My mom showed me this book: Saving Cinnamon by Christine Sullivan. She just reviewed it for Amazon (although she didn’t get it as a review copy; this time she checked it out of the library).
Cinnamon is a brownish-haired dog who looks sort of like a retriever from the cover. But inside she looks more like some kind of cattle dog. As a very young pup, Cinnamon took refuge on a military base in Afghanistan, where she became the unofficial mascot of the soldiers and sailors who were stationed there.
She sounds a lot like me. I’m the kind of dog everybody wants to pat. I make friends everywhere we go. When we ride the bus, total strangers come up and talk to me. At least half a dozen people greet me by name on the street. My mom has no idea who they are or how we met. Frankly, I don’t either, but they smell familiar.
My mom told me that Cinnamon got lost in Turkey on her way to being adopted by Mark, the author’s brother. Nobody knew where Cinnamon was for six long weeks. Christine tracked Cinnamon down through a network of animal rescue groups and arranged to have her flown home to Mark. Cinnamon had been abandoned by a nasty dog handler in a place that has no laws about dog ownership.
Can you imagine? My mom said the City of Seattle makes me wear a dog license which means she owns me. Well, she owns me as a dog, but of course I own my soul and spirit.
Cathy was quite impressed with Christine’s writing ability. Thank goodness! I’m the one who has to listen when my mom rants about bad writing, especially when she gets asked to review a book. She’s writing a book for authors who want to get their books reviewed on Amazon and she says writers like Christine need this information. Too many bad books get attention, she says, while good ones suffer.
Well, you could also say that about dogs, couldn’t you? But my mom’s in no mood to argue. She wants to make another cylinder before she goes out for the evening. And of course she had to remind me, “Gracie, you are one lucky dog. You have two dog beds, two cats to torture, your Aunt Sara, your Uncle Lance, and of course me, your owner. You didn’t have to spend 24 hours in a small crate to get home. Your spent about 2 hours in a nice car with your foster mom when you came here.”
I hate it when my mom gets logical. Time for another nap.