THE OLD MAN AND THE DOG
“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 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 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====
| Cheyenne |