Tuesday, December 02, 2008
My poor mutt Cinnamon died of cancer a month ago. I had her for 11 years, when I first got her from the Coconino County Animal Shelter and introduced her to my roommates' dogs Indy and Sophie in the dusty parking lot to make sure they wouldn't kill each other. Then I squashed them into my Corolla and Big Big Man's Geo Prism and took them back to the house of fun on Cooper Street, on the lee side of a mountain that generated its own snowstorms, which always seemed to have it in for our housing development. I'm writing about Cinnamon now sitting in Little Big Man's physical therapy office, where he's walking up and down ramps and swinging from chains in the name of improved muscle tone, and there are dozens, if not hundreds, of things that I should be doing instead. But I'm doing this instead, because not writing to me has started to feel like suffocation.
Cinnamon, Sophie and Indy polluted our yard, trampeled the grass to death, ate garbage and threw it up (in Indy's case), left animal hair all over everything, and amused the hell out of us. After work, I used to leash them all up and walk them to the end of the street, where the houses ended and the blacktop plunged into undeveloped forest and field, and I'd let them go and walk around while they galloped through mud, snowbanks and tall stalks of dried grass. I'd chuck snowballs for them and it was here that I discovered Cinnamon's hidden talent -- she'd launch spectacularly into the air, body arched, to pulverize them into powder. Or I'd throw one straight above her head and she'd push off with her hind legs like a jack-in-the-box, contorting her back to snap it up. Later, in Tuscon, I'd throw a soft frisbee and she'd gallop after it, drawing admiring watchers two as she flew off the ground to pluck it from the sky, including a kid who memorably said, "Wow! That's a professional dog or something!"
The dogs in Flagstaff used to play-fight, with Indy, the smallest of them, grabbing Sophie's generous neck ruff and tugging on it, and the three of them pelting around the house after each other. They loved outings and to accompany us on hikes and mountain-bike rides. Once, I took Sophie and Indy up a bike trail and back down it, splashing in and out of a stream and pedaling as fast as I could go. It was only when I got them back into the car and they collapsed in the back seat that I realized how hard it had been for them, and I loved them even more for their endurance and plain old joy in being outside, running up and down a mountain and getting their feet wet.
I know it's futile, but I hope to get another dog soon that had all of Cinnamon's best qualities: undying love and loyalty and a willingness to do anything, along with her suspicion of strangers and scary bark -- the impression of meanness, if not the actual trait.
Cinnamon, Sophie and Indy polluted our yard, trampeled the grass to death, ate garbage and threw it up (in Indy's case), left animal hair all over everything, and amused the hell out of us. After work, I used to leash them all up and walk them to the end of the street, where the houses ended and the blacktop plunged into undeveloped forest and field, and I'd let them go and walk around while they galloped through mud, snowbanks and tall stalks of dried grass. I'd chuck snowballs for them and it was here that I discovered Cinnamon's hidden talent -- she'd launch spectacularly into the air, body arched, to pulverize them into powder. Or I'd throw one straight above her head and she'd push off with her hind legs like a jack-in-the-box, contorting her back to snap it up. Later, in Tuscon, I'd throw a soft frisbee and she'd gallop after it, drawing admiring watchers two as she flew off the ground to pluck it from the sky, including a kid who memorably said, "Wow! That's a professional dog or something!"
The dogs in Flagstaff used to play-fight, with Indy, the smallest of them, grabbing Sophie's generous neck ruff and tugging on it, and the three of them pelting around the house after each other. They loved outings and to accompany us on hikes and mountain-bike rides. Once, I took Sophie and Indy up a bike trail and back down it, splashing in and out of a stream and pedaling as fast as I could go. It was only when I got them back into the car and they collapsed in the back seat that I realized how hard it had been for them, and I loved them even more for their endurance and plain old joy in being outside, running up and down a mountain and getting their feet wet.
I know it's futile, but I hope to get another dog soon that had all of Cinnamon's best qualities: undying love and loyalty and a willingness to do anything, along with her suspicion of strangers and scary bark -- the impression of meanness, if not the actual trait.
