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The Cinnamonster

In Memory of Cinnamon (1995-2006)
Cinnamon
Cinnamon

One White Sock

Little red dog with one white sock
Settled for a nap on my feet
Soft little ears and a tail that was docked
You chose to come home with me

When leaving the farm, your heart filled with fear
For the farm was all you had known
But I whispered and comforted and said I was near
And I’d take you to your new home

Somehow I knew as I drove down the road
That my life had profoundly changed
This little red dog with his too long nose
Would share all my joys and my pain

As we headed home, I made a vow
To love and care for you ’til the end
You rested your head on my shoulder and cheek
And I calmed you and stroked with my hand

Little red dog with one white sock
The weeks that followed were rough
But we stuck together and a friendship was formed
That held even when times became tough

Little red dog with one white sock
You were a friend and companion for years
But seeing you in pain as you limped and then hopped
Was enough to bring me to tears

Little red dog with one white sock
This last trip you made not a sound
It’s just another trip we’ve made on this journey
That’s about being together, and not where we’re bound

The news was not good, alas it was a shock
There was nothing that could be done any more
For my poor little friend with one white sock
My heart leapt into my throat as it tore

You sniffed me in greeting as we entered somber-eyed
You smiled and then you hopped about
Putting on a show and comforting us as we cried
Filling us with considerable doubt

Buddy, I wish I could keep you with me
For forever and a day
But to do that, you’d have to suffer
And it’s too high a price for you to pay

You did your job and you did it well
And to ask for more would be too much
I want to remember all that you’ve done
And just how greatly I felt loved

So I laid down beside you and held you in my arms
Resting your head on my shoulder and my cheek
And I stroked and I pet you, and you gave me a kiss
And then quietly you went to sleep

—In loving memory of Cinnamon - my friend, my companion, my love

Biography
Cinnamon
It’s hard work being a dog...

This is my dog, Cinnamon — a “red-tri” colored Australian Shepherd who was born on December 25, 1995 at Silkgrass Kennels in Cassadaga, New York, with help from Rachael Lapp. His mother was a black-tri named “Spring” (Silkgrass Beauty of Spring 1990), and Cinnamon is the spitting image of his father, “Quigley.”

Cinnamon joined me in March of 1996, at 3 months old. I later understood this was perfect timing, as he was still a young pup, but he was old enough that his mother had taught him to do his business “outside the den,” and so it only took 3 days to housebreak him! (Thanks, Spring!) This is probably in part due to the fact that he’s incredibly smart, too. (Sure, all dog-owners say that of their precious poopsie-woopsie, eh?) ;-) But all joking aside, anyone who’s found this page through the Australian Shepherd Web-Ring already knows just how truly brilliant these dogs are.

Cinnamon was truly a blessing, and an all-around “good dog.” Never destructive, and always eager to be pet, he spent his final too-short days as a therapy dog, visiting a nursing home and kids with socio-emotional and pervasive development disorders. He accompanied me to highland games, fife & drum musters, practices, Sunday drives, afternoon hikes, and out on errands. He just liked being with me and meeting people.

Cinnamon
Happy to just be with me

It took me a long time to figure out what a “velcro Aussie” was, until it dawned on me that it was Cinnamon. Wherever I would go, he would stick by my side. If I got up and went into another room, he’d get up and follow. He’d park himself outside the bathroom door to wait for me, at the foot of my bed, and insisted on coming in to the small room while I practiced loud instruments, just so he could be with me. (And if he wasn’t in the room, he was waiting just outside it). He was my shadow. Some people might call that clingy, I called it loyal.

When he was a young dog, a friend told another friend, “I’ve never seen a dog that resembled its owner more.” I took it as a compliment, naturally, because he was just so gentle, smart, generous, loving, beautiful and everything I hoped to be as well.

He was above playing fetch, or tug-of-war, or other such “dog” games, and would much rather sit on my feet, run laps around the yard, banking for invisible sheep, or accompany me in singing the “Marriage of Figaro” or some other such silly nonsense. He understood the joke, and wagged, happily filling in the parts where I prompted him to “sing.” He would warble and make funny talking noises, and at one point, could even say “roll over” as a syllabic “ro-ro-ro” (although his entire life he refused to do roll over even once.) He tried to talk, and I could see the frustration when he couldn’t form his lips that way (he sure came close a few times!), but for everything else, nothing could tell him he wasn’t a person. He understood humor, and would play pranks and jokes on us, smiling slyly and wagging, and flirted by wiggling his eyebrows while smiling and warbling sweet nothings to me.

Except for the talking, which could hardly be considered noise, given the happy nature of it, he was a very quiet dog... but it still felt empty and too quiet in the days after he death, knowing he wasn't with us. Just knowing he was waiting for me, hearing him quietly pant or lick, or even his gentle sometimes-snoring was something I’d long gotten used to and counted on for well-being. Nails clicking against the wall in the middle of the night were common, as he seemed to be dreaming happy thoughts and remembering how he used to do fly-bys and would race around the yard or park with the sheer happiness of being free to run.

Cinnamon
Cinnamon — my beautiful friend

It was the loss of this freedom that started tugging on our hearts earlier this year, when he started favoring his back right leg. It was chalked up to arthritis, and he was given some pain-killers, but he continued favoring it until he ceased using it altogether. Finally, one day, it was merely dangling, useless. We made an appointment for x-rays, and continued through the weekend helping him as best we could maneuver on 3 legs. He was less than happy about it, ears down, only perking up briefly at the prospect of going somewhere or seeing somebody.

He would lay in the same spot all day, and wasn’t interested in eating. He ate because we asked him to, but that was the only reason. When we got his x-ray results back, it was worse than I feared. A bone tumor had invaded his hip socket, and weakened the bone so much that the ball of his femur had shattered. His options were to amputate, possibly buying him some “comfort time” if you want to call it that, but it was so high up the options were limited, and the tumor had probably already begun to spread system-wide. I can’t help but second-guess myself, even though I know there was little else we could do, but the lonely mornings and middle-of-the-nights when I can’t simply reach over the bed and pet him makes it hard to still see it that way.

In 11 years of ups and downs, marriage and divorce, 6 different apartments/houses, 3 states, a million different jobs, 3 pipebands, 4 fife & drum corps, 8 cars, 5 roommates, 3 colleges, 3 degrees, 3 sets of families to visit for the holidays, 50 lbs gained, 75 lbs lost, hikes down to the lake, hikes through the deer brush, full-moon dancing in the backyard at 3 am just because it’s a gorgeous night, weekly lawn-mowing, and thousands upon thousands of miles of road-trips, errands, Sunday-drives, therapy dog classes, trips to the pet store and going through the car-wash, he’s been by my side, and the one constant I could count on. As I look around the room at furniture, possessions, things... there isn’t a single one of them that has been with me as long as he has, nor has meant as much.

Coming home, putting the key in the door, and knowing nobody is there on the other side to greet me with wagging tail and loving eyes is the hardest part. I still look for him as I come through the door, willing him to be there as he would be, tail wagging, sniffing me to see where I’d been, and what I brought back for him. People tell me time will help and heal, but how could I possibly feel anything but bittersweet about the loss of the best thing that ever happened to me? I have so many happy memories I will always cherish, but the part that hurts the most is that I won’t be able to make any more with him.

When Cinnamon's breeder told us several years ago that she was discontinuing her program, I knew I would have to look around and do my homework to find another whom I trusted and believed in, would be open and honest with me about possible health issues, and carefully planned their litters. After searching everywhere and corresponding with several, I finally decided on one a year or more ago, but due to not having litters very often, I figured I'd need to get on the next waiting list. Cinnamon must have known how much I needed comforting and a gentle tongue to lick my tears, because fate opened the door for us to a beautiful 9-week old puppy who was sweet, affectionate, incredibly smart, and still available.

Sunny ("SunSpot") is not Cinnamon, (she proved that by learning to roll-over 3 days after we got her) but we never expected her to be. Cinnamon was one of a kind, and this puppy has awfully big shoes to fill. She's a bit more independent, a bit more rambunctious, a bit less housebroken, but she's got the familiar Aussie personality that tells us she'll be spectacular in her own right. So, I need to start looking to the future, and thank you for being so special, so loyal, for being the beautiful dog you were, in gentle loving spirit as well as soft velvet fur. Goodbye my sweet friend, you will always be my first love, and can’t ever be forgotten.

Photos
Cinnamon's Photo Album
Click the Pic for
Cinnamon’s Photo Album
Cinnamon the Booze-Hound
Caught! (Memorial Day Picnic 2005)

Visit Cinnamon’s photo album, where you can see photos that have collected on this web site since 1996.

Visit Cinnamon’s Photo Album

 

 

(P.S. - Don’t worry, we never fed him beer - we don’t even drink, so I’m not sure where he got his interest from, other than the funky smell of fermentation... but he was caught with his head in the bucket at a Memorial Day picnic sniffing, so I had to take a picture!)