'Chicken Soup for the Soul' Debuts Two New Books for Dog and Cat Lovers

The popular "Chicken Soup for the Soul" book series has unleashed two new titles just for cat and dog lovers. Entitled "Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog" and "Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat," each of the books features 101 heartwarming and true tales of love, loyalty and friendship. (Two such stories are excerpted on the Read More page.)

"We learn a lot of lessons from our pets," the books' publisher, Amy Newmark, tells Paw Nation. "If you've had a bad day, having a loving animal waiting for you makes you view life in a simpler way." From a dog who helped a woman recover from alcoholism to a cat who won over a staunchly anti-feline fellow, the stories will make you smile, sometimes cry, but always appreciate the furry friend in your life.

"It was so hard to pick just 101 stories because there were so many wonderful submissions," says Newmark. (The publisher invites the public -- both professional and non-professional writers -- to submit their true tales, and pays $200 for each story selected.)

Newmark asked longtime animal rescue advocate and pet lifestyle expert Wendy Diamond to write the foreword for each book. "Our animals give us unconditional love and are so committed to us," Diamond tells Paw Nation. "The stories are inspiring and help us appreciate what we have in life."

Read on for two stories excerpted from "Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog" and "Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat."


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"For the Love of Ruby," by Stacy Murphy, excerpted from "Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog: 101 Stories about Life, Love, and Lessons."

Forty-five days of rehab, months of daily A.A. meetings, professional counseling and innumerable attempts at "finding God" should have made it easier, but instead each day of sobriety became a tougher battle to fight. I had been a daily drinker. Now, facing the world without some artificial form of confidence was agonizing. Fear paralyzed me. Despite the support of counselors and fellow A.A.'ers, it seemed all hope was gone. I resigned myself to the fact that I was a lost soul bound to go through life angry, alone and afraid.

The last place I expected to find salvation was in the companionship of an unwanted dog.

I hadn't expected life to turn out this way. The plan was to graduate from college, start a career, get married and settle down in a house complete with a white picket fence, and kids and dogs running around. That was the plan anyway.
My addiction had other ideas. As with any unhealthy relationship, alcohol had no intention of sharing my time, my money or my attention with anything or anyone. Within two years after graduating college, my drinking had spun out of control and I found myself bouncing from state to state. In early 1990, after being rushed to an ER with a near fatal case of alcohol poisoning, I was forced into treatment.

The advice of well-paid counselors and well-meaning friends could not break through the loneliness and frustration that continued to threaten my sobriety on a daily basis. After five months, the only progress I could claim was that I hadn't been fired or committed a homicide and I hadn't had a drink. The likelihood that I could go much longer without one of the three happening was seriously in question.

"You need to get a higher power," they would say. "You need to believe in something greater than yourself."

As far as I was concerned, God had long since left me behind. I felt truly alone.

Then a co-worker came to work one day chattering about her new litter of Labrador Retriever pups. Week after week, she gave updates on the litter. They were registered Labs with strong blood lines and all had high hopes for being adopted into homes where they would be given first-class treatment as AKC champions.

All except for one.

It soon became obvious that the smallest of the litter would not find a home. The "runt" was bound for the pound.
"I can't afford to raise a dog that won't provide income someday," was her reason for disposing of the flawed pup. My heart broke. I knew the cold isolation of being shunned because you fell short of some impossible standard. I had to see this little outcast for myself.

As soon as I walked into the yard, I saw the shy little "runt" sitting alone in the corner, obviously frightened by the other dogs that were bounding about excitedly. She looked awkward and unsure, innocent and afraid. In an instant, I knew we belonged together.

That evening, I scanned the parking lot of my apartment for any sign of management. A dog could get me evicted, and with my financial situation I didn't have many options. When the coast was clear, I bolted up to my third-story apartment with Ruby tucked inside my shirt. Getting the bed, an array of puppy toys and a forty-pound bag of dog food up proved a far greater challenge.

Protecting her became my sole focus. I trained her, spayed her, fed and clothed her (a prospect she learned to hate). Within weeks, she grew to a point that she was no longer easy to conceal. Walks became covert operations as we played a daily game of "dodge the manager."

I was more in love with that dog than I ever had been with another human. This fact became terrifyingly obvious to me one day as I was sneaking her home after one of our clandestine outings. I dug frantically for my key. A cold space opened in the pit of my stomach as I realized I had locked myself out of my apartment. How would I explain her to the manager? I didn't think "seeing-eye dog" would fly.

If Ruby couldn't live in the apartment with me, we would live in my car together. I would not abandon her -- not at any cost. I knew then she had changed me. I finally found something that mattered to me more than myself. I had found a Higher Power.

The next day I called a real estate agent and a bank -- a prospect that six months earlier I would have never considered. Within a year, I had realized a dream -- I finally had a home of my own. With Ruby by my side, taking those first steps towards a fulfilling life was no longer such a daunting prospect.

Somewhere along the way, she taught me to love myself. To Ruby, I was always beautiful and fun, always smart and strong. Her love was unwavering even when I didn't feel deserving of it. When bouts of deep depression would drag on endlessly, she waited steadfastly by my side. When I desperately wanted to go to sleep and never wake up, her big brown eyes pleaded with me not to let go.

In my darkest of days, I hung on for no other reason than for the love of Ruby. In just two years' time, I had gone from an angry, depressed recluse to a socially well-adjusted member of my community. Ruby gave me courage to live again. She gave me a reason to take care of myself and to tackle problems that once overwhelmed me. She took the edge off my fear and gave me a safe, comfortable place to start my recovery.

I have since moved back to my home state of Texas and put to rest the ghosts that had me on the run for so long. I have a career, a wonderful husband, a beautiful home and, of course, a yard full of dogs. With the help of a little black pup that was written off as a "runt," I now have the full and happy life that eluded me for so long. And nineteen years later, I am grateful to say I have not taken a drink.

In the early days and months of my sobriety, I was too self-centered and too cynical to believe in most things I could see. I wasn't about to turn my will and my life over to the power of something I couldn't see. God understood that the best way to reach out to me was in a form I could love and understand -- a helpless and unwanted dog.

It has been nine years since Ruby peacefully passed away. I feared that without her there for support, my world would collapse around me. That didn't happen. The life lessons she taught me carried me through. And to this day, her loving spirit still lives in my heart.

-- Stacy Murphy

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"When a Cat Decides He's Moving In," by Rebecca Hill, excerpted from "Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat: 101 Stories about Life, Love, and Lessons."

A big, beautiful, black Persian cat named Commander taught me that not even the most adamant-dog-loving-cat-hating human being in the world can resist the charms of a cat once the cat decides he's moving in.

Commander was my parents' cat but I knew him first. Originally, Commander was my college roommate's cat. My roommate was supposed to be selling Commander because he was "a show cat." When potential buyers saw the magnificence of Commander's appearance and his impressive bloodline, they thought he would be a blue ribbon champion. But, unlike his brothers and sisters, Commander would not tolerate the show cat lifestyle. He would not sit serenely in his crate nor would he tolerate his eyes, teeth, ears and body being examined by a judge.

Because of his prideful and uncooperative behavior, no one would buy Commander. My roommate grew frustrated with Commander and began to neglect him. Commander was often kept in the bathroom (which my roommate pointed out was much bigger than the crates his brothers and sisters lived in) but the bathroom was not big enough for Commander's spirit. Commander ripped up and ate some of the bathroom tile and out of boredom played with a razor blade leaving little bloody paw prints all over the bathroom.

My roommate was unhappy, Commander was unhappy, and I was unhappy. In desperation I called my parents to see if they would like to adopt Commander. My mom had always loved cats but my dad disliked cats intensely. (Apparently, when he was young he had known some feral cats who bit and scratched him and that had made a bad impression on him.) As predicted my dad said, "No way. No cats." So, being the ever-obedient daughter that I am, I brought Commander home for Christmas break. Fortunately for me, my dad was out of town at a math conference. By the time he returned, both my mom and Commander had decided that Commander was going to stay.

My mom broke it to my dad by saying that Commander was going to live at their house for a "trial period" while we looked for a buyer. My dad looked at Commander with great apprehension and was very leery when I sat Commander on his lap. As the weeks, then months, went by there was absolutely no effort to sell Commander and it became clear to my dad that Commander was there to stay. Commander started sitting by my dad as he read the newspaper and slowly my dad began to pet Commander -- just a little bit.

By the time I came home that summer I was surprised to see my dad carrying Commander around the house and holding him up to each of the windows so "kitty" could be on "bug patrol." Over the years, my parents' love for Commander grew to the point that they could not imagine life without him.

Once my brother and I finished college and there was no more tuition to pay, my parents built their dream house and they named the floor plan The Commander! They worked with the architect to design every nook and cranny of the house so that it was perfectly suited for both of them and for Commander. For my mom, they designed a beautiful living room and parlor. For my dad, they created a fantastic office and beautiful places for my dad to display his African art collection. For Commander, they designed windows that went to the floor so he could "see all of the bugs and birds" and my dad even took the time to measure Commander with a ruler so that the window ledges would be made wide enough for him to easily lie on them with comfort.

Commander died at the age of eighteen. That was four years ago. My mom still talks about Commander often and misses him tremendously... and so does my dad, which proves that not even the most adamant-dog-loving-cat-hating human being in the world can resist the charms of a cat once the cat decides he's moving in... to your heart.

-- Rebecca Hill

Tags: chicken soup for the soul, ChickenSoupForTheSoul, Wendy Diamond, WendyDiamond, what i learned from the cat, what i learned from the dog, WhatILearnedFromTheCat, WhatILearnedFromTheDog