A dear friend sent this to me and after I had dried my eyes – just had to share it with you all!
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 far worse, than any physical blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to,
as it were, 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, and the rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in the North Western States of Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had revelled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered gruelling lumberjack competitions, and was often highly placed. The shelves in his house were filled with the 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, whilst 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, and 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 having offered the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory, and 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 counselling 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 apparently 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 every mental health clinic listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered, but in vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, 'I've 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 particular nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically, when given responsibility for
a dog. So I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I had filled out the questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odour 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, trying to
reach me. I studied each one, rejecting one after the other for various reasons, too
much hair, too big, too small.
As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, he walked to the front of the pen and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. The 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 something about him?' The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. 'He's a funny one, appeared out of nowhere two weeks ago and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. To date we've heard nothing, so 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, wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I wanted a dog I would have gotten one'. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones, you Keep it! I don't want it'! Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. my throat became dry and with a pounding into my temples I said; 'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!', but he ignored me. 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed. Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes blazing with anger, and we stood glaring at each other like duellists, when suddenly the pointer broke free of my grip. He ambled toward my dad, sat down in front of him, then slowly, carefully,
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 an intimate friendship, and Dad named the pointer, Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community, hours spent walking down dusty lanes. They spent many 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 as I felt Cheyenne's cold nose under 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 found 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 favourite 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: through 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 now that God had answered my prayer after all.
Life is too short for drama and petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live while you are still 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 chance.
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