Inseparable

                                 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.  A raindrop struck my  cheek.  I looked up into  the gray
          sky.   Somewhere  up  there was  "God."   Although  I believed  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, old
          man?"  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.  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.


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