From March 5, 2001, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Home Delivery):
contributed by
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I dashed out an exit at O'Hare International Airport in
Chicago and ran towards a waiting cab. I was greeted by a cab driver
with a three-day-old beard, an old baseball cap and arms the size of
tree trunks. As he tossed my bags into the trunk, he spotted my luggage
tags and said, "What kind of
doctor are you?"
"A veterinarian," I said. Instantly, his grizzled face
broke into a smile. This happens to veterinarians all the time, as
people love to talk about their pets. The doors slammed, he put the car
into gear and hit me with this opening salvo, "My wife claims I love my
toy poodle Missy more than I love her. Just once, she wants me to be as
excited to see her as I am Missy. But Doc, it ain't gonna happen. Ya
see, when I get home from a long day in the cab, dead tired, I open the
door and there are the two of them looking at me, Ma and Missy. Ma has a
scowl on her face and is ready to tear into me. Missy, on the other
hand, is shaking all over, she's that happy -- her face is grinning so
wide, she could eat a banana sideways. Now who do you think I'm going to
run to?"
I nodded my head in agreement because I understood his
point only too well. He loved his wife, but he simply wanted permission
to savor his fifteen minutes of fame. Everybody gets fifteen minutes of
fame once in his lifetime. We pet owners get our fifteen minutes every
time we come home -- or even return from the next room.
A few days after I saw the cab driver in Chicago, I
returned home. I was tired from my travels and looking forward to seeing
my family. Pulling into the driveway, I peered through the windshield,
straining to catch my first glimpse of my loved ones. My two children,
Mikkel and Lex, are very close
to good ol' dad, but I didn't see their faces pressed against the window
looking for me. Nor did my beloved wife, Teresa, come running in super
slow motion across the yard, arms open wide ready to embrace me. But I
didn't despair. I knew I was still wanted, a Hollywood heartthrob,
hometown hero to my two dogs: Scooter, a wirehaired fox terrier, and
Sirloin, a black Labrador retriever!
As soon as I exited the pickup, Sirloin and Scooter
charged to meet me. Their love-filled eyes danced with excitement, and
their tail turbochargers whipped them into a delighted frenzy of fur.
Was this affection-connection routine, or ho-hum for me? Was I cool,
calm and collected?
Heck no. I turned into a blithering idiot as I got out
of my truck and rushed to meet the hairy-princess, Scooter, and Sirloin,
the fur-king. There I stood, all the false layers stripped away, masks
removed and performances canceled. It was my true self. Extra pounds,
bad-hair day, angry people, travel strains, no matter. Scooter and
Sirloin came to the emotional rescue and allowed me to drink in the
sheer love and joy of the moment. I was drunk with contentment.
I was glad this took place in the privacy of my own
home. What happened next might have spoiled my polished professional
image. I immediately smiled, and raised my voice an octave or two,
exclaiming, "Sirloin, yuz is daaaaddy's boy, aren't ya?" And, "Scooter,
have you been a good girl today? Yeah you have, you've been a goooood
girl!!"
They responded by turning inside out with delight,
pressing themselves against my legs and talking to me. I felt as if I
could tap directly into their wellspring of positive, healing energy.
Gee, it was great to be home!
I bounded up the steps to find the rest of the family,
heart open, stress gone and spirits restored by my fifteen minutes of
fame.
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