Old Men/Old Dogs

[tellingbird]

"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 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 being 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
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 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 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.




Lisa Jones, 979/826-9996
Country Paws Rescue, Inc., A 501 (c) 3, No-Kill, Non-Profit Corporation
Hempstead, TX 77445 (50 miles west of Houston)
website: www.countrypawsrescue.org