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. 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 hip bones 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 is 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.
Life is too short for drama or petty things, so
laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live
While You Are Alive. Forgive now those who made you
cry. You might not get a second time.
God answers our prayers in His time........not ours.