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.


Lost time can never be found.
GoD And DoG by Wendy J Francisco
Lyrics and Guitar Chords by Wendy Francisco
GoD and DoG Official Site
http://www.godanddog.org/GoD%20and%20DoG%20Guitar%20Chords.html
Take two minutes
and watch this
charming original
animation & song
celebrating the
connection we share
with
God and Dog.

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