| Inseparable "Watch
out! You nearly broadsided 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 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 say 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 in to 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 in and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up
into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believed
a Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about
the tiny human being on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't
answer.
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 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 giving 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 the 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 feed, 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 the 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 arms 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, old man?"
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.
The even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and
Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable for 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 the 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 of the
pews reserved for the 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. 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.
-- by Catherine Moore
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