he hadn’t told me.

He looked at me quite undisturbed, and said, “You didn’t ask.”

Well, there was nothing to be done, though I let loose another barrage of curse word, the papers had been signed and my fate was sealed.

Arizona cowboys affectionately call cribbers “stump suckers.” Now, doesn’t that have a charming adult store ring to it?

I was soon the snickering stock of my little town, as it seems Cooncan was a veritable legend, having been sold from person to person, never staying long at any one ranch. No wonder he loaded so well in the trailer, the bum was used to traveling.

It is unclear whether it was embarrassment, rage, determination, stupidity, or merely just the challenge that motivated me, but I did not give up on ol’ Cooncan right then and there as I should have.

I was hell-bent on rectifying this situation, and so, the stage was set for some eye-opening and jaw-dropping experiences.

Why not give it a shot, after all, Cooncan was drop-dead gorgeous. From every angle, this boy had it going on. He was perfect. Perfect, all right, a perfect nightmare!

Monica, my best friend at that time, shared with me all the thrills and the trials we had encountered with the horses in our lives. We loved to get together and ride. She was very impressed the first time she saw Cooncan. We decided to saddle up and explore the high country as we so often did.

I thought this would be a fine time to test Cooncan with another horse, and to relieve the stress I was feeling. So, off we rode into the northern Arizona splendor.

It was a beautiful day and the wildflowers were in bloom across what we called the “loping field.” Because there were no gopher holes or rocks, this was a great place to let our horses gallop.

We clucked, leaned forward and eased our horses into a nice rocking horse lope that we would build to a good run. It was at that moment, that I realized the bit I chosen to use on Cooncan would not suffice.

I remember seeing Monica on her bewildered palomino, left in a cloud of dust, the distance between us ever increasing as Cooncan, his lovely, shapely ears pinned back in perverse glee, thunder like Secretariat across the field.

I shortened my left rein and began to slowly turn him, the object being to make the circle smaller and smaller until he stopped. It didn’t work. He shook his head and began to do ballet maneuvers, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I saw the Bolshoi ballet as a child.

In retrospect, it was hilarious, but at the time, it was all I could do to sit the caprioles and side to side leaps done at a full, lathered gallop.

Like a crazed kangaroo, he boinged-boinged his way across the field until he came to a huge clustered of rocks far too high for him to climb. There, he slid the perfect reining horse slide, stopping cold and planting my face in the poll of his neck.

Twenty minutes later, Monica appeared her face ashen and full of concern. She suggested I walk Cooncan behind her back to the barn. That seemed a safe and reasonable suggestion. I took a deep breath and we started off slowly. We hadn’t gone more than 20 paces, when Cooncan laid back his ears and took a mighty bite out of Monica’s well-mannered horse’s butt. Monica’s horse squealed and let out a buck that sent her airborne.

I leapt from my saddle to assist her. She was shaken, but intact, so we remounted and decided to take the high trail home. It was narrow and up a side hill and required a horse and rider to concentrate to navigate it safely. It was a shorter way home and seemed a sound decision. Surely, Cooncan’s mind would be on staying upright, so off we went to the hills.

I led the way, and the next half hour went well. We were riding alongside a sharp cliff on a narrow trail that was impossible to turn around on. The bank below was a sloping hill of landslide gravel, so the only choice was to go straight ahead.

That is when Cooncan decided to balk and turn around. I urged him forward to no avail. He began to rear, so to keep him from going over backwards; I relaxed, leaned forward and loosened the reins.

^top^

He was determined to turn around, and as my life flashed before me, he gathered himself into a hump-backed position. At that point, I bailed out, hitting the dirt as Cooncan fell off the trail and slid backwards, then rolled haphazardly down the slope until he crashed into the pine trees at the bottom of the hill.

He got up, the saddle beneath him, the bridle completely off, the reins around his neck and looked back at me as though I’d had something to do with this disaster. Then, snorting loudly, he began bucking and taking his frustration out on the trees with strikes and kicks.

Monica and I stared down in horror, absolutely immobilized.

Cooncan stopped for a moment, then bolted through the underbrush at a dead run until he vanished from our sight.

We rode double back to the barn, where we found Cooncan standing buck-naked next to his paddock. To this day, I have no idea what became of my tack, lost forever in the wilds of the high desert.

I looked Monica dead in the eye and said, “I’m going to kill him. No, really, I AM going to kill him!”

It went downhill from there. Cribbing collars, hot wire on the fence, nothing stopped his horrid stump-sucking habit. What was worse, once he settled into my barn, his entire disposition shifted. He developed a less than charming habit of pinning his ears and snarling at me, nose wrinkled and teeth bared, during saddling.

He soon began rearing and kicking under the saddle, which ultimately led to him bucking, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since the last National Finals Rodeo.

After hitting the ground enough times to need a chiropractor for the rest of my days, a rodeo man named Lucky (I know, but that really was his name.), who was a dear friend of mine, suggested I sell this now rank bucking horse to the rodeo. I was told that the way he bucked, he would do very well in that venue.

I was beyond fed up with the seething glares I received from Cooncan when I tried working with him, so the decision to sell came easily.

Lucky made a few calls and soon I had some money in my pocket and was rid of the wicked, “stump-sucking” roping horse, that was afraid of ropes and cattle, wouldn’t cross water, kicked at me, charged me, tore down his stall and cribbed the night away until he was lightheaded and stumbled like a drunkard.

There was a lot of build up about Cooncan’s sun fishing ability — that is bucking so violently that he would go belly up in the air. So, all the cowboys were eager to watch this horse in action at the local rodeo, where he would make his debut.

The cowboy who drew Cooncan was an accomplished bronc rider, and on that hot July day, we all gathered in heated anticipation. The hushed crowd stood motionless as the young rodeo star mounted the wicked Cooncan in the chute, where he squealed and reared, kicked and struck, teeth flashing, and eyes red. Our pulses raced.

The cowboy pulled his hat down tight, put his spurs over the point of the horse’s shoulders, raised his hand, held his breath and nodded.

In a blinding moment, the chute crashed opened, the flank strap was pulled tight, and…

Silence. Total silence. The wind could be heard rustling the hot dog wrappers as they blew beneath the grandstand.

The cowboy, still frozen in position, opened one eye.

Cooncan stood calmly in the chute, and then, just as calmly, walked out into the arena. He WALKED out into the arena.

At first, the crowd remained silent. All I wanted to do was to disappear beneath the bleachers and vanish into oblivion. But, all I could do was stare in horror, as laughter started to well up around me.

In the arena, Cooncan cleared his nostrils and stood, awaiting a command from the cowboy with his rosined glove wedged tightly into the riggin’.

Making the very best of the situation, the young cowboy rode Cooncan around the arena, first at a jog, then an easy lope. I think he even tipped his hat to the judges as he loped around the arena for the third time. I couldn’t say for sure, as all that was left of my presence that afternoon was the cloud of red dust my pick up left as I sped out towards the highway.

I learned a lot about hoss tradin’ in my younger days, but something about Cooncan always stayed with me above the rest.

War of Wits Publishing, Ltd. welcomes our April guest author, Cheyenne Booker. Cheyenne is an avid horsewoman and a talented artist. Self-taught, she took to heart her Step-Grandfather’s, a famous artist in his own right, words, “Never go to art school, they’ll take away your gift and mold it into something else.”

Cheyenne was born and raised in Sedona, AZ on a horse and cattle ranch. Her talent for sculpting and drawing became evident at the age of two, when she began molding animal figures from clay.

Encouraged by her family, her creativity blossomed. Inspired from within, Cheyenne’s creations are magical. She works in oil, acrylic watercolor, brush and ink, mixed media as well as pencil, colored pencil and uses airbrush accents. She also makes furniture in steel or stone or whatever the client chooses. And her jewelry is stunning.

“I love to co-create with clients,” Cheyenne says. “This is probably the most gratifying work of all because they have an interactive roll in the art. The smiles and hugs are well worth the time and effort.”

Every piece of Cheyenne’s art is one-of-a-kind and never to be repeated.

“It is what and who I am,” she says, “and I am grateful to have an opportunity to share it.”

We thank Cheyenne for submitting her wonderful story Cooncan. We hope you enjoyed reading it and will take a moment to let Cheyenne know what your thoughts are of her first efforts as a published author. We look forward to publishing more of Cheyenne fine work, both her writing and her art.

“Please could I just sit here for a little while,” he said. “I am too tired, weak and hungry to go any further. I forget the last time I had a really good sleep, or, come to that, a good meal. I am neither lost, nor looking for a job. I am just a dog in transit, with sore paws. My name is Roger.”

“Of course you may rest here, Roger,” I replied. “We are used to people just dropping in. Even that duck you can hear quacking on my pond is in transit. May I ask how you come to be in this state?”

The stranger slowly lowered himself into a resting position before telling me his story.

He was from a good home in a big town. He had been well looked after, given plenty of food and a nice place to sleep. His human family had been kind and considerate. He had no complaints against them at all. The two younger humans would often take him for a walk. Sometimes they went to a park for a romp or a game.

One day, they had been playing the game the humans call ‘hide and seek.’ Roger had been hiding when he was given a nice sniffing tidbit by a human he had never seen before. Almost straight away he had felt dizzy and unable to stand. He had fallen over. The next thing that he could remember was waking up in a strange place.

It was small and dark, with a hard concrete floor. The only light was from a small opening set high in the wooden door. The door formed one wall of the kennel, and was just large enough to fit a human.

After a while the door opened and a human came in carrying a dish of water and some food.

“I had a drink, and felt a lot better for it,” Roger said. “When I looked out through the open door I could see I was in one of many small wire enclosures. A young dog in the one next to me was whimpering. I asked what was going on.”

“We have been dog-napped,” he said. “I was bought here yesterday when the shadows were getting short. You arrived later, the shadows were getting longer again by then. There were a lot of us here. The others were telling me of their experiences before they were all loaded into a white van and taken away. Now there’s only the two of us left here.”

I could hardly imagine such a dreadful thing. “It shouldn’t happen to a dog!” I said with deep feeling.

“The next morning the man came again with more food and water,” Roger continued. “When he left I saw that he had not properly closed the gate. Making sure that no humans could see me, I scratched it open and ran as fast as I could, turning one corner and then another, until I was out of breath and had to stop. Then I sat down and thought things over. I don’t know how, but I knew for certain which way I had to go, and I started walking.

“That was several days ago,” he said. “That is how I came to be here – foot sore, hungry and dog tired, but at least I feel much closer to home. I must be more than halfway there by now! It is most kind of you Floyd to let me rest. But I must try to continue on my way home!”

I felt sorry for the poor Roger, and told him so. “You are welcome to wait here until my humans come back. They will know what to do, all you have to do is to wear your tired, hurt and hungry look. That should not be difficult after all you have been through. Leave the rest to me.”

When he arrived, I let the Boss know that there was something wrong. I led him to Roger, who managed to stand to greet him.

“You poor old chap!” said the Boss. “Right! First things first! Food and water, by the look of it. Then first aid, comfort and questions!”

Roger was too weak to walk a step further. The Boss picked him up and carried him inside.

So, Roger got fed, had some ointment gently rubbed onto his sore pads, was settled down on some blankets, and fell asleep. By the next morning, he was looking more like a dog and less like a bag of bones.

The Boss gave us both a good breakfast, and then had a look at Roger’s collar.

“I don’t see a name here, but there is something much better,” he said. “I think this is your phone number. Your problems are solved, as long as you are not running away from a bad home, and I can soon find out about that!”

He went and talked to the magic bone on his desk. All was well, he reported back to us. Roger was indeed missing. His family had been frantically looking for him.

Just before dark they arrived, two adults and two young humans. When they and Roger saw each other happiness was the order of the day. Talk about ‘wag your tail off!’. There was barking and jumping and face licking and cuddles and treats and bikkies galore! There was no doubt that dog and humans belonged together.

After Roger and his family had gone, the Boss gave me a thoughtful look. “I think we should put your telephone number on your collar in case you ever go astray,” he said.

I quite agreed.

Wags and Woof from your furry friend,

Floyd the Dog

We hope you enjoyed Floyd’s story. Floyd is a dear friend, who lives in Portugal. He is the author of Puppy Dog Tales and Floyd Family and Friends. Collared is a excerpt from his soon to be released Wagging Tales.

You can learn more about Floyd and his exploits at www.floydthedog.com. There, you can join his fan club, and as part of your membership receive a free Floyd the Dog story each month.

Then my life changed. I do not know why, but one day I was loved and the next was out in the cold with only my fur to keep me warm. I had no food and no bed. I walked round the streets for days. At night I slept, curled in a ball, anywhere I could find a little warmth or shelter. I lost weight, and got so skinny that my collar came off. Some people were nice to me, but a lot of them were just not interested, or even got cross when I asked for help. I remember a small child who gave me some of her lunch. I was so hungry that I snatched at it and the little child ran away crying. Another time a man tried to kick me. That time Iran away and I hid under a bush. I did not dare to move for a long time.

When I did venture out it was because a nice dog had come to say hello. Like me, she had no home and no collar. We stayed together for a long time. We went to the beach and splashed in the water. She showed me how to find food in the bins. We were always being chased by someone. It was not our fault that the bins made a noise, and some of the rubbish fell out. We were hungry, but nobody cared about that. They were upset because of the mess that we could not help making.

One night, we had found a shop doorway to shelter in. We settled down together, and my friend told me about a human called Father Christmas.

“If you are always good, he will do his best to get you what you really want,” she said. “The trouble is he is very difficult to find. He only comes once a year, on Christmas Day.”

Then we drifted off to sleep, cuddling up to each other to keep warm.

I was woken by the sound of my friend barking. She was being dragged off by a man who put her into a van. Then the man was coming back. I think he wanted to get me as well. I ran off as fast as I could, and did not stop until I could run no more. She had told me about the dog catcher. She had seen at lot of dogs caught and put into his van, never to be seen again. I was sad when I thought that she had now been caught herself. I hoped that she would be alright, but feared she might not be.

I hid under some bushes for the rest of the night. When I woke up, I carefully made my way back into the town. My stomach was hurting from hunger, and, whatever the risk of getting caught, I just had to find some bins and some food.

Life was like this for a long time. Living from paw to mouth, eating whatever there was, whenever and wherever I could find it, keeping an eye open all the time for any sign of the dog catcher. Finding places where I could sleep safely without being seen. That was what a dog’s life was like!

One day, I was walking through the town and I saw my friend. It was a great surprise. She was wearing a collar, and was with a young human. It made me very happy to see her again. I went over to talk to her. She quickly told me that when the dog catcher had taken her away he had checked to see if she had been chipped. She was. He had phoned her family, and they had come to take her home. It had been the answer to her prayers to Father Christmas, when she had asked him for her family to find her.

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I stayed by her side for a while, but all too soon she had to go. Just as she was leaving, she told me to find Father Christmas and tell him what I really wanted.

Soon after that, the town seemed busier than usual. As I dodged through the legs of the people shopping, I could hear them saying that it was Christmas Eve. I started to search for Father Christmas. I was really desperate to find him. I ran all through the town looking, looking, looking. Along the streets, and even in the shops, until they chased me out.

There I heard the sound of children singing. That was unusual. I wondered what was going on. I found them in the big space in front of a tall building. The children were
gathered around a tree that had lots of little lights on it. In front of the tree, there was a fat man with a big white beard. He was dressed in red. I knew, I just knew, that I had found him. I had found Father Christmas. I sat and looked at him in wonder, and I prayed to him.

I used to have a happy family life. Now, I am on my own. I had people who loved me, a nice warm bed and a full tummy. I even had a collar with my name on. I don’t know if you can hear me, Father Christmas, but, if you can, please will you look after all the dogs in the world, and give them all families they can love. I know I have been naughty, eating out of the bins and snapping at the little girl, but I was very hungry and I didn’t mean any harm. You got my friend her family back, and saved her from the dog catcher. Can you do the same for me, Father Christmas?

“Please, if you can hear me! I don’t want to live like this, hungry, cold, alone, with no one to love. I want to live with my family again. If you can not get my first family, please can you find me another, so that I have someone to love again? I am only young dog,
Father Christmas, but surely you can help me? Please help!”

I wandered away from the children. They had stopped singing, and were going to their homes. I found a box and curled up in it. All night I stayed awake. My tummy was hurting again, and I was cold.

Suddenly, there was a child standing above me. She slowly bent down and gave me her hand to sniff. She patted me on the head, and then she said something that I had been waiting to hear for such a long time.

“Come along, little dog. You should not be out alone like this on Christmas Day!”

She picked me up and took me to a car. It was nice and warm in the car, and the car seat felt soft on my tummy. When the car stopped, she took me into a house. We went into a room with a big bath. She gave me a bath and then rubbed me with a big white towel until I was nearly dry. After that, I had my first brushing in a long time.

It was wonderful. I gave her big love licks, and she didn’t mind. She put some stuff on me that smelt a bit funny, but it stopped the itching on my skin which had been bothering me for so long. I was taken to the kitchen given the best dinner that I can ever remember.

If you are ever talking to Father Christmas, please tell him that, Mr. West says “Thank you for finding him his new family.”

Note: A while back, we were introduced to a young Irish girl named Karris Doyle. Karris lives with her Mum, two horses, two ponies and an assortment of furry and winged friends on a farm in County Waterford, Ireland. Karris is an avid horsewoman, but at the tender age of 12, she is also an imaginative and creative writer. We have invited Karris to be a guest author on our website. We want to thank Karris for permitting us to publish her work and look forward to it gracing our pages on many occasions. We hope you enjoyed this wonderful Christmas tale from the Emerald Isle. And we want to wish all our visitors a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.