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 powers.
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. 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 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. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by
this some have entertained angels without knowing it.”
“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.
By Catherine Moore
