Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page B

bowlegged, wheezing like I had never heard him before, and growling at any sudden movement. Uh-oh, I thought to myself. Frightening the occasional neighbor was one thing, but growling at kids on school property—Bubba was looking at some serious penalties, possibly even a dangerous-dog action complaint, which was a rare occurrence, but one with dire consequences if he was found guilty.
    “Bubba,” I called to him, and he managed to twist his pudgy body around to see who knew his name. He looked at me, wheezed some more and growled loudly. I reached into the box of biscuits and threw one over to him. He limped over to it slowly, sniffed it, sneezed and sat down glaring at me. So much for Plan A. I was going to have to use the snare pole on him and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
    Suddenly from behind me, I heard, “Hey, ugly dog. Try this.” A tall teenage boy put his hand into a Baggie and threw a Froot Loop at Bubba. Bubba stared at the cereal, then up at the boy. He snuffled around it, picked it up and swallowed it. I turned to the tall boy leaning against the wall. “Can I borrow those?”
    “Sure.” He handed me the Baggie, and I threw a Froot Loop toward Bubba. He waddled over to suck it up off the floor. I kept dropping them as I backed toward the open doors of the gym. Bubba was in bad shape; his bowed legs seemed to have a hard time holding up his rotund body. Every step seemed to cause him pain, and the wheezing was getting worse. I wanted to pick him up, but as I started to approach, he growled and backed up. So I continued to drop one Froot Loop at a time, inching my way toward the patrol car. Finally, Bubba was at the car. He was wheezing so much I worried he would have a heart attack. I decided to just get him home and worry about the report later: Bubba was fading fast.
    I threw what was left of the Froot Loops into the backseat of the car. Bubba waddled over and stuck his two front paws on the floor to finish them up. I swallowed hard and quickly pushed Bubba’s rear end into the backseat. He grumbled and growled, but was mostly concerned with chewing the last bit of cereal. I couldn’t believe it—I had touched Bubba and survived!
    By the time I pulled up in front of Bubba’s house, Tim’s truck was parked haphazardly in front. Tim ran out of the house, letting the door slam behind him. “Is Bubba okay? I called the school, but you had already left. I’ll pay the fine, whatever it is. Give me a couple of ’em. How did he get out of the house? I can’t believe he made it all the way to the high school. He’s so sick. How’d you get him in the car anyway?” Tim spoke more in that minute than I had ever heard him speak in the several years I had known him.
    Before I could answer, Tim walked over to the patrol car and opened the door. Bubba was snoring loudly, sound asleep on his back covered in Froot Loop crumbs and looking very un-Bubba-like. Tim put his arms around the old dog and with a lot of effort pulled him out of the car, holding him as you would an infant. Bubba never even woke up, just grumbled a bit in his sleep.
    “I, um, used Froot Loops. He followed a trail of them into the car,” I said.
    Tim lifted his eyes from the sleeping dog to look at me. “Froot Loops? I didn’t know he liked Froot Loops.”
    The lines in Tim’s pale face seemed deeper in the harsh sunlight. He looked tired; more than that, he looked worried. “I can’t believe he got out. I had him locked in the house with the air conditioner on.” Tim’s voice dropped, “The vet says he has cancer. They told me to take him home from the animal hospital for the weekend, you know, to say good-bye.”
    I looked at Tim holding his old, fat, gray bulldog. Suddenly, I understood what I hadn’t before. All those years that had etched the premature lines on Tim’s sad face—Bubba had been there to share them. They had each other, and for them, that had been enough.
    “I’m so sorry, Tim,” I said and turned to