Jody "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 in to an
operating room.
He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His
zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctors
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, Rick, 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 Rick. We began to bicker
and argue. Alarmed, Rick 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 did
not 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 Rick, 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 Rick 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.
~by Catherine Moore~
