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.