"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, 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 on to 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. "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 fath er. . and the
proximity of their deaths And suddenly I understood. I knew that God
had answered my prayers after all.
Copied: The Old Man and the Dog by Catherine Moore
I also had a new beginning, because of a Dog. The dog's name was Behr. Behr was found after he was run down by a car. He seemed like a wild dog. A friend of mine took him in. BUT she already had 2 dogs and a cat. My husband and I offered to take him. Behr was a loving dog. Constantly wanting attention. I learned to feel a love for him. I could hear my voice change when I talked to him. Now when I hear a voice change I can feel the love people have for their family, their mom and of course their dog. This is new to me. Unfortunately he disappeared from our back yard. The lead and the dog were gone. Lucky for me he had come into my life when I needed him. All I can hope and pray is that some one has found him and he ended up in a loving home. Thank you Lord for sending BEHR into my life.
Mary Lou
