Cinder: RIP, gentle soul

When the late Vic Rubenstein, who owned the ad agency where I try to keep my hand in as a writer, finally achieved his dream of a dog of his own, I cautioned him not to love that animal too much. They don't live very long, I reminded, and I shared this poem with him.

Vic was devastated. "Why did you show me that?" he cried.  Because you have to be ready, I said. As all animal lovers know, when you let them into your heart you have to be prepared to let them back out.

When you have a dog who came into your life because her former owners -- and even your husband, who took her but "couldn't bond with her" -- rejected her, you find that the adage is true that rescued dogs know who their rescuer is. For her 15-plus years here, Cinder was my shadow. She slept in my room, jerking awake with a snarl if anyone crossed the threshold. She could bark incessantly, as smooth-haired collies do, until I ran looking for the muzzle -- and as soon as she saw it, she'd shut up. She would sleep for hours in the summer grass but would appear miraculously at the car door when I was ready to drive somewhere. She followed me to the barn twice a day, even after a debilitating stroke a few years ago seriously curtailed her movement.

So I promised her: As long as you can walk on your own, I'll help you stay alive.

Last week, the youngest dog in the house began tormenting her. I removed her to my room, aware of how weak she seemed. Wednesday, she began refusing food.  Thursday, she wanted no water.  And she couldn't stand on her own. It was time.

Thanks to the gentle work of a caring vet, she is no longer in pain.

But I am.

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware	5
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.	10
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs	15
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair—
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).	20
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,	25
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:	30
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
-- "The Power of the Dog,'" Rudyard Kipling