A Father, Daughter & A Dog

486 Views 4 Replies 5 Participants Last post by mogene, Apr 26, 2010

Frogman

Discussion Starter · Apr 7, 2010

A Father, Daughter & A Dog It's a little mushy and long but it's a good story if your an old geezer like me.
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"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 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 is 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 or 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 ---nobody cares?
But do share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.

God answers our prayers in His time........not ours.

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4thIDvet

· #2 · Apr 7, 2010

Good story Frogman.

The Daytona V.A. nursing home has many pets in cages and wandering the halls too heal the minds of our older and ill Vets.
Pets really do help in the healing process. Thanks for the story.

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BBill

· #3 · Apr 24, 2010

Great!! Thanks so much

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partsman

· #4 · Apr 24, 2010

Nor guns, but great!

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mogene

· #5 · Apr 26, 2010

Good story!!

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