Four days after Dad’s 67th birthday, he had a heart attack. Luckily, he survived. But something inside him had died. His enthusiasm for life was gone. He refused to follow doctor’s orders, and his sour attitude made everyone upset when they visited him. Dad was left alone.
So I asked Dad to come to live with me on my small farm, hoping the fresh air would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated. Something had to be done.
One day I read an article which said when given dogs, depressed patients would be better off. So I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. As soon as I got there, a pointer’s eyes caught my attention. They watched me calmly.
A staff member said: “He got here two weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.”
I turned to the man in horror. “You mean you’re going to kill him”
“Ma’am,” he said gently. “We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.”
The police’s calm brown eyes awaited my decision. “I’ll take him,” I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. I was helping it out of the car when Dad walked onto the front porch. “Look what I got you!”