By Donna Hruska

Writing Class – Approximately 3500 Words

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Miss Mary Pritchett leaned over the scrambling mass of dogs at her feet and picked up Amanda, a timid puppy who could never find a place at the feeding bowl.

“You mustn’t be indecisive, Amanda,” She put the little dog on the table and poured some milk from the cream pitcher into her saucer.

“You have to assert yourself.” She stroked the dog thoughtfully. “And I should learn to follow my own advice.” Determinedly, she turned to the telephone on the wall behind her, dialed and waited.

“Mr. Feeley? This is Mary Pritchett. I’m calling about my dogs.”

“Your dogs, Miss Pritchett?” a querulous voice answered.

“They’re hungry!”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” answered Mr. Feeley, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

for a number of years now.”

The board members glanced at each other and smiled.

“However,” she continued in a determined voice, “in the last few years it has been increasingly difficult for me to provide for them. After all, one or two dogs are company—even three or four—but fourteen are ridiculous. The responsibility for caring for stray animals is properly that of the village.”

“Miss Pritchett,” interrupted Mark Hatfield, the local barber, “Are you proposing that we hire a dogcatcher?”

“Yes, I am,” she answered. “except, you’d also have to provide care for the animals. I certainly shouldn’t like to see them just put away.”

“Miss Pritchett.”

She turned toward Henry Miller, who was village treasurer.

“What you are asking would involve considerable expense for a village of this size. We’d have to have some sort of shelter, food, and veterinary service as well as pay someone to catch and tend the animals. We just went through a battle to get sewers put in town. The people only approved that by a few votes. I hardly think they are in a mood to spend money on a project that isn’t going to do them any good.”

“Mr. Miller!” Miss Mary said, fixing him with a glance she had formerly reserved for unruly students. “Stray, hungry animals are an eyesore and a nuisance. I didn’t set out to collect dogs. I happened to find a wet bedraggled puppy under my porch. Then someone asked me to take another and so it went. But I cannot assume the village’s responsibilities any longer. It is time for you to act.”

Mr. Feeley glanced around at the other board members and then at Miss Mary. “I’m sorry, Miss Pritchett, but unless we have some indication that the town is interested in this project, I’m afraid there is nothing we can do.”

The meeting was adjourned leaving Miss Mary wondering what to do next. She glanced up to see Mark Hatfield coming toward her.

“Miss Pritchett, I’m sorry we couldn’t help you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hatfield. But I’m not giving up. You see, I can’t just turn them out.” Her voice softened as she gave him a rueful smile. “Besides, I’m afraid every dog in this part of the state knows where I live.”

Mark Hatfield chuckled. “Miss Pritchett, I have a feeling you’ll think of something.”

“I won’t be discouraged,” she told herself firmly as she tucked her purse under her arm and headed for home. In spite of her determination, a tear slipped down her cheek.

“For pity’s sake!” she whispered as she dashed it away with the back of her hand.

The next morning she spent on the telephone trying to stir up enthusiasm for a town animal shelter. She called everyone she could think of who had the least bit of public spirit or affinity for animals, including the ministers of all the churches in town (who felt that they should stick to human problems) and the superintendent of schools (who felt he had all he could do to keep the town’s children corralled). Most everyone listened sympathetically and agreed something should be done, but no one was sufficiently aroused to appear before the town board or sign a petition.

Determined not to be depressed by her lack of success, she sat down in her rocking chair to think while she knitted. But no arguments that would convince the board members to reconsider or the citizens to rally to her cause came to mind.

“Fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed as she dropped a stitch for the second time in the same row. She put the knitting back in the basket and picked up a magazine. Amanda, who had been playing at her feet, jumped up into her lap at the sound of her voice and curled up to nap as Miss Mary thumbed idly through the magazine.

Suddenly she stopped and looked closely at a picture.

“That’s it!” she cried, jumping up and spilling Amanda into a disordered heap at her feet. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” she said glancing at the scrambling dog. “But this is the answer. Come along. We have a lot to do.”

The next morning, promptly at nine o’clock, Miss Mary locked her door and started for town. She carried a picnic basket and a folding aluminum lawn chair. All fourteen dogs more or less accompanied her, milling and spilling along in the same general direction. When their inevitable investigations led them too far astray, she pulled a small silver whistle from her pocket, placed it delicately between her lips and blew an ear-splitting blast which brought the dogs yapping and bounding back to their mistress.

Ladies sweeping their front porches paused to stare. Cars almost collided as their drivers craned their necks to see the strange procession wend its way toward town. Miss Mary held her head high and smiled and nodded to everyone she met just as if she always went walking with a picnic basket, a folding chair and fourteen dogs.

Across the railroad tracks, past the barber shop, straight to Feeley’s Dry Goods Store, the peculiar procession marched. A small crowd gathered as Miss Mary unfolded her lawn chair and sat in it to unpack her basket. Out came several cans of dog food, a can opener, saucers, two rolled up signs and a roll of transparent tape. One sign she taped to the front of her basket placed prominently next to the curb. The other was taped to the back of her chair.

“BENSENVILLE NEEDS AN ANIMAL SHELTER! HELP OUR STRAYS!” they declared in bold black letters. Then she calmly opened the dog food and fed the dogs.

By this time quite a number of people had gathered around, most of them chuckling in amusement. Mr. Feeley, attracted by the crowd, bustled out of his store.

“Miss Pritchett, what is going on here?” he demanded.

Miss Mary smiled sweetly. “Why, I guess you might call it a ‘Feed-In’, Mr. Feeley. They’re doing it all over the country as a means of protest. I thought it might draw a little attention to a problem of our own right here in Bensenville.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miss Pritchett, go home and forget this nonsense. I’ll buy you some dog food if you want, but pack up this menagerie and go home.”

“Thank you, but I believe I’ll hold out for board action. I’m not interested in stop-gap measures.”

“For heaven’s sake,” muttered Mr. Feeley as he went back into his store and slammed the door.

Gradually, the crowd drifted off, but traffic increased noticeably on Bensenville’s Main Street as the day wore on and word spread through town about Miss Mary’s Feed-In. When she got tired of sitting, she marched back and forth in front of the store carrying one of the signs as the dogs milled underfoot.

At noon, just as she was preparing to eat, a scowling Mr. Feeley came out of his store on the way to lunch.

“Care for a cup of tea, Mr. Mayor?” she smiled.

Mr. Feeley muttered under his breath as he stalked past.

The afternoon was highlighted by the arrival of Mabel Holt, the local correspondent for the County Recorder.

“Mary, I’m so excited. I so seldom get a chance to report anything except marriages and births. You don’t mind if Bill takes some pictures, do you?” she said, indicating the newspaper photographer who had accompanied her.

“Not at all, Mabel,” smiled Miss Mary, a little glint of mischief appearing in her eyes. “I’ll even stand and sing a chorus of ‘We shall Overcome,’ if it will help.”

While Miss Mary talked the photographer bustled around shooting pictures, even managing to get a shot of Mr. Feeley scowling through the window to see what the commotion was about.

About five o’clock that afternoon, the sun, which had shone brightly all day, disappeared behind a cloud. She glanced up at the sky.

“Come along, dears,” she called to the dogs, gathering up her equipment. “It looks like we might have a shower.” The first drops began to hit them as they crossed the railroad tracks. By the time they reached home, she and all her charges were soaked to the skin.

“Mercy! If we aren’t a sight,” she sighed. She hurried to the linen closet for towels and carefully dried the dogs. Only after she had given them all a drink of warm milk did she change her own wet clothes, have a cup of soup and climb wearily into bed.

“Amanda,” she said to the little dog who curled up on the rug beside her bed, “I’m not quite as peppy as I used to be.”

Sunshine lay across the pillow. Miss Mary opened her eyes and glanced at the old-fashioned alarm clock. It was ten o’clock.

“I’ve got to get down to Feeley’s!” she thought, but her aching head, raw throat and general weakness pulled her slowly back to her pillow. “Perhaps I’d better rest a bit before I go.”

The next time she opened her eyes it was to look into the worried face of Mabel Holt.

“It’s all right,” Mabel said. “You weren’t at Feeley’s and didn’t answer your phone or door so I broke in and called the doctor. Found out I wouldn’t make a bad burglar.”

“Doctor!” Miss Mary protested. “I haven’t got time for a doctor! I’ve got to get down to Feeley’s.”

“Miss Pritchett,” Doctor Barnes said as he finished his examination. “People of our generation really can’t go marching around in the sun one minute and get soaking wet the next without facing the consequences, particularly when they’ve been living on an inadequate diet, as I suspect you have. It’s all very well to fight for what you believe in, but you’re going to have to do your fighting after a good long rest. You’re on the verge of pneumonia.”

“But Doctor, my Feed-In . . . and the dogs . . . who’s going to take care of them?”

Mabel intervened. “Mabel Holt, champion dog feeder. Really, I’ll be glad to help out.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mabel consoled after showing Doctor Barnes out. “You can take up your campaign again after a few week’s rest.”

“A few weeks!” Miss Mary moaned. “If I stay in bed a few weeks I’ll not have the strength to march.”

“I’ll get the paper for you,” Mabel said, patting her arm. “You can read my story about the Feed-In. There’s a picture of you on the front page.”

The paper offered little consolation. As far as she could see, her campaign was lost. By the time she was up and around everyone would have forgotten about the animal shelter. She knew Mr. Feeley and the town board members well enough to know that only with a lot of pressure from the citizens would they do anything for stray animals.

She slept only fitfully, waking to fret over the fate of her dogs. Once when Mabel brought her a cup of broth she commented disconsolately, “You can’t know, Mabel, how frustrating it is to want to do something and not have the physical strength to do it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not just what I seem—a foolish old maid who’s gone batty over dogs.”

“It worked!” they told each other as they dissolved into squeals of laughter like two giddy school girls.

A few months later, Miss Mary, her peppery self again, held Amanda in her arms as she sat on the platform at the dedication of the new shelter. The concrete block building stood ready for use in a lot that had once belonged to Mr. Feeley, who had finally been persuaded to donate it after the editor of the Recorder had pointed out the political advantages of such a move.

After the ceremonies Miss Mary joined the crowd touring the new building. As she was about to enter the door, she glanced at the neatly lettered sign above the entrance. “THE MARY PRITCHETT ANIMAL SHELTER.”

“You see, Amanda,” she whispered softly to the little dog. “You just have to assert yourself.”

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Rejection Letter

Extension
published by THE CATHOLIC CHURCH EXTENSION SOCIETY • 1307 s. wabash avenue chicago, Illinois 60605

MOST REV. JOHN P. CODY, D.D., Ph.D., J.C.D.
Archbishop of Chicago, Chancellor
RIGHT REV. MSGR. J. B. LUX
Editor-in-Chief
RIGHT REV. MSGR. KENNETH C. STACK
Acting President
VERY REV. MSGR. JOHN L. MAY
Publisher
REV. THOMAS J. McCABE
Circulation Manager
TIMOTHY A. MURNANE, Editor
JOHN J. KENNEDY, Advertising Manager

February 20, 1967

Miss Donna Hruska
2711 2nd Private Road
Flossmoor, Illinois-60422

Dear Miss Hruska:

Thank you for letting us see your manuscript.

We are returning it however, as it does not fit our present editorial needs.

Your interest in our magazine is appreciated.

Sincerely,

Timothy A. Murnane
Editor

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