this is long but so nice, I just had to share it.
Delma
THE OLD MAN AND HIS 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 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. 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, 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.
by Catherine Moore-
--~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~
Access the Recipes And More list archives at:
http://www.mail-archive.com/recipesandmore%40googlegroups.com/
Visit the group home page at:
http://groups.google.com/group/RecipesAndMore
-~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
