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PartyT
Administrator
USA
20680 Posts |
 Posted - 10/15/2010 : 6:24:30 PM
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(To my family -- notice the name of the author)
A Father, a Daughter and a Dog - a story 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 hip bones
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 is 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. "Do not neglect to show
hospitality
to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."
"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 or petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and
forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Forgive now those who made you
cry.
You might not get a second time.
And if you don't send this to at least 4 people ---nobody cares? But do
share
this with someone. Lost time can never be found.
God answers our prayers in His time........not ours.
I see this so much working with Hospice, nothing can take the place of
unconditional love a pet can give you. The pets know when their Dad or Mom
are going to pass, they never leave the bedside except to go potty or eat.
I love what I do, Hospice is so special to me. |
BingoT's
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a story by Catherine Moore
