The Story Of The Old Man & The German Pointer Dog Named Cheyenne

THE STORY of THE OLD MAN
& The German Pointer Dog named Cheyenne

"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 was NOT prepared for another battle.

"I saw the car, Dad. Please do NOT 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 hip bones 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, and Sir" he said gently,

"that is our policy.

We do NOT 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 is 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.

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,
for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."

"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 or petty things,
so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly.

Live while you are alive.

Forgive now those who made you cry.

You might not get a second chance.

And if you don't send this to anyone
-- no one will know.

But do share this with someone.

Lost time can never be found.

God answers our prayers in His time... NOT ours.

God does NOT give us what we can handle,
He helps us handle (stands with us, and gets us thru)
what we are given.

In other words, God's Grace keeps Pace with what we Face

2 Corinthians 12:9

It has always been said,
that The Great Spirit of God does NOT give any of us
more than we can handle.

However, i'm sure if you've read this far
this story has NOT only touched your heart,
but, likely made you shed a tear, or two

@13linesofspirit @in12d
#TheFinalFire
#TheOriginalSpark
The Journey to #The13thBridge

Remember ... to join a posting board
Forum of SUSAN LYNNE SCHWENGER - THE eXchanger | Cosmogenesis - Library of Akbar Ra in Alexandria Thuban (cosmosdawn.net)
https://www.cosmosdawn.net/categories/forum-of-susan-lynne-schwenger-the-exchanger.144/