An Old Soldier And A Young Pup

A few months back my father had a stroke.   An active, strong, and basically quite healthy 90-year old man, this is the first serious health issue he and my mother have had to face.  We were lucky, in many ways.  The stroke left him with no paralysis, and he spent only one night in the hospital.  It happened at the supper table one evening, and I have been very grateful that my mother wasn’t here alone with him.  We were all here, just sitting and talking after eating, when we noticed that he didn’t seem to be hearing us.  When we began asking him if he was alright, he began to talk—and we knew right away.

He can still use both legs and both arms but his speech and language center is irreparably gone.  He can talk, but most of the time the words don’t fit.  They’re not the right words, or they’re combinations of words.  The tone and inflection are there, and you feel as if you should be able to understand, that it’s your fault because you can’t.  Fortunately for us, he doesn’t get angry with us for not understanding him.

Unfortunately for him, he knows he “can’t talk right.”

A second stroke a few weeks ago further damaged his cognitive processing, and he needs more attentive watchfulness and more assistance with daily activities.  I am grateful it didn’t do worse damage.

It breaks my heart to see him struggle to tell me something and finally say, “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”  Some phrases come out perfectly, even some sentences strung together.  For that, I’m grateful.

My father fought in WW II, and was captured by the Germans during the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944.  He spent the next four months with his fellow American captives being moved around Germany, as the Germans were losing and were staying on the move.  Most of the time they were walking, and never had any shelter during one of the coldest winters on record.  There was very little food, and one of the few stories he told was that people of the countryside would sneak turnips to them.

He was liberated in April, 1945, and taken to a hospital in London.  The doctor there told him that he would probably have starved to death in another two weeks.  I am grateful for those people who smuggled the turnips to those starving American soldiers.

He has never talked very much about his experiences of being a POW.  It was just too painful; what few stories he did tell always brought him to tears.

I will always remember the suffering and sacrifice of my dad and so many others just like him.  To those who made the ultimate sacrifice and never returned to their families I owe my undying gratitude.

And where does the Pup figure into all this?  Well, one evening, after supper, a few days after the second stroke, we were sitting at the supper table when I let the Pup out of his crate where he stays when I can’t keep an eye on him.  (The pup, a rambunctious and adventurous 16-month old, can still be a danger to himself and furniture without supervision.)  He immediately went to the supper table straight to my dad’s place.  He nudged my dad’s arm, and Daddy looked down at him, and I saw the biggest smile I had seen since before the stroke come over his face.  “Hello Jack”, he said, and petted and petted him.  The pup just sat down, and looked up at him with the most adoring look; they stayed like that for several minutes, and it was wonderful to see.

Now, we have regular “pup” time after supper.  It’s always the same ritual; Jack goes straight to Daddy, and they have a little love-in.  The pup is at his best with Daddy, and I think he knows that something is different with the man he has seen every day since birth.

I have so much to be thankful for.  Daddy is home with us, where he will stay.  He can still interact some with us, and he can still experience the joy that comes from a sweet dog’s devotion.

Life is good.

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Tagged as: Battle of the Bulge, dog's devotion, Dogs, freedom, gratitude, pet therapy, Prisoner of war, soldier's sacrifice, Stroke, World War II