CHEYENNE

"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 obstin-
ately 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 frus-
trated 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 appoint-
ments 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 ...

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Thank you.......Steve

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