"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 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 often placed. The
shelves in his house had been 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 67th 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.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there
was "God". Although I believe 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 afternoon 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 pen 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
out 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
into 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.
That 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 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 I suddenly understood. I knew God had answered my prayers after all.
Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please
authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances
dictate.
Thanks to The Story of Encouragement
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