THE OLD MAN AND HIS DOG
~by Catherine Moore~
"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
doctors 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 an
old 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 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.
Sent to us by Dave
Dorsett. No contact for Catherine Moore, no way to obtain reprint
permission. Somehow, we’re sure she won’t mind us sharing this.
http://www.thedogplace.org/PROSE/Old-Man-And-His-Dog.asp
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