$25 Bundle of Love

I always wanted a Whippet. They're hard to come by in America, but in Europe they are like Golden Retrievers. You see them everywhere.When I stopped by the West Valley Animal Shelter in December of 2013, I hardly expected to find one. As I stepped into the large main lobby, an employee greeted me and asked if there was a specific dog I was looking for. I told him. He said: "Oh, you mean like this one?" And beckoned me to follow him down the long hallway. My heart beat sped up. They actually have a whippet? The shelter was typically full of Pitbulls, Huskies, German Shepherds and Chihuahuas. What was I about to see?

We walked into the long kennel where they kept the dogs. It was cold, dark and noisy. Dogs barked and howled. Metal bowls clanged. I followed him to one of the last cages on the left side. As I walked up to look into the cage, I was greeted by a leaping, licking, happy, little "Whippet." As I stuck my fingers through the cage, I looked at her card. It said "stray" and "Whippet" and that she had a week to go in the shelter before she could be adopted. The man explained she had been running the streets of the west valley when she was caught by the dog catcher. I thought to myself, "And no one has came looking for her?" She was frantically licking my fingers as I leaned down to look through the metal bars and into her eyes.

It was love at first sight.

She had dark brown olive eyes to match her dark brown seal-smooth coat. A white stripe divided her dark chocolate face and ran all the way to her belly, spotted along the way with dark brown freckles in various shapes and sizes. She had the cutest upright--but floppy at the tips--ears. She had the slender build of a whippet  with the slightly arched back and thin legs but she also had a barrel chest - not a large barrel like a dog that would rescue you in the snow, but one that meant business. She was muscular but trim, probably from running in the streets and jumping up and down, which she continued to do. I tickled her forehead between the bars. I HAD to have her. 

"So I can come back Saturday for her?" I asked the man still standing behind me.

"Yea, she'll be up for adoption first thing in the morning. I do expect there to be an auction for her though. We hardly ever get dogs like this, so get here early. If no one else shows up and wants her then there won't be a bidding war and she's yours. You know what..." His voice trailed off as he motioned once again for me to follow him. He led me back to the main office where he printed out Cali's intake card and handed it to me. 

"Here," he said. "Bring this in and take it straight to the first employee you see when you come in on Saturday and say you want this dog. They'll go get her. Once you pay, she's yours." I thanked him numerous times and promised I'd be back on Saturday.

On Saturday morning, I showed up a half hour before the shelter opened. It was raining and miserable and my nervous anticipation was making me nauseous. Every car that pulled up I thought: "Are you going to be bidding on the dog I want? Are you? Are you?" I started to try to figure out how much I would be willing to bid for her. 150? 200? No you would hate to lose her for that...$300, $500? I settled at somewhere around $400 and tried to stay calm.

The front doors opened at 8 and I jumped out of my car. I went inside with several other folks who were also hustling toward the kennels and the front desk. I saw an employee standing between the lobby and the kennels. Like a kid on a pool deck, I speed walked over to him, handed him the shelter card and said I wanted to adopt this dog. He said he would go get her and that I could stand in line at the front desk to pay for her. I got in the line. I listened carefully to the few people in front of me wondering if they were interested in the same dog I was. Would there be an auction? A few minutes later, the employee came back with the dog on a leash and handed me her official kennel card. She was all hops, wiggles and kisses. She took short prance-y, happy steps as he took her behind the counter and out of site. I was on egg shells waiting to pay for her. I finally made it to the front counter and handed the lady the kennel card.

"Driver's license please?" she said. I handed it to her. What else do you need? I thought to myself. Birth certificate? AAA card? Proof of home ownership? I got it.

"That will be $25." She said. 

$25? That's it?! Turns out it was a December special they were running. Adopt any shelter dog for $25 which included spaying and neutering.

I handed her my credit card and she processed the transaction.

The Whippet was mine!

She told me that the dog would need to be spayed and that I could pick her up later that day. She gave me the address to the pet hospital where the dog would be having surgery, just a few miles away. As I stood waiting for her to process everything I had just signed, I tried to think of what I was going to name my new pooch.

It came to me in an instant. I'll name my favorite dog after my favorite state.

Cali.

Somehow, I just knew she would be my favorite dog of all time. Turned out I was right.

I took Cali home later that afternoon. She was tender from surgery but still full of kisses and energy. She was 10 months old. Her tongue was too big for her mouth and her right eye was slightly smaller and not quite in alignment with the other--It was the only thing lazy about her. She had three white "sock" paws. Clearly, she had lost one sock while running the streets of the valley.

After she got her strength, I proudly took her to the dog park in her purple sparkle collar and purple harness. Someone was coming out of the park as I was going in and asked me "What kind of dog is that?" "Whippet" I said. "At least I think so. She's a puppy." He didn't say anything. Just looked at her a bit confused. Maybe he didn't know what a whippet was.

Once inside Cali challenged every dog to a race. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs that didn't want to race. Some gave chase and she left most of them in the dust. She wasn't just fast, she could turn on a dime. People would stop and make comments about her speed and agility and say she must be some kind of a greyhound breed. I told them her kennel card said she was a whippet. They would just nod. I was thrilled to have her, but curious if she would grow a bit more; if her back would arch a bit more; like a Whippet, but no matter what, I would love her, however she turned out.

Awhile later, I posted pictures of her on Facebook and asked people to tell me what kind of dog they thought she was. I kept getting the same responses: "I see Staffordshire Terrier" "I see staffie plus maybe a greyhound breed of some type in there?' "Pocket Pittie?" Turns out they were right. I had her DNA analyzed through one of the doggie test kits and sure enough she was NOT a whippet.

She was 50% Italian Greyhound, 25% Pitbull (Staffordshire Terrier) and 25% Jack Russell.

Or in short, she was a Jack Pit Russel. Or an Italian Jack Pit. Or a Italian Bull Russell.

She wasn't a Whippet. She was a "Jippit." I didn't care. 

She was the best dog I had ever had. Pure joy on a leash. Pure bliss off. My constant companion. A well-behaved eye-catcher with a heart of gold. She was friendly to other dogs, loved everyone and easy to train. She learned sit, come, and stay in ten minutes. She walked perfectly on a leash without classes. She was fun and energetic. She wasn't destructive and rarely peed in the house. She slept in her crate that first night at home without a peep. She was a love bug, with endless kisses and leg hugs to give even to strangers who stepped into her radius, especially if they were wearing black pants. She'd roll over so you could rub her freckled belly. She had a face that could melt butter and looked good in every picture. I called her "Sears photo puppy" for that reason. She was my "bestie."

I took her on early morning runs with me-- in fact, there was a time this dog ran 3-5 miles a day with me 4-5 days a week. She didn't stop to sniff when we were running, just trotted alongside me like she knew the drill. Many times I had to pick her up and carry her as coyotes would cross our paths or chase us as the sun was coming up on the horizon. I've run over a half mile with her in my arms until I felt it was safe enough to put her down. She'd take care of me during the morning runs, too. The one time I heard her bark on our run was when a stranger stepped out from behind a bush into our path and she thought she had to protect me. Her bark was strangely aggressive. I didn't know she had it in her. I used to say: "You protect me from the bad people; I'll protect you from bad animals." She has been on trails all over California. She has run off leash on a few beaches and parks because she always came back when I called. I'll never forget her off leash time at Peter Strauss Park in Agoura Hills. No one else was there and she ran free in between the oak trees, scraggly bushes and shallow creek, sniffing and leaping and trotting and running as free and happy as I had ever seen her. I remember thinking "She is in heaven." Her overt joy brought me to tears. 

OK, she wasn't always perfect, but as biased as I am, I thought even her flaws were cute. She only brought balls back half way. She was PETRIFIED of referee whistles so I could never watch sports on TV. She hated the rain. Even in a rain coat, she wouldn't go outside without a lot of coaxing, or in some cases--carrying. She would lick any exposed skin on your legs, face, arms--which not every guest in my house appreciated. But she was only an aggressive kisser - I could trust her with anyone because I knew she did not have a mean bone in her body. She never growled at anyone or tried to bite. She was a total sweetheart to her core. She knew when I was sick or sad and would sit with me to comfort me, not just with me, but on me. She would lean in and look up at me with those dark olive eyes. The ones that looked in to your soul. She's seen me through eye surgeries, sprained ankles, stressful days, sad goodbyes and COVID. It's hard to describe, but she wasn't just a dog living in a dog's world that overlapped with mine, she was actually in this world with me--she really looked at me, really looked at others, paid attention to people and emotions and moments in the human world and reacted to them--in a way I had never noticed a dog do before. She was present and interested- not just a fur ball lying on a couch or under the kitchen table. I know everyone says this about their dog, but Cali was special. I have never known another dog like her.

She was also a great travel dog. She loved to go in the car and LOVED being in hotels. I always had to pick hotels where dogs were welcome because there was nothing Cali liked better than running into the room and jumping up on the bed, and spreading out on the comforter like it was hers. She has been to Carmel, Monterey, Solvang, Buellton, Los Olivos, San Diego, Ventura, Carpinteria, Paso Robles, Malibu, Conejo Valley, Pismo, Camarillo, Santa Monica, Newport Beach, Manhattan Beach, Venice, Tehachapi, Palm Springs, San Luis Obispo (allowed inside a record store), Cambria (loved the "chipmunks"), Cayucos, and many, many other places all over California. She's also been on TV. She and and my other pup Denali made the KTLA morning news as the featured pups during the weather segment. She didn't let it go to her head.

Cali endeared herself to everyone she met along the way-- "To know her is to love her" I used to say. She loved and was loved by my family, friends, the MIMs running group, neighbors, sitters, anyone she met, even the staff at the vet's office who saw her regularly the last year of her life. If you met her and didn't love her, well then we probably couldn't be friends. As a result of having so many people who loved her, she had a lot of nicknames:

Cali-Coo and Hard Licker (my sister gave her these names), Coco, Cocolicious, Cocolatte, Coconuts, Coconuts, Cali Girl, CaliCoo, Cal, Calorific, Roo-Roo, Roo-Dog, Nena, Beauty, Pocahontas (don't ask), Lovebug, Skipper....the list goes on an on. 

I even named my online record collection and store after her - Coco's Records. Her picture is on mugs, t-shirts and inside a small charm, a precious gift my sister gave me.

On Monday, July 17, 2023, I had to put her down. After a five year battle with Cushing's Disease, ongoing bouts of pancreatitis, along with liver problems, kidney failure and a heart murmur, she was done. The vet confirmed there was nothing else that could be done after all the meds, IV's, fluids, antibiotics, and everything else that went into keeping up this beautiful girl's quality of life for the past few years. Not a single staff member at the vet's office had a dry eye when they found out it was time to let her go. Cali had touched each of their hearts just like everyone else she crossed paths with, and they called her "part of their family." I will never forget one of the Vet Techs coming in the room to say goodbye to Cali as she lay in her bed on the exam table. She leaned over her, called her "sweet mama" and kissed her forehead with big tear drops falling down her face and on to Cali.

She went peacefully surrounded by people who loved her. I kept the promise I made to her years ago that I would not let her suffer, but it doesn't mean that my heart didn't shatter into a million pieces having to let her go. She was the best $25 I ever spent and a blessing from God.

I will always love you Cali. 

You may not be a whippet, but you're the best dog ever.

Cali
2/14/12 - 7/17/23

My Little Greyhound

The ad in the Pennysaver said "Little Greyhound. Free."

"Yay!" I thought. "Someone has a whippet or an Italian greyhound up for adoption and they don't know what it is!" Whippets and Italian greyhounds look exactly like "little greyhounds" and are hard to come by, not to mention expensive. I called the number in the ad and got the address of the house where the dog was located. I was living in the San Fernando Valley at the time and this "little greyhound" was just a few miles away. As I drove, I realized I was heading into a part of the valley where prostitution and drugs were common transactions and several notorious L.A. gangs rivaled over turf. I decided it was worth the risk to get my dream dog, so I drove on. I parked near an apartment complex and walked around until I found the right apartment number. I could hear the rush of traffic on Sepulveda Boulevard, police sirens, and the echo of people yelling in the complex. I knocked lightly.

The door opened almost immediately. A woman was holding a small dog in her arms.

It was not a little greyhound.

It was a chihuahua.

"Hi! Come in!" She said brightly and beckoned me to come inside. I stepped cautiously into the house wondering if this was a set-up. Would I suddenly be grabbed and robbed?

The living room was sparse with a full size couch on one wall and nothing else in the room but carpet. The woman handed the dog to me and said, "She's really sweet." I took her carefully and asked if it was OK to sit down. I wasn't good at holding babies or puppies. I always worried I would drop them. She said it was fine so I placed the dog on the carpet, crouched down and sat cross-legged next to her. This tiny brown dog ran into my lap, stood up on her hind legs, and licked my face with a few teeth included in the kiss. Then she jumped out of my lap and started to bolt around the room. As she did, I heard a door slam and looked up to see a man walking toward me. He had just come from outside and I could see out the sliding glass door behind him. There was a large pit bull staring through the glass at me, fogging it up with each snort.

"Hey," he said flatly. His white t-shirt was dirty and he had on long black Nike shorts. "We have to get rid of her." He pointed at the chihuahua who was now circling back toward me. "We just got Butch and he tried to kill her. Bit her back leg as a matter of fact last week and so you may notice sometimes she doesn't walk right." I nodded and gulped down my shock as she made her way back into my lap, crawled in and sat down. I petted her soft, short fur. Around her neck was a huge brown leather collar with silver spikes meant for a dog three times her size.

This was not my dream dog. Not a little greyhound. I mean she was thin, light brown, could move quickly but for goodness sake how do you mistake a chihuahua for a greyhound of any size? My first thought was to say, "Thanks, but no thanks." But now, I knew her life was in danger. And she was in my lap. 

"Oh wow," I said, stroking her back. "Yeah, she's very small. Doesn't take much for her to get hurt." The man sat on the edge of the couch next to the woman and crossed his large muscular arms.

"Yeah," he said. "Butch was just letting' her know he's boss, but I know it's only a matter of time so..." as his voice trailed off, this little pup got up from my lap, turned around and put her paws on my chest. She looked me in the eyes as if to say: "He's not kidding. Get me out of here!"

I played with her for a little bit and made small talk. This dog was clearly spunky and adorable. She had big chocolate brown eyes, a white stripe down the middle of her face and was the color of a camel. I said I would like to adopt her. The woman stood up from the couch.

"Kids! Come say goodbye to Cinnamon!" She bellowed toward the hallway.

"What?!" I thought. "Her name is Cinnamon?"  That was the name of the rabbit I had as a child. My psycho rabbit. The one that would grunt, claw, and bite and one time kicked me in the face with her sharp claws leaving a one inch scar in the shape of a "y" just below my left eye. Was she being reincarnated to torment me again? 

I looked up to see a child's eyes poke around the hallway corner about half way up the wall.  Then another. And another. And another. I could see only the eyes and hair of what appeared to be about four children of ascending heights and ages. It was like a totem pole of curiosity.  

"Come out here!" The woman yelled. "Cinnamon is being adopted. Come say goodbye."

The kids walked out slowly into the living room and almost in unison said "Goodbye Cinnamon!"" A few knelt down on the carpet and she got up from my lap to walk toward them. They took turns petting her and saying goodbye in high pitched voices as she scampered in and out of their clutches.

I felt awful. They weren't crying but I almost was. I was taking their dog.

But like the man, they seemed resolved to the fact that Cinnamon had to go. So I picked her up after their goodbyes and said "Thank you, I'll give her a good life..."or something like that and walked out the door and toward my car.

I drove Cinnamon home and plopped her in my living room. I removed her giant collar and gave her a small pink collar with a bell. A cat collar.

That was the beginning of the 17 years I would spend with her.  

Right from the get-go she was feisty, but in a playful, funny way--like the cousin who loves to pull pranks at family dinners, putting balloons on your seat before you sit down.  She and my cat, Lucky, hit it off right away. Lucky was a black cat who thought he was a dog. So he got right to it and began playing with Cinnamon like his long lost pal had come home. They would chase each other around the backyard and on more than one occasion end up rolling around together as a swirled black and brown high speed fur ball. They never hurt each other and it was the beginning of a long inter-species friendship.

Cinnamon's ultimate display of feistiness came late one night when I let her out to go to the bathroom. As she trotted into the kitchen toward the doggy door to the backyard she found a raccoon eating her dog food. She chased it out the doogy door barking furiously. Before I could stop her I heard what could only be described as a scream, and then her yelping. I ran outside and found a raccoon on top of her. Now, this may sound made up, but mothers will understand. Without hesitating, I reached down and grabbed the raccoon by its fur. I managed to get a good grip on it's back and throw it overhand into the backyard away from Cinnamon. (I always wondered why I through it overhand, but I hadn't ever thrown "like a girl" and I wasn't going to start then.) The raccoon disappeared into the darkness. Cinnamon was injured. She had a huge gash on her belly and was bleeding. She would not stop moaning and whimpering. I felt dizzy and thought I was going to be sick. I covered the wound and wrapped her up. She got twelve stitches, antibiotics and a rabies shot as soon as the vet's office opened. Later that day, I noticed I had a deep scratch on my arm. With all the adrenaline, I hadn't noticed it earlier. Cinnamon recovered well and got her feistiness back. In fact, I discovered she had a full personality that included charming, silly, funny, playful, loving, bossy, stubborn, and everything in between. She was never a snappy, mean, loud-mouthed, possessive chihuahua like some can be. Just like her original owners, I don't think she knew she was a chihuahua. She was more pleasant and well behaved than any dog I had ever had. Her personality inspired a lot of cute nicknames:

Cinna-snap, Cinny, Cinna-bun, Silly-Billy, Cin-Cins, even Special Kitty (Don't ask.)...She earned them all.

Weighing only nine pounds, Cinnamon slept in a round cat-bed for most of her life. She loved to be wrapped in blankets. She loved her red "hoodie" sweatshirt. She loved sitting in the sun even though it would make her sneeze. Even in her sweatshirt and in the sun she would shiver to manipulate you into picking her up or holding her. She never played with toys or balls; she acted as though she was above all that and she preferred humans anyway. At the dog park, she would ignore all the other dogs, step right over tennis balls and go up one by one to every human to say hi while other dogs sniffed and jostled her. She would hop into the laps of perfect strangers. She could run like the wind and was fearless. She once fan so fast in a grassy park that she lost her balance and barrel rolled for what seemed like a quarter mile only to pop up and keep running, grass flying off her back. I discovered she knew how to parkour her way on to my kitchen counter tops when a macaroon cookie went missing and later she delivered a coconut laced gift in my backyard. Oh, Cinnamon. I often joked saying: "I jumped her out of a Van Nuys gang, but she jumped herself back in on a daily basis." 

She went on plenty of walks--putting her paws in the sand, the mud, the rain, and the snow all over California. Sometimes, she would appear to skip, holding up her back right leg while she hopped for a few steps on her left. She definitely had a "hitch in her gait" and it always reminded me of how she had come to be mine. But she never let it slow her down. When I bought the house I am in now, the first day I moved in, she found a way out the front door and a neighbor brought her back. She seemed almost disappointed to be back. I think she wanted to scout out the neighborhood for raccoons and black cats. She didn't realize she was now 16 years old, nearly deaf, barely able to see through milky eyes and a bit disoriented. I watched her slow down over the next few years, go blind, grow weak and thin, but still have moments of her trademark feistiness. She tried to keep up with my other dogs, giving them a hard time when she could, reminding them who was in charge. But I worried about her getting hurt because she'd never known her limits, or maybe she did and just chose to race right through them. Once she jumped off the couch and landed with a cartoon like "splat" on my hardwood floors. Her legs didn't support her and she hit the ground so hard I thought for sure she'd be paralyzed. But she popped up and shook it off like she always did, without a whimper.

But a few days ago, she stopped eating and just wanted to sleep all day, curled up in a ball in her cat bed, which I had put inside a crate so my other dogs wouldn't accidentally hurt her. I knew it was getting close.

And this morning, after 18 years of adventures, she let out a final feisty yelp and then closed her eyes and died peacefully, wearing her hoodie, wrapped in blankets and love.

I'll miss you my little greyhound. 

-Hope

Cinnamon 

Feb. 2004 - Feb. 2022