I-N-S-E-P-A-R-A-B-L-E
"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.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky.
Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believed a Supreme
Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing
that God cared about the tiny human being on this earth.
I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. 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 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, old man?" 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.
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.
[ Catherine Moore -- from 'Motivational Mailer' ]
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