The Old Man and the Dog, by Catherine Moore



"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. 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 befo 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.

"tiny dancer" wrote in message
.. .
The Old Man and the Dog, by Catherine Moore

That was a nice story. Whether it is true or not is irrelevant, but I know
from experience that Muttley has helped me keep going and inspires me to
"get out there" when otherwise I might just let my sore knee or back keep
me in the house feeling sorry for myself. Life is pretty empty when it is
not shared. The companionship and trust of another creature, canine, human,
or other, can truly be a blessing.

Paul and my devilish angel Muttley

In article ,
tiny dancer wrote:
The Old Man and the Dog, by Catherine Moore

If you hadn't double-spaced that mess it would have only
been 180 lines instead of 360. Not that you give a crap
about anybody but yourself.

Anyway, if you're trying to demonstrate that you thrive on
negative attention, congratulations! Mission accomplished.
--
Melinda Shore - Software longa, hardware brevis -

Prouder than ever to be a member of the reality-based community

Td,
The Old Man and the Dog is absolutely beautiful. It made me cry. I
know, it doesn't take much. I agree with Paul, it is a nice story,
whether it is fact or fiction. Thanks for sharing it.


Be Free.....Judy

Paul said in part.....
.....I know from experience that Muttley has helped keep me going.......
_______________________
Paul,
The young dogs have had the same effect on me and the old dogs. I
could get away with short little walks with the old dogs, and so I did,
but for the last couple of years, we have been on the move again.


Be Free.....Judy