"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 gruelling 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 counselling 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 odour 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 favourite
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.
Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh
hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You
Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love
them, at every opportunity.
Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not
get a second time.
