The Old Man and The Dog

[Modeam]

> Take the time to read this…it will touch your heart & make you aware when you
>come across someone who is difficult, argumentative, bitter, etc.
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> The Old Man and the Dog
> By Catherine Moore
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> "Watch out!  You nearly broad sided that car!"  My father yelled at me. "Can't
>you do anything right?"
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> 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.
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> "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. 
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack.  An
>ambulance sped him to the hospital and was rushed into the 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.....
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation.  The clergyman
>set up weekly counseling.
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> But the months wore on and God was silent.  Something had to be done.
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> The next day I sat down with the phone book and called the mental health
>clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the
>sympathetic voices that answered in vain.
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> Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just
>read something that might help you!  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.
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> I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon.  A uniformed officer led me to
>the kennels.  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. 
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> 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. 
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> 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?"
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> 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
>his time is up tomorrow."
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> "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."
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> I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me.  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.
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> Anger rose inside me.  "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!"  At
>those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes
>narrowed and blazing with hate.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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 ran into my father's room. 
>Dad lay in his bed but his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
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> 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.
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> The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary...like the way I felt,
>as I walked down the aisle.  I was surprised to see the many friends Dad
>andCheyenne 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. 
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> 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.
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> 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...
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.