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belgareth
03-12-2009, 01:13 PM
The Old Man and

the Dog







"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 Washingtonand 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 lone, straining to lift it.



He became irritable whenever anyone tease 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 aramedic 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 shelterthat

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 hip bones 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.

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,

for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."
"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.
Life is too short for drama &petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive

quickly.

Live While You Are

Alive.

Forgive now those who made you

cry.

You might not get a second time.
And if you don't send this to at least 4 people --who

cares?

But do share this with

someone.

Lost time can never begain.