..................Cheyenne................
"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 believe 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, 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 ..
.............Angels are among us.........
One of the Many Stories from the Book
