symbol, of what Shambala is all about: recognizing the value of all living things, even if, for any reason, they are different.”
The boy was silent and listened with interest as Tippi continued. “We got Subira from a zoo in Oregon. Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her leg in the womb, so it atrophied, causing her to lose the leg soon after she was born. With only three legs, her fate seemed hopeless. They were considering putting her to sleep at that point.”
Surprised, Cory asked, “Why?”
Tippi looked directly into Cory’s face, “Because they thought, ‘What good is a three-legged cheetah?’ They didn’t think the public would want to see a deformed cheetah. And since it was felt that she wouldn’t be able to run and act like a normal cheetah, she served no purpose.”
She went on, “That’s when we heard about Subira and offered our sanctuary, where she could live as normal a life as possible.
“It was soon after she came to us that she demonstrated her own worth—a unique gift of love and spirit. Really, we don’t know what we’d do without her. In the past few years, the gift of Subira has touched people around the world, and without words she has become our most persuasive spokesman. Though discarded because she was an imperfect animal, she created her own worth. She truly is a most cherished and priceless gift.”
Abandoning all wisecracks, Cory asked softly, “Can I touch her?”
Seeing Subira run had switched on the light in Cory’s heart and mind. It completely changed his demeanor. And his willingness to participate. At the end of the tour, the leader of the visiting group asked for a volunteer to push and hold the large rolling gate open so the van could exit the ranch. To everyone’s surprise, Cory raised his hand.
As the rest of the group looked on in amazement, the boy wheeled himself over to the large gate and, struggling to maneuver it open, pulled himself up from his chair. Gripping the high wire fence for support, he pushed it open. The expression on his face as he continued to hold the gate until the van passed through was one of great satisfaction. And determination. It was clear that Cory had received the gift of Subira.
Bettie B. Youngs, Ph.D., Ed.D.
The Dog Next Door
When I was about thirteen years old, back home in Indiana, Pennsylvania, I had a dog named Bounce. He was just a street dog of indeterminate parentage who had followed me home from school one day. Kind of Airedaleish but of an orange color, Bounce became my close companion. He’d frolic alongside me when I’d go into the woods to hunt arrowheads and snore at my feet when I’d build a model airplane. I loved that dog.
Late one summer I had been away to a Boy Scout camp at Two Lick Creek, and when I got home Bounce wasn’t there to greet me. When I asked Mother about him, she gently took me inside. “I’m so sorry, Jim, but Bounce is gone.”
“Did he run away?”
“No, son, he’s dead.”
I couldn’t believe it. “What happened?” I choked.
“He was killed.”
“How?”
Mom looked over to my father. He cleared his throat. “Well, Jim,” he said, “Bogy broke his chain, came over and killed Bounce.”
I was aghast. Bogy was the next-door neighbors’ English bulldog. Normally he was linked by a chain to a wire that stretched about 100 feet across their backyard.
I was grief-stricken and angry. That night I tossed and turned. The next morning I stepped out to look at the bulldog, hoping to see at least a gash in its speckled hide. But no, there on a heavier chain stood the barrel-chested villain. Every time I saw poor Bounce’s empty house, his forlorn blanket, his food dish, I seethed with hatred for the animal that had taken my best friend.
Finally one morning I reached into my closet and pulled out the Remington .22 rifle Dad had given me the past Christmas. I stepped out into our backyard and climbed up into the apple tree. Perched in its upper limbs, I could see the
The boy was silent and listened with interest as Tippi continued. “We got Subira from a zoo in Oregon. Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her leg in the womb, so it atrophied, causing her to lose the leg soon after she was born. With only three legs, her fate seemed hopeless. They were considering putting her to sleep at that point.”
Surprised, Cory asked, “Why?”
Tippi looked directly into Cory’s face, “Because they thought, ‘What good is a three-legged cheetah?’ They didn’t think the public would want to see a deformed cheetah. And since it was felt that she wouldn’t be able to run and act like a normal cheetah, she served no purpose.”
She went on, “That’s when we heard about Subira and offered our sanctuary, where she could live as normal a life as possible.
“It was soon after she came to us that she demonstrated her own worth—a unique gift of love and spirit. Really, we don’t know what we’d do without her. In the past few years, the gift of Subira has touched people around the world, and without words she has become our most persuasive spokesman. Though discarded because she was an imperfect animal, she created her own worth. She truly is a most cherished and priceless gift.”
Abandoning all wisecracks, Cory asked softly, “Can I touch her?”
Seeing Subira run had switched on the light in Cory’s heart and mind. It completely changed his demeanor. And his willingness to participate. At the end of the tour, the leader of the visiting group asked for a volunteer to push and hold the large rolling gate open so the van could exit the ranch. To everyone’s surprise, Cory raised his hand.
As the rest of the group looked on in amazement, the boy wheeled himself over to the large gate and, struggling to maneuver it open, pulled himself up from his chair. Gripping the high wire fence for support, he pushed it open. The expression on his face as he continued to hold the gate until the van passed through was one of great satisfaction. And determination. It was clear that Cory had received the gift of Subira.
Bettie B. Youngs, Ph.D., Ed.D.
The Dog Next Door
When I was about thirteen years old, back home in Indiana, Pennsylvania, I had a dog named Bounce. He was just a street dog of indeterminate parentage who had followed me home from school one day. Kind of Airedaleish but of an orange color, Bounce became my close companion. He’d frolic alongside me when I’d go into the woods to hunt arrowheads and snore at my feet when I’d build a model airplane. I loved that dog.
Late one summer I had been away to a Boy Scout camp at Two Lick Creek, and when I got home Bounce wasn’t there to greet me. When I asked Mother about him, she gently took me inside. “I’m so sorry, Jim, but Bounce is gone.”
“Did he run away?”
“No, son, he’s dead.”
I couldn’t believe it. “What happened?” I choked.
“He was killed.”
“How?”
Mom looked over to my father. He cleared his throat. “Well, Jim,” he said, “Bogy broke his chain, came over and killed Bounce.”
I was aghast. Bogy was the next-door neighbors’ English bulldog. Normally he was linked by a chain to a wire that stretched about 100 feet across their backyard.
I was grief-stricken and angry. That night I tossed and turned. The next morning I stepped out to look at the bulldog, hoping to see at least a gash in its speckled hide. But no, there on a heavier chain stood the barrel-chested villain. Every time I saw poor Bounce’s empty house, his forlorn blanket, his food dish, I seethed with hatred for the animal that had taken my best friend.
Finally one morning I reached into my closet and pulled out the Remington .22 rifle Dad had given me the past Christmas. I stepped out into our backyard and climbed up into the apple tree. Perched in its upper limbs, I could see the
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