The Old Man and the 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 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 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.
     Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard,
     love truly and forgive quickly.
     Live While You Are Alive.
     Tell the people you love that you love them, at every
     opportunity.
     Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.