In Loving Memory of Cinder (1987 – 2005)
I've been putting off writing this article for several weeks now. I'm not lazy. I simply know that I'm dealing with a subject that's bittersweet, and one that touches off many emotions for me. It's been difficult trying to figure out where to begin, so I guess I'll just do it the old-fashioned way and start at the beginning. And please excuse any rambling on my part.
August 26, 1987 was a red-letter day for me. I just didn't know it at the time. While I was going on with my life, there was a pregnant dog giving birth to a litter of pups. The smallest one in the litter was destined to become a vital member of our family. In the process, she would drastically change my life.
Fast forward eight weeks. I was trying to come up with a unique birthday present for my wife. We already had a dog, Jingle, my Christmas present the year before. I'm the canine person in our family, and my wife tolerated Jingle. There was no way she was going to go for a second dog. So I wasn't even thinking about a puppy as a potential present the day we went window shopping and walked into a pet store. One of the puppies in the window caught her eye. We asked to see it. This little bundle of black, brown, and gray was brought out and placed in my arms. She was adorable, wagging her tail slowly, smelling my face, licking my nose and cheeks. Then my wife took her for a few minutes. Puppies usually reacted much less enthusiastically with her than they did with me. However, what happened next surprised us both. The puppy laid in her arms for a minute, looking at her. Then she crawled up my wife's chest and nuzzled her neck. She sighed and stayed there, not moving, just content. It was almost as if she knew she had to win my wife over if she wanted to go home with us.
It worked. Two days later she took a car ride and became part of our family. Happy birthday, honey!
She was a mix of Alaskan Malamute and Golden Retriever, the runt of the litter. She was almost all black, but faded into gray and white on her legs and paws. That coloring earned her the name "Cinder", because she looked like she might have gone running through the ashes in the fireplace. The girls joked that her middle name should be "Ella", and they tried that for awhile, but it didn't stick (thank God).
Jingle accepted the newcomer with a bit of trepidation at first, but it didn't take him long to realize he had a new playmate. Cinder found herself with a self-appointed babysitter, as Jingle would follow her everywhere, making sure she was all right and not getting herself in any trouble. They got along incredibly well.
The first change that occurred in our family because of Cinder was where the dogs stayed. Jingle slept in the house at night, but was usually outside during the day when the weather was good. He had a well-insulated dog house with plenty of room, and seemed pretty happy about the setup. With Cinder in tow, it seemed a good time to let the dogs stay indoors more when we were home. Jingle was already housebroken, but my wife ended up working with Cinder, taking her to the papers by the garage door after each meal. She picked up on it very fast, and we were all thrilled. She would only whine during the night if she had to go to the bathroom, and that was usually only once. She had her share of accidents, but they were few and far between.
As Cinder grew, it became obvious that she had the Malamute look. The black on her face gave way to black-and-gray all up her muzzle and around her eyes. She had the pointed ears, but while one was always erect, the other would flop over as though it were too tired to be bothered. Throughout her life people would ask if she was part wolf. While she may have looked the part, when it came to personality she definitely sported the Retriever. She got along well with people, but didn't jump all over them or go ballistic. With Cinder, it was a casual walk up to a new person, a sniff or two of the extended hand, maybe a lick if she particularly liked the individual. I guess it was that slow meandering approach that made people fearful of her. They never had anything to worry about.
Several months later Cinder found herself an only puppy. Jingle's experiences as an outdoor dog led to some trouble with a neighborhood kid, who thought it was fun to tease him through our fence every chance he got. He became much more aggressive, not only to people walking by the house but to us as well. The end result was that he had to be put down. It only reinforced our commitment to making Cinder an indoor dog.
As she grew older, we toyed with the idea of letting her have a litter of pups, preferably with a Malamute as the father. The decision was taken out of our hands one fall afternoon when we discovered Cinder had a suitor in the back yard. The black Lab had hopped the fence and was making his intentions very clear. Sure enough, a few weeks later it was obvious that she was going to be a mommy. When the time came for her to deliver, it was as if she welcomed our presence. She let us help deliver all eight puppies, and even let friends of ours assist. Of course, she was the devoted mom, taking care of all her kids and keeping them in line. When the time came for them to leave home, I think deep down she was a little relieved. Needless to say, we made certain she wouldn't have to go through that again.
For the next ten years she was our only canine. She was living life with us, watching our daughters grow older, surviving a family move from Colorado to Texas, adapting to a new climate, making new friends, and always taking things in stride. Nothing seemed to faze her. New situations didn't freak her out; new people didn't bother her. She was absolutely the perfect dog. And nobody ever had to ask whose dog she was. She was mine. My wife's birthday present from 1987 now belonged to me through osmosis or ownership or whatever you want to call it. I couldn't have been happier.
At the ripe old age of 11 she found herself reliving her past, except on the other side of the fence. This time she got to be the babysitter for a new puppy, a stray that my wife for some unknown reason took compassion on and wanted to keep. The white Shepherd/yellow Lab mix was shy and nervous around other dogs and people, but there were two she had no problem – my wife and Cinder. In particular, she seemed to think Cinder was her own personal plaything. While we worried that RiCA was going to go too far in her playtime, looking back we realize that she actually revitalized Cinder. Old age was taking its toll, with cataracts on her eyes, arthritis in her joints, and deafness. We both believe that RiCA's presence added several more years to Cinder's life, keeping her active as she aged. (Yeah, pup, I owe you for that. Don't get cocky.)
Shortly after we moved in the summer of 2004, Cinder came down with what was eventually diagnosed as age-induced hepatitis. Without even seeing her, our vet suggested it might be time to put her down. (After all, she was nearly 17.) Aghast, we went to another vet instead. They made the diagnosis and gave us several options. We chose one and Cinder recovered. She was weak and tired, but she was still getting up and around and wasn't in any pain. We were grateful that the vet gave us an option that allowed her to be with us for a little while longer. The one change I noticed was that she would occasionally cry out as though trying to locate us (she was almost completely blind and deaf by this time). I'd go to her, call her name, and pet her for a little bit, reassuring her that we were still here.
A little over a year later we were getting ready to move again. Cinder hadn't been eating or drinking for several days. Concerned, my wife took her to the vet. After several exams, we were informed that there was nothing wrong, that she was just "getting old". Her body was probably starting to shut down. I asked if we had to consider putting her to sleep, and was told that unless she was in pain, we could allow her to spend her final days at home being loved on by us. So we took her home and made her as comfortable as possible.
Early in the morning of August 23, 2005, I woke up and went out to see how she was doing. I laid down by her on the floor, discovering she was wide awake. She looked at me as if to say, "Well, it's about time." Suddenly she went into a seizure. While it couldn't have lasted more than 15 or 20 seconds, to me it seemed an eternity. When her body finally quieted, she looked over at me again, with a "What the heck was that all about?" look in her eyes. From that moment on, she was almost continually crying. Petting her didn't calm her down. She would flinch at sudden touch or loud noises. She was hurting. And so later that morning, I wrapped my puppy in a sheet to shield her from the light (she flinched at that too) and we drove to our vet. They were incredibly compassionate and explained the entire process. We were in the room when they administered the medication that would free her from her pain forever. We watched her body tense up, and then relax. And that was it. Cinder was gone, three days before she would have turned 18.
We cried a lot that day, and over the next few days. Less than two weeks later, I was alone in the now-empty house we were leaving. I'd met the landlord, received our security deposit, and given him the key. All I had to do was close the door and walk into the future. Instead, I stood in the spot where Cinder had laid her last few days on earth and wept uncontrollably. I mourned her passing, believing I had betrayed her by choosing euthanasia. I felt as if I was abandoning my dog, leaving the last place she'd shared with us and going on to a new home that would have no evidence of her presence. I cried until there were no tears left. And then I closed the door and left.
I've learned several things from Cinder's passing. As she grew older, and especially in the last year or two of her life, it was hard remembering her as anything but an older dog who was slowing down, playing less, sleeping more, needing more care from us. With her gone, I find myself remembering things she did when she was younger – chasing a tennis ball, teasing us and getting us to chase her, begging for tidbits at the dinner table, racing into the kitchen every time my wife opened the bag of cheese. She loved cheese. She loved pizza – SERIOUSLY loved pizza. She tolerated grooming, but only just. She could "sit pretty" and "speak" and roll over (two steps – "belly up" and then "all the way over") and "gimme five". She smiled an awful lot. Memories just seem to pop up unannounced like that. It's a good thing, a comforting thing. It makes me realize that she did have a good life.
I've learned that grieving doesn't happen all at once. It spreads itself out over days, weeks, sometimes months. There will be periods when things seem to be going well, and then suddenly time doubles back and it's like I'm starting all over again. A few months ago when my wife and I rented the Disney movie "Eight Below", I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in one scene. The injured dog's cries carried me back to Cinder's last night in our home, when she made those same sounds of pain. I don't know how many minutes of the movie we missed, but it was definitely more than just a few shots of one scene. For the rest of the movie, I was yelling at the dogs in nearly every scene: "Don't go there! Get the door open! Run! Look over there, you're going to leave one!" (Good thing I didn't see this movie in the theater. They'd have kicked me out.) I'm still grieving, even as I write this article. But that's okay, too. You don't forget somebody that important in a week or a month or a year. Sometimes you don't ever forget them. And that's a good thing.
I've learned that she had a bigger influence on our family and friends than I realized. My wife's attitude towards animals has changed greatly since having Cinder. It made it easier for her to take in RiCA and give her the love she would never have been able to give before. I think the best epitaph for Cinder I've ever heard came from my father. Several times during the course of her life, he commented that if he ever got a dog, he wanted one just like her. That's probably the highest compliment she ever could have received, and one I'll always remember. Thanks, Dad.
I've also learned to appreciate our current pets even more. I've discovered that you don't get a new pet to "replace" the old, because it never does. (More on that in a future article.) I'm finding that it's okay to move on without having to feel guilty about it. Most importantly, I've learned the old adage "you don't know what you've got ‘til it's gone" is uncomfortably true.
Old lady, I miss you so much. I hope you enjoyed life with us while you were here. I fiercely hold on to your memory and your spirit. I still love you.
I hope to see you again one day.
P.S. I've just been informed via email that this Saturday, August 26, we will be having ice cream and cake and pizza to celebrate what would have been Cinder's 19th birthday. We'll be sharing our memories of and good times with her. I think Cinder would have liked that. Especially if it meant she got some of the pizza in the process.
