The Old Man and the
Dog
by Catherine Moore
"Watch out! You nearly broadsided 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 and then finally sotpped
altoghether. 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 bagan 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 somehting 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 shadesof 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 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 silenetly
thanked the dog for the hlep 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 firends Dad and Cheyenne
had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy.
It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog that had changed
his life.
And then the pastor turned to Bebrews 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.
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