All Animals Matter

‘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. 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 an d 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 i t  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.  Life is too short for drama &  petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You  Are Alive..  Tell the people you love that you love them, at every  opportunity.  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 – who cares?  But do share this with  someone. Lost time  can never be found.

Thanks to Bruce S., Branch Manager with United First Financial for sharing this story.  Originally published on Louisiana SPCA’s website.