"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 proved 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 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. "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.
