>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.