Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (23 page)

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Well, I called the
Vancouver Province
and told the story to somebody there. The next thing I knew, a reporter and a photographer showed up at my plant in Burnaby. When I told them the airline wanted nothing to do with me, the reporter called them. He must’ve convinced them ’cause they called and offered Loretta and me a free ride there and back. I had her put in a special container with lots of ice in the cargo hold, and that’s how she flew.”

From Halifax, Nova Scotia, Wylie and Loretta travelled to the village of Lockeport, where Loretta was probably originally caught.

It was July 1—Canada Day. Wylie, Loretta and some of Wylie’s Nova Scotia friends set out to sea aboard a fishing boat. It was a pleasant, calm day. Wylie took Loretta from her container, held her close and tenderly stroked her back. Loretta’s tail curled under and straightened out several times.

“That’s the way she hugs,” Wylie explained.

Then he gently placed her below the surface and let her go. Her tail flicked, the water splashed and she was gone.

“Good-bye, Loretta,” Wylie said, a little choked up. “I’m glad you got back home.”

Manuel Erickson
Langley, British Columbia

The Great One

My husband, daughter and I made our way into the small restaurant in our Winnipeg hotel for breakfast. Only two other tables were occupied, one by a family with young children. There was a little girl and a little boy, and the boy was so excited because sitting at the table directly behind us was a face he recognized. “Mom, Mom, look!” he managed to get out. “It’s Wayne Gretzky!”

Sure enough, there at the other table was Wayne Gretzky, obviously discussing important business with some gentlemen in suits. They were speaking quietly and just finishing up breakfast. Well, this little boy could hardly contain himself. He was squirming in his seat, wanting to talk to Wayne Gretzky and get an autograph. After all, this might be his only chance! But his mother just kept whispering, “He’s in a meeting, honey. He needs his privacy. This is not the time.” The poor little boy was almost in tears. You could see he couldn’t eat. Instead, he kept indulging in the irresistible thrill of looking over his shoulder and seeing his hero—right in the same room!

Well, it was hard not to notice what was going on. Wayne excused himself from his breakfast and went over to the little boy. He knelt down, put out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Wayne Gretzky. What’s your name?”

The little boy’s face totally lit up! His jaw dropped, and his mouth hung wide open. His eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of his head. He just couldn’t believe what was happening. The whole family was thrilled. It was wonderful to watch as Wayne shook hands with the little boy and then signed his autograph on a place mat from the table.

I was so impressed. I thought,
What class. What a wonderful
gesture!
It was such a little thing, and yet it said so much. It made me realize that he sincerely meant all the things he has said about encouraging youngsters—and that Wayne Gretzky was as much a hero off the ice as he was on.

Lynn Johnston, creator,
For Better or For Worse
North Bay, Ontario

The Way Home

T
here is no such thing as one’s own good.
Goodness is mutual, is communal; is only gained
by giving and receiving.

Arnold Haultain

I’d spent the night rushing to the window every time I heard a branch fall. Now, looking out into the early morning light, the devastation was obvious. Not one tree in our rural neighbourhood in Kingston, Ontario, had been left untouched. Jagged branches lay everywhere. The Great Ice Storm of January 1998 was upon us.

The house had an eerie silence: no hum from the furnace, no buzz from the refrigerator, no morning news blasting from the TV. All the clocks were frozen at 10:49 P.M.

Alex and I were fumbling around in the basement with a shared flashlight, trying to find our camping stove. We needed coffee—some sense of our morning ritual to start the day. I heard the screen door open, then a timid knock. Doris Lee, our closest neighbour, had somehow managed to make her way through the maze of ice, wood and downed power lines, to arrive at our door. She looked anxious.

“Have you seen Harold and Prince?”

Our property backs onto a wooded area, and every morning we would watch Doris’s husband Harold with Prince, his golden Lab, ramble off down the trail. Prince trotted quietly on the lead and always brought Harold home safely. Harold had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease the previous summer. Doris had been adamant about maintaining their life together and trying to keep things as normal as possible. However, she hadn’t reckoned on an ice storm.

“I was upstairs, looking for batteries for the radio, when I heard the door close. Harold is so used to his routine, I just couldn’t stop him from taking Prince out.”

Alex rushed to pull on his coat as he asked, “How long have they been gone?” Doris hesitated. “About half an hour. I didn’t want to bother you, and Prince is usually so good about finding his way home.”

Alex looked at me. I turned to Doris and said, “You go home. I’ll be right over. I’m going to find our camping stove. I’ll bring it over, and we’ll make some coffee while Alex finds Harold. They’ll want a warm drink when they get home.”

Doris turned and headed back to her house while Alex sprinted across the yard toward the woods. I finally found the stove, and, making my way across the icy war zone, I arrived safely at Doris’s home.

She and I waited in her kitchen. I made the coffee, but Doris didn’t even notice. She stood by the sink staring out into the yard, her cup untouched. I sat at her table, reading all the carefully printed notes she had placed around the kitchen—beside the stove, the light switch, the electric kettle—to remind Harold to turn off or unplug things. There were also notes on the refrigerator door, mapping out a daily routine for Harold: walk the dog, eat breakfast, wash. Doris had done everything possible to make life easier for Harold. Now she turned from the sink and walked over to the table.

“Prince always brings him home, you know,” she said softly.

I wanted to say something to comfort her but I felt unqualified. I was just beginning to understand the burden Doris dealt with on a daily basis. Instead, we simply waited together quietly. An eternity seemed to pass before I finally saw Alex coming across our yard. He was carrying Harold’s beloved golden Lab in his arms. Harold was walking behind him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Prince was hit by a falling branch,” Alex explained. “Get some towels or blankets. He’s alive but he must be in shock. He’s been bleeding from that cut over his eye.”

We covered Prince with blankets, and Doris coaxed Harold into dry clothes while Alex told us his story. At first he had called for Prince, thinking it would be the easiest way to find the pair. He was almost ready to turn back and get more help when he heard Harold’s voice.

“Harold was sitting on the ground comforting Prince. He’d taken off his coat and put it over the dog. It was all I could do to convince Harold to put his jacket back on.”

We sat around the kitchen table, four silent people, unable to pull our thoughts away from the dog in the corner. Prince was more than just a faithful companion. He helped care for Harold. Without him, Harold would lose his independence. We anxiously watched the pile of blankets covering the injured dog, fearing the worst. Suddenly, there was a small movement.

Alex put his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “Look, Harold, he’s waking up.”

A doggie nose popped out from under the pile of blankets. We watched Prince wiggle out and come across to the table. Harold put a trembling hand on his dog’s head. Prince gazed at him with his soft brown eyes and gave a halfhearted wag of his tail. Doris whispered a private thank-you. I looked at Alex, and the ice storm and power outage were forgotten. Until that day we hadn’t appreciated how isolated Doris and Harold were, and what a struggle they had just coping day-to-day. In that moment we decided we were going to change all that. Starting then, Prince and Doris were getting two new assistants.

Susan Owen
Kingston, Ontario

The Seal

At the age of fourteen, I landed one of the most sought-after summer jobs in Vancouver—I became an attendant at the Stanley Park Children’s Zoo. Few of us are fortunate enough to experience the perfect job, but for the next five summers, I did just that.

Zoo designers from around the globe asked for tours because they had heard that our children’s zoo was one of, if not the, best there was. The children’s zoo, an integral part of one of the world’s most beautiful areas within a city, Stanley Park, was ahead of its time. Pits were used instead of cages, and zoo attendants worked hard to make each habitat different and exciting for the animal that lived there.

Orphaned members of the local native wildlife were also brought to our zoo for care. Everything from baby pigeons to owlets, fawns to porcupines were given the best possible attention.

The harbour seal pups in our care were kept in the back building, away from small fingers. Twice a day, we would bring them out to the man-made pond in the contact area and allow them to swim. The pond was at the bottom of a waterfall of fresh, cold water.

One day, as I waded in the thigh-deep, icy water with two seal pups, some people gathered to watch. The pups stayed close to me, surfacing occasionally to catch a breath and look around. I saw a boy, about ten years of age, pointing at one and calling to his mother to come and see.

As I walked around, feeling my legs turning numb, the boy yelled, “Hey! Where’s the other one?”

While one of the seals was nuzzling my leg, my eyes scoured the pond for the other, Spica. The water was clear, as well as cold, and it was soon obvious Spica wasn’t where he should be. My heart skipped a beat as I realized he had swum under a rock formation, which was there to hide the drain. There was a small, fist-sized hole on one end of the formation, and another hole, just large enough for a baby seal, on the other end. But I was quite certain that the inside area was too narrow for Spica to turn around in.

“Oh no!” yelled the boy. “The little seal is under the rocks and can’t get out. He’s going to drown!”

Everyone in the zoo came to the edge of the pond to watch the drama unfold. I was terrified and called to another attendant to take the other pup to safety. I dove under the water and felt the small hole. Sure enough, Spica was trying to get through it. I knew that the pond would take hours to drain. I also knew that seals could hold their breath for twenty minutes or longer, but I didn’t know if a week-old seal in an agitated state could.

And then, just like a white knight riding to the rescue, one of the men who worked at the main zoo arrived. Ken was a good friend to all of us and often spent his breaks at the Children’s Zoo. He ran over, assessed the situation, and whipped off his shirt and shoes. Jumping in, he dove under and tried to reach Spica through the larger of the openings. He couldn’t even touch him.

“Okay, Diane,” he said to me. “Dive under and push him back as far as you can. I’ll try to grab him from this side. Ready? Go!” he commanded.

I held my breath, found Spica’s muzzle still near the small opening and pushed as hard as I could. My head throbbed from the frigid water, and my lungs wanted to hyperventilate. Every ounce of my being screamed to get out of that freezing water. It took every thread of strength I had to stay put.

Finally, I could no longer feel Spica, and with my stomach in knots, I stood up. Precious time had gone by, and Spica had been motionless, offering no resistance when I had pushed. The little boy among the spectators was now providing a play-by-play account: “Oh, the poor thing! He is suffering so much! His little lungs are probably exploding. The poor little seal . . . he’s dead by now.”

Suddenly, after what seemed like forever, Ken burst out of the water, gasping and coughing. He was holding a very limp body. I looked at Ken, and he lowered his eyes as he shook his head. The crowd, even the little boy, was silent.

And then, Spica raised his head, and in the way of infant seals, cooed at me.

The audience let out a cheer and applauded loudly, generously patting Ken, my new hero, on the back. He handed me the pup and I snuggled the wet, slick fur, revelling in the intense relief.

I glanced around, searching for the boy. I found him, standing perfectly still and absolutely quiet, while tears ran down his face and dripped into the pond.