Chicken Soup for the Soul of America by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page A

around him was finally catching up with him. He had that look on his face I recognized from the over fifty disasters I’ve witnessed—a look that said, “I don’t think I can do this much longer.”
    It was probably the first time the man had sat down in a very long time, and he didn’t look at anyone or talk except to answer questions the veterinarians asked about his dog.
    The doctor asked, “When was the last time your dog ate?”
    The man answered, “Last night,” in a voice as blank as his face.
    Someone put some food in a bowl and placed it at Ranger’s head. The big dog was lying on the pavement and, although he sniffed at the food once or twice, it seemed he was just too exhausted to eat.
    I found a dog biscuit, squatted down near the dog, scooped up some of the gravy from the dog food in the bowl and offered it to Ranger. He lifted his head and slowly licked the liquid from the biscuit, so I dunked the biscuit in the bowl again, bringing up a little of the food with the gravy this time. Once more, he licked the food and gravy from the biscuit. I continued “spoon-feeding” Ranger while the triage workers and veterinarians looked on.
    While I was feeding Ranger, I had the thought that someone should probably ask Ranger’s handler the same question. After all, we were here to help people, too. When I finished, I turned to ask the man when he had eaten last, but before I could open my mouth, he looked directly at me and said, “Do you know how I get through this?”
    I shook my head.
    He reached his massive hand into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic baggy with two chocolate kisses, two dog biscuits and a note inside.
    I recognized it as one of the “care packages” children at the local school had made for the handlers and their dogs. What could be inside that had sustained the large and powerful man in front of me through this tremendously draining and demanding work? I knew from experience that it would take a lot more than chocolate.
    He handed it to me, his eyes bright with tears. “Read it.”
    I took out the note, and unfolded it. There, written in a child’s handwriting, were the words, “Thank you for helping to find people. I know Lassie would be so proud of you.”
    Terri Crisp
As told to Carol Kline

E-Mails from Manhattan
    O n this Earth, though far and near, without love, there’s only fear.
    Pearl S. Buck
    September 11, 2001
A Tragic Day: The Walk Uptown
    Probably more for my own sake than anything else, I wanted to try to describe this morning to you. My office is in the building of United Jewish Community and Jewish Education Service of North America, located at Fourteenth Street just a couple of subway stops before the World Trade Center. When I reached my stop at about 9:00 this morning, the first thing I heard was the announcement that there would be no connecting or continuing service: There was an emergency at the World Trade Center. Basically, get out. I walked up the subway stairs and smelled smoke but didn’t know why. By the time I got upstairs, officials at UJC were already gathering everyone in the conference room. The room was not filled, despite the hundreds of people who generally work on the floor. Many had seen the planes crash and had never come upstairs. Others were stuck on the bridges, tunnels and subways, all of which had already been shut down. They advised us that the Consulate had not closed and that UJC was also not going to evacuate. Together, we saw the flames from our windows. We recited a couple of psalms. We heard the leaders speak. We knew that many of the people in the room had family and friends working in the World Trade Center. Within five minutes, we heard of the collapse of the second building. And then we heard that the Pentagon was struck. And finally, we heard that the Consulate had closed and we should leave the building.
    But there wasn’t really anywhere to