"Watch out! You nearly broad sided 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 placed often. The shelves in his house were filled
with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. 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 sixty-seventh 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 being 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 day 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 dogsqall 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 run 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 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 than that bag of bones.
Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned
back toward 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.
It 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 just read the right
article....Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal
shelter..... his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my
father........... and the proximity of their deaths.
And suddenly I understood. I
knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Author unknown====