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It had been a tough year for my father. He had laid to rest a brother, a sister, and a best friend. Another tragedy in the later fall, the suicide of his only son, my brother, was almost more than he could endure. As his youngest daughter, I watched his health deteriorate.. An ulcer, hiatal hernia, high blood pressure, heart trouble... the list went on. The thought of losing dad was more than I could bear. I remembered reading somewhere that older people responded positively, both physically and emotionally, to pets that were brought into the nursing homes. What a great idea! I would give Mom and Dad a puppy for Christmas. I immediately began the search. One evening, my family and I were looking at brand new Poodle puppies. There were four, cute, cuddly, auburn red balls of fur. We each had one in our arms. The one I was holding, snuggled up by my neck, licked my cheek, and laid his head on my shoulder. I was convinced this was the dog for my Dad. We left him with his breeder until we could pick him up on Christmas Eve. My parents came early that December. I picked up the little poodle puppy Christmas eve. Knowing it would be a challenge to keep his presence a secret until Christmas morning when we traditionally opened gifts, I hid him in the bathroom off of my bedroom. And then I kept Dad and Mom from having any reason to be in my bedroom. I wrapped a box and lid in beautiful, festive paper. It was big enough for our surprise puppy gift. I spent most of the night holding the new puppy to keep him from crying and giving away our surprise. Christmas morning, I put him in the beautifully wrapped box, placed the lid on carefully and slipped the box under the tree. I made sure that box was the first gift handed out! I certainly didn't want to suffocate its precious contents! I handed the box to Mom and she put it back down almost immediately. She pushed it to Dad and said, "Here, it's all yours...it's moving!" Dad took off the lid. It was amazing! As if on cue, the puppy laid his chin on the edge of the box and looked up. His big, brown, puppy dog eyes met Dad's. That was it! It was all over for Dad; he loved him already. Mom was not exactly smitten. "What are we going to do with a dog? We can't keep him. I'm not training a puppy again. He'll ruin our house. How will we get him home?" I showed her both his carrying case - and his airline ticket back to their home. What could she say? Dad named him Rusty. And the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey would say, is what amazed all of us looking on. In a matter of two months, Dad's ulcer problems had subsided. So had the indigestion problems and the hiatal hernia. Even more surprising, his blood pressure was back to normal and his heart condition under control. The doctors were amazed. I wasn't. I knew exactly what had happened. Rusty, a cute, little, red poodle, had jumped into Dad's life, filled it with unconditional love and helped heal the pain of loss. Many times I saw Dad holding Rusty in his lap with Rusty's head nestled in Dad's shoulder. (Who was comforting who?) I was amazed at Rusty's sensitivity. Unlike some French Poodles, nervousness was not in his character, and he never barked. He was calm, loving, and intuitive. Seven years later, Dad had a heart attack and was placed in intensive care in the hospital. We knew Dad's days were numbered. My oldest son, Jeff, arrived at the hospital one evening sporting an overstuffed Parka. He walked directly into the ICU to visit his grandpa. He closed the doors to the room and slowly unzipped his parka. We watched Rusty climb carefully up the bed and lie his head on Dad's shoulder, lick his cheek, and stay there quietly while they said their last good-byes. |
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