"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 67th 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 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 didn't answer.
Some-thing 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 every mental health clinic listed in the Yellow Pages. I
explained my problems 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. Longhaired 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 his
eyes 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 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 . . . 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. 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. Suddenly
I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.