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 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 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 father. . .and the proximity of their deaths. And
suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my
prayers after all.
