Story by Catherine Moore
"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.
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