Lost River Gemstone on the left and his son Lost River Hercules on the right

Tuesday, December 14, 2010


  I thought I'd better get on here and give everyone a little update.  I did not hunt this last weekend we were expecting snow and frigid temps.  And we got both we received about 2 inches of snow and when I got up to go to work this morning my truck thermometer said 0.  Since the forecast was bad I stayed home and did a few chores that needed done.  When I got up Saturday morning it was still 40 degrees and I empty all the ice out of the dog buckets and gave the kennels a good cleaning.  I stopped at Burch's and bought straw on my way home from work.  So all the dogs got fresh straw snf the dogs are happy.  When you give them fresh bedding they are like kids in candy store they scratch and dig and get their little nests made it always makes me smile.  No dog I have ever owned like fresh straw like old Rock did he would work for hours to get his straw just the way he wanted it.  Boy I miss that dog but I miss all my dogs that have gone on the the big bird hunt in the sky.
  Heading North again this coming weekend for the last pheasant hunt for wild birds this season.  Wish me luck and I hope to have some good stuff to put in my blog and of course a few pictures.
  I wanted to post this story it is a good one in my opinion and they sure pick the right breed of dog for this story read and enjoy.

"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled  at me.
"Can't you do anything right?" 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

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
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 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 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

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

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  time.

And if you don't send this to at least 4  people ---nobody cares? But do
share this with someone. Lost time can never be  found.

God answers our prayers in His  time........God answers

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