Ray S S
Silver Member
Cheyenne--My Dad's Buddy.
Greetings, here is an email that is so good that I want to share it. It is a little long, but is so heart-warming
that it is worth the time. Enjoy.
Cheyenne--My Dad's Buddy
Written 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 and 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 our 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, IO 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 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 had 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 in separable 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
awoke Dick, put on my robe, and ran into my father's room. Dad lay on 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 the 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 and petty things, so laugh hard, love truly, and forgive
quickly.
LIVE WHILE YOU ARE ALIVE. TELL THE PEOPLE THAT YOU LOVE THAT YOU LOVE THEM, AT EVERY
OPPORTUNITY. FORGIVE NOW THOSE WHO MADE YOU CRY. YOU MIGHT NOT GET A SECOND TIME.
Greetings, here is an email that is so good that I want to share it. It is a little long, but is so heart-warming
that it is worth the time. Enjoy.
Cheyenne--My Dad's Buddy
Written 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 and 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 our 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, IO 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 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 had 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 in separable 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
awoke Dick, put on my robe, and ran into my father's room. Dad lay on 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 the 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 and petty things, so laugh hard, love truly, and forgive
quickly.
LIVE WHILE YOU ARE ALIVE. TELL THE PEOPLE THAT YOU LOVE THAT YOU LOVE THEM, AT EVERY
OPPORTUNITY. FORGIVE NOW THOSE WHO MADE YOU CRY. YOU MIGHT NOT GET A SECOND TIME.
Wish I could read that every time I get peeved with someone I love and know I will miss when they are gone. 
