Name That Dog

When I was growing up, I desperately wanted pets. My three siblings had had dogs before I was born and by the time I came along a lot later, my parents were finished with animals in their lives.  I never stopped trying however, and my solution was to bring home every stray animal I could find.  I brought them in the front door and almost as fast as I did, my mother gave them away through the back.  I even went so far as to buy a huge mixed breed dog at a charity auction when I was fourteen, enlisting four of my friends to help haul home the huge crate that had accompanied him at the sale. He was there a week before my mother found someone who worked for my dad and would take him.  My sister brought me home a kitten from a litter that her friend had — the cat was around for only a couple of days before he was toted off to a farm family that we knew. My mother repeatedly said, “When you get married, you can have all the animals you want,” so when I met my husband, it was one of the first things I brought up.  He immediately went out and got me a dog, cementing our relationship forever.  He and I have had a plethora of animals over the years –mostly dogs and cats — but also rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, turtles, lizards and even mice when our kids were young.  When we got our most recent dog, I decided that there would be no more people names for our pets.  No more Sophie, Jake, Barney or Teddy — hence our current dog, Cinnamon.  I was sure it would keep me from anthropomorphizing her. Yeah, right. Ask me how that’s worked out.