Paul's Ponderings - February 21, 2008

Most folks that know me or read my column on a regular basis know that I’m a big dog lover. Dogs are a lot smarter and understand a lot more that some people might think, or at least they do in my opinion. That’s the reason I want to share the following story that my friend George Rice passed on to me via e-mail. It says a whole lot!

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 t he 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 God had answered my prayers  after all.

The story I did about Barry Morrison finding the real estate sign in a field at Fairplay that was blown up here after a tornado struck Lafayette, Tennessee earlier this month has resulted in more phone calls and in-person conversations about different items from that area of Tennessee being found scattered around the county. Now, thanks some  phone calls being made by Crystal Caldwell, there’s a place anyone can send any personal items they might find.
Caldwell, who lives in the Milltown community, said that while getting the mail from their mailbox the other day, she noticed a picture laying in the ditch line. She picked it up, and saw that it was a photo of a ball team called the Tigers from Macon County, Tennessee. As her mother lives in Gallatin, Caldwell is familiar with the area, and new that Lafayette was in Macon County. So, she called the newspaper down there, the Macon County Times, and told them what she’d found. The folks at the newspaper were delighted to hear from her, and told her if anyone found pictures or other personal items, they would be glad to run a picture or information in the paper to try to get the items back to the rightful owners. So, if you find something like that and want to return it, just mail it to: Macon County Times, P.O. Box 129, Lafayette, TN 37083. The paper’s phone number is 615-666-2440. Something blown all the way up here to Adair County could be the only treasured possession someone might have left.