Subject: A wonderful story
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 muzz le 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 shuff
led 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 w aited 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.
The information contained in this e-mail and any attachments thereto ("e-mail")
is sent by the Johnson County Community College ("JCCC") and is intended to be
confidential and for the use of only the individual or entity named above. The
information may be protected by federal and state privacy and disclosures acts
or other legal rules. If the reader of this message is not the intended
recipient, you are notified that retention, dissemination, distribution or
copying of this e-mail is strictly prohibited. If you have received this e-mail
in error please immediately notify JCCC by email reply and immediately and
permanently delete this e-mail message and any attachments thereto. Thank you.
__________________________________________________
You are subscribed to Baha'i Studies as: mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]
Unsubscribe: send a blank email to mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]
Subscribe: send subscribe bahai-st in the message body to [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Subscribe: http://list.jccc.edu:8080/read/all_forums/subscribe?name=bahai-st
Baha'i Studies is available through the following:
Mail - mailto:bahai-st@list.jccc.edu
Web - http://list.jccc.edu:8080/read/?forum=bahai-st
News - news://list.jccc.edu/bahai-st
Public - http://www.escribe.com/religion/bahaist
Old Public - http://www.mail-archive.com/[EMAIL PROTECTED]
New Public - http://www.mail-archive.com/bahai-st@list.jccc.edu
