-----Original Message-----
From: Burton E. Youngs [mailto:beyoungs@yhr.com]
Sent: Thursday, May 15, 2008 8:25 AM
To: undisclosed-recipients:
Subject: Old Man and the Dog

"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 challenging 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 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.