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 beautiful friendship.
Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together heand Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dustylanes. 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. Suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. ~UA~
If we think God hasn't answered our prayers,
maybe we should take a better look. God knows
best how to answer our prayers and it is
very often different from what we ask for...
but, it is always exactly right!!
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