Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Father, Daughter & a Dog - 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
God answers our prayers in His time........not
ours
My father sent this to me, i do not know where it came from It made me realize that I have a few people that I still need to tell them how much I love them..At some point I need to ask my family and God for forgiveness for some of the things I have done. I am afraid to do this. What if they do not want to forgive me. But even worse, what if I never even try...
"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
God answers our prayers in His time........not
ours
My father sent this to me, i do not know where it came from It made me realize that I have a few people that I still need to tell them how much I love them..At some point I need to ask my family and God for forgiveness for some of the things I have done. I am afraid to do this. What if they do not want to forgive me. But even worse, what if I never even try...
