“Jody ~ 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
in to 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, Rick,
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
Rick. We began to bicker and
argue. Alarmed, Rick 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
did not 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 in vain to each of the
sympathetic voices that
answered. 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, and 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, and 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 Rick,
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 Rick 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.
