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
in vain to each of the sympathetic voices that answered.
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 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
rticle...
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
.JPG)
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