CHEYENNE
By Catherine Moore
'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 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 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 queezed 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.
