Dad and their puppy mill survivor 'Sweetie' (aka Isabella)
They are both survivors in my book!
The Old Man and His Dog
Author is unknown to me - found this at http://geocities.com/dennis_smith362/p7.htm
"Watch out! You nearly broadsided 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 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 rueling 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 couseling 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.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up
there was "God". Although I believed a
Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God
cared about the tiny human beings on
this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. 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
questionaire, 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 hared 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, alked 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 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 exclaimed 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 spueezed 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. The even started
to attend Sunday servies 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 to 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, for by so doing, some have
unwittingly entertained angels."
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.
Suddenly I understood. I knew that God
had answered my prayers after all.
