[Ohio-Communities-of-Faith] FW: Cheyenne

Fri Mar 5 22:32:07 UTC 2021

Hay Dude:  Happy B. Day to you.  Here’s hoping that your having a good one.  Don’t consume to much ice ream and cake.

LOL

Wan

From: Ohio-Communities-of-Faith [mailto:ohio-communities-of-faith-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Michael Moore via Ohio-Communities-of-Faith
Sent: Friday, March 5, 2021 8:38 AM
To: ohio-communities-of-faith at nfbnet.org
Cc: Michael Moore <mmoore11 at kent.edu>
Subject: [Ohio-Communities-of-Faith] FW: Cheyenne

From: Larry Perry [mailto:larryperry at performancepress.ccsend.com] On Behalf Of Larry Perry
Sent: Friday, March 5, 2021 8:10 AM
To: mmoore11 at kent.edu
Subject: Cheyenne

Letter from Larry

Friday

March 5, 2021

Good Friday Morning Everyone:

Here is another story shared by one of our readers that I think you will

enjoy and be able to relate to.

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 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 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 unwavering. 

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 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. 

~Thanks Jo for the story~

May God Bless YOU and YOURS!

Much love.

Larry  

NOTE: This letter is sent to anyone interested in receiving these inspirational notes. There is no charge and you are encouraged to forward these to anyone you think would benefit from reading them. If you would like to receive them direct, just send an email to me at larryperry at att.net and request to be added to the Letters from Larry list. If you press the UNSUBSCRIBE button, you will be permanently unsubscribed from receiving these letters. 

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