"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 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, and

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.  Longhaired dogs, curly-aired 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.

Don't know who wrote this but isn't it nice?  I think that if I always have dogs chances are I will always be okay . . . an Old Woman and Her Dogs! 

Regards!

Cindy, Bill, Diesel (now 80 lbs! at 7-1/2 months!), Raider and Cash