“Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!” My father yelled at me.
“Can’t you do anything right?” Those words hurt worse than blows. I
turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me
to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I
wasn’t prepared for another battle. “I saw the car, Dad. Please don’t
yell at me when I’m driving.”
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really
felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home, I
left dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my
thoughts. Dark heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The
rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I
do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being
outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of
nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had often
placed. The shelves in his house had been filled with trophies that
attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlesly. The first time he couldn’t lift a
heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside
alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased
him about his advancing age, or when he couldn’t do something he had
done as a younger man.
Four days after his 67th birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance
sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep
blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an
operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside dad
died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow
doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with
sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally
stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust. Within a week after he moved in I regretted the invitation. It
seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I
became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on
Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our
pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly
counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he
prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore
on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere
up there was “God”. Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the
universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human
beings on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn’t
answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next afternoon I sat down with the phone book and methodically
called each of the mental health clinics listed in the yellow pages. I
explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered.
In vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, “I
just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.” I
listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at
a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic
depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they
were given responsibility for a
dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of
disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each
contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs,
black dogs, spotted dogs; all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied
each one but rejected one after the other for
various reasons – too big, too small, too much hair.
As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner
struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the pen and sat down. It
was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a
caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with
shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it
was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they
beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. ”Can you tell me about him?” The officer looked,
then shook his head in puzzlement. ”He’s a funny one. Appeared out of
nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring
someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and
we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.” He gestured
helplessly. As the words sank in, I turned to the man in horror. ”You
mean you’re going to kill him?” ”Ma’am”, he said gently, “that’s our
policy. We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.” I looked at the
pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. ”I’ll take
him,” I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached
the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the
car when dad shuffled out onto the front porch. ”Ta-da! Look what I
got for you, dad!” I said excitedly. Dad looked, then wrinkled his face
in disgust. ”If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And, I
would have picked out a better
specimen that that bag of bones. Keep it! I don’t want it!. Dad waved
his arm scornfully and turned back into the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and
pounded into my temples. “You’d better get used to him, dad. He’s
staying!” Dad ignored me. ”Did you hear me, dad?” I screamed. At
those words dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his
eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other
like duelists, when suddenly the pointer
pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in
front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad’s lower
jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the
anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then dad was on his
knees, hugging the animal.
That was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the
pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community.
They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective
moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even
started to attend Sunday services together, dad sitting in a pew and
Cheyenne lying quietly
at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years.
Dad’s bitterness faded and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then,
late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing
through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at
night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father’s room. Dad
lay in his bed, his face serene, but
his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne
lying dead beside dad’s bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he
had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I
silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring dad’s
peace of mind.
The morning of Dad’s funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks
like the way I feel, I thought as I walked down the aisle to the pews
reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends dad and
Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy.
It was a tribute to both dad and the dog who had changed his life. And
then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. ”Be not forgetful to entertain
strangers”. “I’ve often thanked God for sending that angel,” he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not
seen before; the sympathetic voice that had read the right
aricle…Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter..his
calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father..and the proximity of
their deaths.
/*And I suddenly understood. I knew God had answered my prayers after
all.*/
-Author Unknown