Four days after Dad's 67thbirthday, 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 visit 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!" I said excitedly. Dad wrinkled his face. "I don't want it," he muttered, turning back towards the house. Then, suddenly, the dog pulled free from my grasp. He sat down in front of my Dad. Dad's anger melted, and soon he was hugging the dog. This was the beginning of a warm friendship. Dad named the dog Cheyenne. Together they spent long hours walking down dusty lanes and relaxing on the banks of streams. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne went on to make many friends. Then, late one night two years later, I felt Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing   through my bed covers. He had never before come into my bedroom at night. I ran into my father's room and found that he had passed away. Two days later, my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. As I buried him near their favorite stream, I silently thanked the dog for restoring Dad's peace of mind. Why did the author take the pointer home?
It was a type that is known for its friendliness. Its eyes made her think it was the best dog available. It was good at getting people's attention and entertaining them. It caught her attention right away and she didn't want it to be killed.