A dear sistergirlfriend
sent this to me. I reminded me that things are not always as they appear
on the surface. Some times we need second thoughts to help us
appreciate and see things clearer.
The Old Man and the Dog
"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 well and
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 some form of
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, and 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 that 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.
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