Don't call it a comeback

Cinder is not an aggressive dog. I have never seen him pick a fight with any animal, unless you count the birds and rabbits he chases around the backyard. Thankfully, he hasn’t managed to successfully catch any of them. Yet.

My dog, though, is far from perfect. While Cinder is never the instigator, he is always ready to play finisher. He approaches other dog encounters from a very guarded stance, ready to respond to any threat, real or perceived. This is unacceptable dog behavior, especially when the dog is 130 and growing. I was beginning to worry his development toward “good dog” status had completely stalled. This weekend, however, he made huge progress.

First, on a walk on Saturday, he avoided a fight outright. Coming around a bend, two ladies were enjoying the beautiful day, sitting in lawn chairs with their small dogs, probably 25 and 40 pounds apiece, sitting near them, off leash. Upon seeing Cinder, both women grabbed their dogs by the collars, just to avoid a clash of the dogs. They both managed to grab the collars, but the little one slipped his and made straight for Cinder and I. Of course, I’m fearing the worst.

With the little mutt, fur on end, bristling at my giant, Cin lunged forward…to sniff his rear. Sniffing Cinder back, naturally afraid, he gave a growl. The moment I feared came…and passed. Instead of responding in kind, Cinder sat back on his haunches, head tilted sideways, yellow eyes inquisitive. When the owner reached the little guy, he was cautiously sniffing Cin. It was a complete and total success for dog greetings and Cinder development alike.

The next win came Sunday. My yard backs up to a rocky, incredibly steep hill that reaches toward a neighbors metal rail back fence. Cin likes to sit atop this hill and look over our yard and neighborhood. Our neighbor on top is a sweet, little old lady with a sweet, little old golden retriever. As neither dog spends much time in their respective backyards, they had never met until yesterday.

Digging at the base of the hill, I had a perfect view of the proceedings. Cinder, standing next to their fence, spotted the old girl and froze, eyes locked on her, his stance ready. Looking at him, she paused, seemingly at the edge of the invisible barrier of his presence, then almost melted through it. It was if she crossed under and around the planes of his emotion, and approached him completely without fear or unease. His head and shoulders softened, almost imperceptibly, and he was instantly disarmed. There they stood, gently sniffing each other, until her owner called her in.

As I went back to digging, Cinder stared after her. Clearly confused at the impact she had, and at her lack of trepidation, he watched, almost longingly, as she walked away. Just when I start to worry that he’s no longer developing, I get a reminder that he’s just a puppy, and that yes, he’s coming along nicely.

Two complete victories for Cinder in less than 24 hours, and once again I am hopeful. Don’t call it a comeback.

Just a puppy

Cinder may be huge, but he is still a puppy. If you know dogs well, you can tell by looking at him. He is still gangly, for one, not a phrase often used to describe mastiffs. Additionally, his paws, ears, and head are all still far too big for his body. Just comically oversized for his already significant torso. His floppy ears are literally the size of crow wings. His paws leave tea-saucer size imprints in the dirt, and lead to his constant slipping and tumbling around. As for his head? He has put his mouth around the entire heads of other dogs, including two labs. Not in violence, as he wasn’t biting, rather placing his maw in dominance, but the feat is ridiculous. He put…a head…in his mouth. Cin, I think they can figure out the domination part by looking at you.

Of course, if his appearance is goofy/scary then his antics are both inane and insane, with a silliness exponentially magnified by his size. You know how dogs, especially puppies, pick up sticks and run around with them? Well, so does Cinder, except he picks up big sticks. Brooms, rakes, and shovels are his playthings, all full-sized, and scattered around the yard at a puppy’s whim. As are 6 ft. fence boards, which Cin picks up and runs around with, just a dog playing fetch…or a Force of Nature in level four hurricane mode.

Funny thing is he’s only in the 110-120 range. While that sounds big to people not used to big dogs, it’s really quite a normal weight for any large breed. Big labs and German Shepherds can push that range easily, to say nothing of the very large dogs, like St. Bernards, the various mastiffs, Great Danes and Newfoundlands. While he is clearly not in those weight classes yet, he just as clearly will be.

Allow me to illustrate. A ditch runs behind my parents’ house, and it serves as one of many causeways between their neighborhood and the hills that surround them. He was making his presence known to some passerby’s, standing on two back paws, with his front paws hanging over the top of the 6 ft. fence. His frame is ridiculous. As a disclaimer, we feed him exactly what both his prior kennel and our vet recommend, plus treats, but one can still count every rib in his body. His shoulder blades look positively bony. He’s all legs, and folds up in ridiculous tangles when he lays down.

He is giant, loveable, terrifying, and above all, just a puppy.

The easy job

My job is awesome. Sure the petroleum scene can be high-stress, the hours can be long, and working till seven every night can be limiting, but I’m grateful for it. It’s interesting, virtually never dull, and, most importantly, where I work, no babies die.

My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.

Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.

That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.

Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.

I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.

But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.

There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.

No Country for Old Men

It easy to expect I would enjoy the book behind such an incredible film, but the experience of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men as a whole was different then anything I expected. As a warning now, do not continue reading this post unless you have seen the film or read the book. There are spoilers aplenty, and I implore you not to do anything to ruin this movie for yourself. Yes, it is that good.

Right off the bat, it is clear that the author is well familiarized with the West. Like the movie spawned from it, the book captures the sound, the feel, the essence of the open desert. This is not as easy as it sounds, for it goes far beyond the colloquialisms and dialects of the people, but has more to do with the pace. No, not the salsa. McCarthy’s words fall in a steady tempo. The speech patters are simple but rarely simplistic. In the same manner, No Country comes up short on big words but not at all on big meanings, and it is all far too masterfully executed to be on accident.

McCarthy is also very detail oriented, for good and for ill. Someone doesn’t just get “shot in the face” as the author captures every facet of every scene, leaving nothing to the imagination. You’ll know the entry and exit points of the bullet. You’ll read how the blood drips down the wall, or how the brain matter covered the pillow. The Cohen Brothers also left little to the mind’s eye.

The titular theme of the novel is further carried in the book. More conversations describe the changes in our nation, and more of those changes are associated with drugs. More introspection by Sheriff Bell both delves into his reaction to those changes and cements his status as the main focus of the story. Bell, representing Justice, finds himself more and more outdated. His pursuit of Llewelyn Moss, symbolizing Greed, tells the old tale: a criminal commits a crime, and the law eventually catches up.

Or does it? Can the law ever keep up? When the law isn’t justice any more, it is only the law, a collection of words and practices, ill-matched for the escalation to come.

Sheriff Bell has a bigger problem than the changing nature of the American legal system and that is the change of the American society; namely, it’s gravitation to Violence, epitomized by Anton Chigur. Chigur is a killer, but not a normal one. It is not the drive to due damage or cause pain that fuels him, but rather an inability to conceive of the world in a manner different than the one he sees. Violence is something to be accepted. It isn’t his choice; it just is.

So much is captured between the lines in this novel; it could never be shared in some hastily written post, jotted down by a fan. Screw it; here goes.

Our parents’ grandparents could never imagine the world as it is today, or even as it was for our parents. Beyond the changes in technology, it is the graphic nature of our very lives. Movie war heroes in the 50’s would shoot, and a Nazi would fall to the ground, clutching his chest. They didn’t blow people’s legs off or split their skulls open. Our heroes do.

Because our villains do. Escalation. When two losers shoot up a school, we blame violence in the media. Art reflects societies’ values, not the other way around. Steven Spielberg didn't make war more violent, he just took off the filter. We shouldn’t condemn Michael Bay for selling us explosions; we should condemn ourselves for buying them.

But buying is what we do best. We guzzle fuel, and food, and get all we can, experience all we can. Bigger TV’s, faster cars, trips to theme parks, tripping on drugs.

Drugs, defended by half the country, condemned by the rest. I remember when that commercial came out relating marijuana use to helping terrorism, and all these hippies decried it. I wish the hippies had been right, but a trip to Youtube will show you otherwise. Over the past couple of years, Mexican drug lords have used the site as a forum and scorecard. Torture a rival? Post it on Youtube. Decapitate a cop? Put it online. Then leave the head outside a barracks for the Mexican army. Tough not to call it terrorism.

Drugs epitomize the attitude of consumption. So what if it's illegal, immoral, and wrecks your body? It's a way to spend money on a one time rush. Sign us all up.

I don't know if we can keep up, with the economy or the violence. In the long run, of course we can't. Everything ends eventually, and our society may be too rich, too violent, too much. When you put that much energy in a box, something has to give. Senior citizens always see these changes coming first, with the strength of experience and the weakness of the lens of human mortality, which always warps further towards the end.

Or does it finally get it right? Our society views youth as a virtue, but there's something to be said for those cultures on the other side, such as China, where age is resource of value, the more the better. In all of human history, this is the best time to be alive, and arguably the best place to be living. That said, this is no country for old men.

Welcome home, Cinder

German shepherds, Dobermans, pit bulls and Rotts are scary, but partially because you know their stereotypes. They have a rep for being tough, either as dog fighters or threats to humans or both. Neapolitan mastiffs don’t share this fame. I’ve seen them in pictures and film, but it simply does no justice to this beautiful mastiff. That’s not fair: the beauty you pick up on immediately. It’s their prowess at instilling fear that you miss.

I had never seen a Neo (nickname for the breed) in the flesh before. I’d done the homework, read the stories and tips. I know the Neapolitan mastiff is stubborn and territorial. I know they were bred first to fight alongside gladiators in the Coliseum and then later to guard the estates of rich Romans. Still, I was unprepared. In all seriousness, Cinder is the most terrifying canine I have ever seen. By nature I trust dogs, almost to a fault. While Parker was 80 pounds, 75 at his leanest, and by far the smallest dog I’ve ever had, he still was intimidating.

The fear inspired by his appearance was nothing compared to gazing at our new, well, kinda-puppy. My heart literally jumped in my chest when I first laid eyes on him. In trepidation. The head is massive, as are the jaws. The brow is so prominent that the eyes are difficult to read. With irises of blue-gray, coupled with his shadowy fur, he looks ethereal, a phantom beast. It gives him the look of being cold, cruel. He looks, for lack of a better word, like a murderer.

Fortunately, he’s not; he’s a lover. He’s a big, dumb baby. He still has the playful, frolicsome prance of a puppy, not the lumbering, intimidating gait of a grown mastiff. He wants to play like a four month old dog, pawing and nibbling and jumping up on you. It’s a problem, and it will change. When you are the size of a human adult, you need to be well behaved, and his aggressive play was actively dangerous. You feel his tail thwacks. His playful paw swipes could easily knock over children. A playful jump up can result in a feet-to-the-chest knockdown of a grownup. He is a powerful animal. His growl and bark are deep and menacing, despite his teenager status.

I’d guess Cinder weighs in around 110. He is only 15 months old, yet already he is longer, taller, and unbelievably, he already has a bigger chest than old Parker at his strongest. He’s basically the human equivalent of a 9 year-old, yet larger than easily 90% of dogs. Dogs start early, but he won't fill out fully for at least another year, and mastiffs typically grow later than other breeds. I sincerely doubt he'll finish below 150, and he might push the 2 bills mark.

As for the interesting name, we got him from a shelter, and his name was Sinner. While “Ole Sinner” isn’t the worst possible name, it’s certainly not one we’d choose for a family pet. We didn’t want to start fresh either, figuring a pound puppy moving homes, cities, and climates didn’t need any more change than was coming anyway. “Cinder” just came to me. As a blue brindle Neo (that’s gray with other gray stripes), kind of ash colored, it worked perfectly.

It even fits him beyond that level however, and this one’s for you, Bear. Big, dark-colored dogs are the least likely to be picked up from kennels. They look scary, and they appear old faster, neither being traits people line up for with new dogs. His dad had already been euthanized at the previous shelter, from where they obtained our boy, and frankly, the odds weren’t great for a giant, terrifying hound with no etiquette whatsoever. The women from the rescue knew his odds were as bleak as his brown-grey eyes. The last glowing ember of a dying fire, no one can tell how long he had to smolder.

Yet, through the long odds, that Cinder caught a spark. He found a home, and he is already becoming the pet we knew he could be. Man’s best friends may not get a fair shot at life as often as they deserve, but this one shows why you have to take the chance. As I write this, he sleeps peacefully at the feet of my wife. There’s a long road left with Cinder, one paved with obedience, rewards, and love.