An Evening Prayer for the Dog in the Shelter

An Evening Prayer for the Dog in the Shelter - source


Tonight I go to sleep with my dogs. My long legged lurcher (an adopted rescue) is roaching against the pillows. The new little fellow (another adopted rescue) is contentedly asleep in his crate in the closet. My older girl Lucy lies on the dog bed by my side, tennis ball still in sight of sleeping eyes. My boy Linus spoons against me. Time for bed. The quiet, contented sighs of dogs who feel safe and loved…. secure and at peace. As my eyes begin to close, I picture a dog in a shelter I have been working with.

At the end of a session I spend some time with her in her kennel. I hear the barking and whining of the other dogs that make her alert her head and ears. I can see how no matter how well things are arranged for her, she is still surprised and alerted by the passing of another dog. She is dog reactive. We make good strides but there are still challenges for her. Each day after I work with her and bring her to the gate of the kennel, she hesitates, then quietly follows me in through the gate. She has come far with her training. She loves to learn. She has done a brilliant job today. She lets me brush her. We play a game of search for the tennis ball under the blanket on her bed. Then it is time to go. I close the gate and secure the lock. She sits and watches me as I go. I am haunted.

Tonight I say a prayer for her, and for all of the dogs sleeping (or not sleeping) in shelters near and far.

May a person with realism, vision and acceptance walk past your gate.

May they see that the jumping dog in front of them is desperate to say hello.

May they realize that with a bit of training, you can learn polite greeting manners.

May they understand that you are not perfect, but that you can be trained to be a good dog.

May they understand if you are shy and overwhelmed, and see that with love, encouragement and confidence you will come out of your shell. May they understand this may take quite a few months.

May they see that the thunder and bluff is just that; and with training that teaches you in a peaceful way to get the distance you want from whatever “monster” that scares you , you will learn to resolve your conflicts with the world constructively and gain confidence.

May they understand you are curious and inquisitive and need to explore the world, but also you will need clear boundaries and kind but constant guidance.

And may they decide to make a life commitment to you. For who you are. The brilliant, the challenging, the aloof, the goofy, the exhuberant, the serious, the silly, the reserved, the obnoxious, the funny, the athletic, the laid back, the complex and beautiful; the real dog that makes you the completely unique you.

Divorce is not an option in adopting. This is not fast food or Disneyland. This is real dog, real relationship and real commitment.

May you feel the touch of a kind hand and hear a gentle word.

May you take a car ride to your forever home.

When you mess up, may you be forgiven.

May your new family understand that it can take months and sometimes years of training, guidance and learning to help you be the best you can become. May they make that commitment to you.

May they accept you for the dog that you are in spite of all of the training. And may they smile at your imperfections as much as your achievements.

May they protect you, nurture you, give you exercise and adventures together.

And may you someday fall asleep on the bed, sighing in deep contentment, peace and security, spooned against your forever friend.

This I pray for you my friend, and for all dogs. This I pray.

Sleep in peace and we will both dream and pray for your forever home.

The Old Ones

One by one they pass my cage,
Too old, too worn, too broken, no way.
Way past his prime he can't run and play,
Then they shake their heads slowly and go on their way.
A little old man, arthritic and sore,
It seems I am not wanted anymore.
I once had a home, I once had a bed,
A place that was warm, and where I was fed.
Now my muzzle is grey, and my eyes slowly fail,
Who wants a dog so old and so frail?
My family decided I didn't belong,
I got in their way, my attitude was wrong.
Whatever excuse they made in their head
Can't justify how they left me for dead.
Now I sit in this cage, where day after day,
The younger dogs get adopted away.
When I had almost come to the end of my rope,
You saw my face and I finally had hope.
You saw through the grey, and the legs bent with age,
And felt I still had life beyond the cage.
You took me home, gave me food and a bed,
And shared your own pillow with my poor tired head.
We snuggle and play, and you talk to me low,
You love me so dearly and want me to know.
I may have lived most of my life with another,
But you outshine them with a love so much stronger.
I promise to return all the love I can give,
To You, my dear person, as long as I live.
I may be with you for a week or for years,
We will share many smiles, you will no doubt shed tears.
And when the time comes that God deems I must leave,
I know you will cry and your heart will grieve.
And when I arrive at the Bridge, all brand new,
My thoughts and my heart will still be with you.
And I will brag to all who will hear,
Of the person who made my last days so dear.

-Author Unknown

The Old Man and the Dog

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 h ad 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 she article describing 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, and 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, and 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 those words as 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. 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.

Cherry Blossom & Pepper - ADOPTED!!

My friend Renee (located on Mississippi Gulf Coast) has rescued two poodles. If I recall the story correctly, the owner died and heirs were going to put these two sweet ones to sleep to “rid themselves” of the problem. The real estate agent and my friend intervened. She is trying to find a new home for them; meanwhile, they are living with her. I’m her backup in case she needs help or a place for them to be for short period. They are both seniors and are healthy. One is the mother, the smaller one, and her name is Cherry Blossom. Her son is Pepper. We think they are about 11 and 13. They have been together for life and need to stay together. They love each other very much. They are housebroken and have adorable personalities.

Please pass this information along so we can find these two precious ones a home for their remaining years.

Senior Love

One by One, they pass by my cage,
They say, "Too worn, too broken, too old of age.
Way past his time, he can't run and play.
"Then they shake their heads and go on their way.

A little old man, arthritic and sore,
It seems I am not wanted anymore.
I once had a home, I once had a bed,
A place that was warm, and where I was fed.

Now my muzzle is grey, and my eyes slowly fail.
Who wants a dog so old and so frail?
My family decided I didn't belong,
I got in their way, my attitude was wrong.

Whatever excuse they made in their head,
Can't justify how they left me for dead.
Now I sit in this cage, where day after day,
The younger dogs get adopted away.

When I had almost come to the end of my rope,
You saw my face, and I finally had hope.
You saw through the grey, and the legs bent with age,
And felt I still had life beyond this cage.

You took me home, gave me food and a bed,
And shared your own pillow with my poor tired head.
We snuggle and play, and you talk to me low,
You love me so dearly, you want me to know.

I may have lived most of my life with another,
But you outshine them with a love so much stronger.
And I promise to return all the love I can give,
To you, my dear person, as long as I live.

I may be with you for a week, or for years.
We will share many smiles, you will no doubt shed tears.
And when the time comes that I must leave,
I know you will cry and your heart, it will grieve.

And when I arrive at the Bridge, all brand new,
My thoughts and my heart will still be with you.
And I will brag to all who will hear,
Of the person who made my last days so dear.

by Leslie Whalen