Ruthie Spokes was a lover of golden retrievers. She was captivated by their silky, golden coats, and their sweet, lovable nature. She often begged her parents to get her a golden retriever, and by the time Ruthie was eleven, her parents knew Ruthie would settle for no other dog. She would have never guessed that one dark, rainy night, before her birthday, her dream was almost about to come true… Ruthie threw the covers away from her. What was that noise? It sounded like it was coming from… the garage. Trying not to awaken her sleeping seven-year-old sister, Julie, she crept down the bunkbed ladder and opened the door. Peering around quickly, she tiptoed down the stairs and to the door that led to the garage. Voices drifted to her ears. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have bought the Irish setter,” she heard her father say “You know Ruthie will be upset he’s not a golden.” “But all the golden retrievers we looked at were filthy and sick,” her mother reasoned. Ruthie gasped. “What was that?” Mom said. Before Ruthie could run away, the door swung open. “Ruthie!” her father said in a surprised voice. Ruthie looked at her feet. “Well, come in,” he sighed. “Happy birthday.” Ruthie walked in to see the puppy her parents were talking about. He ran to Ruthie, barking ecstatically. “He’s not a golden,” Ruthie said to herself. To her parents she said, “Th-thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad.” He may be lucky, Ruthie thought, but I’m not “You’re welcome,” they replied. Ruthie’s fifteen-year-old brother, Sam, opened the door, holding Julie on his hip. “What’s all the commotion?” he yawned. “Julie was scared out of her wits.” “A puppy!” Julie cried, forgetting all sleepiness. “What are you gonna call him, Ruthie?” “Shamrock,” Ruthie said sadly, though no one noticed. “Ireland’s Lucky Shamrock.” “Nice name,” Sam approved. He may be lucky, Ruthie thought, but I’m not. * * * As Ruthie climbed the stairs to her room Shamrock followed behind her, pouncing and growling at her heels. When they reached the bedroom Ruthie shared with her sister, Shamrock crawled into his blue-polka-dot doggy bed, and promptly began chewing on a stuffed toy. Her parents had helped her set up Shamrock’s things in Ruthie’s room. Ruthie climbed up the bunkbed ladder and lay down. Ruthie glanced over at Shamrock. The doggy bed was three sizes too big for him, and the carrier that contained newspaper for bathroom breaks was gargantuan to the little puppy But Shamrock didn’t seem to mind. He contentedly chewed the stuffed animal’s leg slowly. Ruthie reached under the covers of her bed and pulled out a book hidden there. It was entitled, Owner’s Guide to Golden Retrievers. The spine was broken and a few pages torn from constant use. Each picture of a dog was marked with a different name. Ruthie smiled as she remembered how she used to play “dogs.” She would carefully set out food and water, patiently groom the “dogs,” and take each individual for a long walk down the sidewalk. Now Ruthie turned to the page that had a picture showing a smiling girl and a happy golden retriever puppy. Under the picture it said: Best Friends. “What are you reading?” a voice asked. Ruthie jumped, and seeing that it was her mother, hastily shut the book and sat on it. “Oh, n-nothing, Mom,” Ruthie stammered. “I was just reading about what to do when you first get a puppy.” Mom stared at Ruthie’s pale face for a moment. Then she said, “I know you’re disappointed. You were hoping for a golden retriever, weren’t you?” Ruthie nodded. “I know you always wanted a golden, but all the golden retriever puppies we looked at were overpriced and unhealthy. We didn’t want to spend money on veterinary bills, so we picked a healthy, active Irish setter puppy. He’s not a golden retriever, but who knows?” She smiled. “This setter pup may turn out to be a golden dog, too.” She bent over and kissed Ruthie. “Now you get some sleep. Don’t keep Julie awake.” Ruthie smiled a crooked smile. “Thanks, Mom,” Ruthie grinned. * * * Ruthie awoke with a start for the second time that night. She heard a weird whining sound. Then she remembered: Shamrock. She peered over the edge of her bed. She saw Shamrock pacing the ground, crying. Ruthie dropped lightly from the ladder. “What is it, boy?” Ruthie whispered. Shamrock stared at her with a sad, hollow stare. Ruthie thought for a moment, and then walked to the bathroom, Shamrock right behind her. Ruthie found a hot water bottle and filled it with hot water. She then wrapped it in a towel, and placed it in Shamrock’s bed. She carefully placed Shamrock in the bed. Shamrock snuggled close to the water bottle. He stopped crying. Ruthie turned to leave, but as she stepped away Shamrock cried out and leaped toward her. Sighing, Ruthie dragged her pillow and blanket by Shamrock’s bed, and lay down. Shamrock jumped into his bed, satisfied. Shamrock licked Ruthie’s face, then fell asleep. * * * The next morning Ruthie was licked awake enthusiastically by Shamrock. “OK, OK, I’m awake,” groaned Ruthie, sitting up. “I’m going to get your breakfast.” Ruthie poured the dog kibble into Shamrock’s blue bowl. She then filled the other bowl with fresh water from the bathroom. She placed both bowls far away from the carrier, which was going to be used as Shamrock’s bathroom. As soon as Ruthie set the bowls down, Shamrock shot forward and started devouring the kibble. Ruthie grabbed his collar and pulled him back. “No,” she said firmly. She knew if she let Shamrock eat quickly, he could get a tummyache. After Shamrock finished chewing the first mouthful, Ruthie let go of his collar and Shamrock darted forward again. Ruthie pulled him back and said very firmly, “Shamrock, that’s no.” Shamrock ate slowly after that. As Ruthie joined the table with her mom and siblings, Shamrock
Animals
Summer of the Sea Turtles
The sun is setting over the ocean as I walk out onto the porch. Reflecting the last rays of the sun, the ocean sparkles a bright, brilliant orange. I leave my beach house and walk out onto the sand, which feels cool and slightly damp beneath my bare feet. I glance up at the beautiful soft sky, reminiscent of pink lemonade, which seems to stretch out in every direction. A faint breeze sweeps in off the ocean. It ruffles my hair and tickles my face. It’s the perfect night for a walk. As I stroll down the beach, I see thousands of footprints in the sand, left over from midday beachgoers. I have never understood why everyone flocks to the beach during the daytime, when the sky is so bright that it hurts your eyes and the hot sand burns the bottoms of your feet… when the beach is crowded, noisy and stuffy I have always found the beach to be unfriendly and unwelcoming during the day. But in the evening, the beach is soothing and peaceful. In the evening, the beach is mine. I share it only with the pelicans and seagulls, who play tag on the gentle currents of evening wind. The water remains warm even though the sun has almost set and the air is cooler. I walk close to the water’s edge, letting the frothy waves wash over my feet. I am so lost in my thoughts, that at first I do not see the large brown mass lumbering out of the water just ahead. When I do glance up and see it, I quickly jump back in surprise. It takes a moment for me to realize that it is a turtle, a sea turtle, crawling clumsily out of water and onto land. I wonder why it would leave the water, where it moves so gracefully, for dry land where it must struggle to take every step. It drags itself determinedly across the beach, intent on some important mission all its own. I think of whales and how they sometimes beach themselves, and wonder if this turtle has a similar task in mind. I sit down on the sand to watch. When I do glance up and see it, I quickly jump back in surprise Once the turtle has chosen just the right spot, it turns around 36o degrees to make an impression in the sand. Then it begins to dig a small hole with its back feet, sending sand flying everywhere. Once it is done it seems to settle down into the hole and lies still. It happens so effortlessly that I miss the arrival of the first few eggs. By the time I realize that this turtle is nesting, there is already a small pile of ping-pong-sized, leathery white eggs on the sand. The turtle continues to lay eggs for several hours. Without thinking, I begin to count. One, two, three… I stop at 1oo, but the turtle does not. She lays a few dozen more eggs before she is finished. When she is done she fills her nest in with sand and then, without warning, she suddenly drops to the ground. Oomph! She does this several more times. By the third time she drops, I realize that she is using her hard smooth underbelly to pack down the sand over her eggs. Once she finishes this, she flings sand all over the nest and the surrounding beach. Apparently, this is to confuse unwanted visitors about the location of her nest. Once she is satisfied, she begins her long slow crawl back to the ocean. Of course, as she crawls, she leaves a very distinctive track which will lead others directly to her nest no matter how hard she tries to hide it. I decide to help her. Looking around, I choose landmarks that will enable me to find this spot again. Then, using the old sweatshirt I have tied around my waist, I sweep her tracks from the sand. Once I am finished, I check to make sure her nest is entirely hidden. Then I walk home along the beach, my mind still full of what I have just witnessed. Even though I was up half the night and am more tired than I could ever have imagined, I get up the next morning before my father leaves for work. He and my mom are surprised to see me, as I usually sleep in until at least nine o’clock in the summer. I eat a bowl of cereal with my parents and my dad asks, “What are you going to do today, Sport?” “I’m thinking of going to the beach,” I tell him. “What?” asks my dad. “I thought you hated the beach during the day.” I tell him that I am having second thoughts about that, and ask my mother if she will pack me a lunch. She looks surprised, but agrees to do it. I have a plan. I gather two beach towels, a picnic basket, a water bottle, and my sunglasses. I put on my swimming trunks. The picnic basket is the old-fashioned kind. It is a huge wicker affair that will hold all the rest of my gear. I grab my lunch and the sunscreen my mother insists on, then head out the door, letting it slam shut behind me. I stop at the garage on my way out and look up on the shelves lining the back wall. I see an old, faded box, strewn with large cobwebs and covered by thick dust. The writing on the side of the box says “Tyler’s Toys.” I open the box. Inside are things I haven’t seen in ages… a ball, a frisbee, an old pull toy, and two ancient stuffed animals named Fluffy and Sticky who slept with me every night until I was seven. Underneath all this, I find what I am looking for… a plastic pail and shovel which were once a cheerful red, now bleached a
A Hidden Love
By the time I was thirteen, it seemed like I was too old to admit my love of animals. I’d hidden my true feelings about the subject for so long it just didn’t seem right to change them so late. When I was five, a dog had scared me badly, and for a short time I had been afraid of animals. Ever since then, my parents had been way too over-protective about keeping me away from animals, and I had gone along with the flow instead of speaking up that I wasn’t frightened anymore. Now I was too nervous to tell my parents—I figured they wouldn’t believe me and just think that I was saying it to make them feel better. But, then I met Cinnamon… It all started one day in early August. School was going to start again in a few weeks and I was over at my friend Millaina’s house. “I’m sure that the violet dress will work fine, Millie. The color brings out your blue eyes and if you wear the little flower brooch, it’ll be perfect,” I said. “Are you sure, Kirsten?” she asked me, looking at the dresses scattered across her bed. “Yes. The green one is too bright and the pink washes you out. The rest all have their own problems. You’ll look wonderful at the wedding—I promise. Can we go downstairs now?” I was getting hungry and Millie’s mom always had muffins or cookies baking. I laughed and scooped up the naughty kitty “Sure, but only for a minute, I signed up to help out at the animal shelter at 3:oo PM and it’s already 2:4o PM. You can come with if you want, but you don’t like animals—right?” Hopping up from her bed, Millaina headed towards the stairs. “I’ll come and see what it’s like, a kitten or two won’t hurt me,” I smiled, thinking how awesome it was that I could finally be by an animal without Mom or Dad standing there to make sure I wasn’t injured by “vicious” puppies and “terrifying” kittens. Maybe, just maybe, by helping Millie out at the shelter, I could slowly show my parents that I loved animals. After grabbing an oatmeal-raisin cookie, I followed Millie out the door and we jumped onto our bikes. The animal shelter was only a mile and a half down the road, so we didn’t have to rush. We didn’t talk on the way there, but I was thinking about telling my parents. I decided to keep it a secret for now and maybe have Millie come over, then have her talk about the animal shelter and… My thoughts were interrupted as Millie came to a screeching halt in front of the animal shelter. Wiping the sweat from my brow—it was 94 degrees—I took my purple helmet off and hung it on my handlebars. Millie and I both leaned our bikes against the shaded wall and walked into the shelter. On the floor in a corner was a little beagle puppy, it was frisking around like a madman. “Where to first?” I asked. “I normally feed the dogs first and then the cats. But, since you’re here, I can feed the dogs while you feed the cats. Things will get done faster,” she said, heading towards a door marked “Food and Supplies.” I followed her and looked around in the small closet. Grabbing a bag of Andersons’ Cat Food, I followed Millie back out the door. “The cat room’s that way—the door says ‘Office,’ but it’s not one. Each house of three kittens gets a scoop of food and single kittens get half a scoop. Full-grown cats are all single-caged and get a full scoop.” Millie headed left and I went right— to the cat room. The door swung open easily as I pushed it with my shoulder—there was cat food in my hands. There were about thirty felines in the room, most of them kittens. As I set the bag down on the floor, I felt something rub against my sandal. Looking down I saw a dark brown kitten with bright blue eyes staring at me. I laughed and scooped up the naughty kitty. Glancing around the room, I saw that one of the cage doors had swung open. Above the door was the name Cinnamon, along with a piece of paper that said: Cinnamon is a female tabby She is often escaping from her cage. No special care necessary —Marie I figured Marie was a volunteer and gently placed Cinnamon back into her cage. She mewed at me and I laughed. Latching the cage shut, I grabbed the food and, starting at the beginning of the row, fed all of the gorgeous animals. Cinnamon had the last cage and I took an extra minute to stroke her. Poor Cinnamon, I thought, I wonder who could have deserted you. She looked up and purred at me and I smiled down at her. During the next few weeks, I helped out at the shelter many times. Each time, I cuddled Cinnamon a bit longer and stroked her a little more tenderly I was growing to love that darling kitten. * * * Once I had Millaina tell my parents that I was working at the shelter with her, I planned on adopting Cinnamon. I was sure my parents wouldn’t care and was looking forward to the date I planned to have Millie come over for dinner—in two weeks. But then it happened, the plan was ruined and my secret was out. It was two days before the planned dinner and Millie and I were both working at the shelter. We were the only ones there and about to close up when a man wearing a big camera around his neck and holding a large pad of paper in his hand came rushing in the door. “Excuse me ladies, can I speak to Mr. McLonvul?” he asked politely Mr. McLonvul was the owner of the shelter. “Sorry,” Millie
