Notes From The Road - December 2004
Cider's Last Tour
Cider was the “half-a-million-mile dog.” He accompanied me to every gig I played for ten years save for the ones I had to fly to. I often called him my road manager, or my techie, though I never was successful at teaching him how to change guitar strings. His favorite part of each gig was the end when I let him out of the van to stretch his legs while I packed up my gear. If it was ok with the host he’d follow me inside the venue and let folks pet him while he inspected the floor for crumbs of coffeehouse goodies.
This dog took to being on the road like an Aussie-Shep takes to herding sheep, or a Lab loves the water. He was ever happy to jump in the car, and eager to jump out. He wasn’t the head-out-the window, ears flappin’ in the wind kind, but more of a sit-and-observe type. Dogs are den-dwelling creatures, and I came to understand that the van was our den, our cave, and he was content within it. It seemed very natural, and mammal-like, for we were a pack, the two of us. On cold nights on route in between concerts when we van-camped in truck stops, his body heat warmed the van. I was the provider that brought home the kill in the form of a bag of Purina or Iams: fuel for the heater. Sometimes I even philosophized that my sole purpose in life was to be his servant and bring him different places to take in the smells and to mark his territory. Every fall I’d deliver him on his grand 9,000-mile territory-marking quest to the west coast and back.
I believe it’s true, that Cider knew all the rest stops on I-80 between Cleveland and Sacramento. For at one time or another we had stopped at all of them. As I made the preparations of packing for each tour – duffel bag coming out of the closet, and the vintage Samsonite suitcase being filled with CD’s – he’d hover by the door, not taking any chance that he might be left behind. For some years I had a plywood platform set up in the van to sleep upon and store gear beneath. Cider would sit upon it back and center with a clear view out all the windows, lord of his domain, ready to rock and roll.
The first time I laid eyes on him was in the passenger’s seat of a friend’s car. I was working at my bakery in Vermont when a customer came in one day and asked me if I knew anyone who needed a dog. She said he was chewing her shoes, a different pair every day when she went to work and left him alone, and had had enough. I said I’d take a look myself, and that was it, I brought him home. It was September of 1990, I figured he was about 9 months old, and I named him “Cider.”
Cider didn’t take too well to being left tied up alone while I went off to work. He howled and yelped as I walked down the dirt track each morning, the forest leaning in on both sides. But when I came home and let him off the lead he took full advantage of his freedom with a long run in the woods getting all that pent-up, adolescent dog energy out of his system. We had hundreds of acres of Green Mountain forest around us to explore. He’d flop home exausted by the time the sun set. He never did chew any more shoes.
Cider was a mellow dog, and endeared himself to people with his easy-going nature. He never barked or made anybody fear him, and always allowed tiny children to pet him, and sometime gave them back a little polite “kiss” that would make them laugh and squeal. I was always impressed at how people would ask after him and want to take care of him like he was their own.
One time soon after we moved to Ashfield, Massachusetts, my neighbor’s Pomeranian went into heat. Now Cider is a medium-large dog and “Gwen” the Pom was the definition of tiny – this would not have been a good match. Cider didn’t care. He hid out underneath Gwen’s porch and would not respond to any commands whatsoever. I would crawl under the porch to fetch him, then drag and carry him back home only to have him shoot like an arrow to Gwen again when I next let him out to pee. The solution: a trip to the vet to get done what I should have the day I adopted him. That’s right, the old come-home-with-something-missing business. The transformation was complete: from that day he never did roam anymore. Regardless of where we were, in any neighborhood anywhere in the country, I could let him outside and he would sniff out the yard then he would settle down on the front step. I never had to fear him running off.
It was about that time that I received a letter in the mail from a small record company in Vermont that was looking for songs about dogs for a CD to benefit Humane Societies and Animal Shelters. That afternoon I went home and began to imagine a scenario from the dog’s point of view of what it would be like to be adopted from a shelter and taken to a new home. My thoughts went back to my friend in Vermont who gave me this dog. She said she had adopted Cider from a shelter, and probably would have taken him back there if she hadn’t found anyone to take him. I put myself in Cider’s fur (as it were) and wrote “Dog’s Life.” A couple of days later I sent out a demo, and they said they loved it. The album was called Man’s Best Friend. It has some wonderful cuts on it from Patti Casey, Darcie Deaville, Michael Jerling, and Cheryl Wheeler. I don’t think it’s in print anymore, but if you’re lucky maybe you can find it on ebay. Someday I hope to re-record the song.
Dog’s Life
Got a house, got a home
Got a pad to call my own
I like it here, I think I’ll settle in
Now I know all is well
So far as I can tell
The food is good and the wood stove sure feels fine
It’s a dog’s life, it’s a dog’s life
The food is good and the wood stove sure feels fine
It was not long ago
I witnessed kennel row
The line grew shorter and my days were numbered few
But they came just in time
They treated me so fine
They opened the door and they let me run outside
It’s a dog’s life, it’s a dog’s life
They opened the door they let me run outside
I’ve got the yard and the sun
I don’t bother anyone
If you’ve got strange ideas you better keep away
Cause I’m not going back to that lonesome kennel camp
I’ll sit right here and keep those squirrels away
It’s a dog’s life, it’s a dog’s life
I’ll just stay right here and keep those squirrels away
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Gradually Cider’s years added up: 12, 13, 14, I grew amazed at his longevity. Yet slowly he stiffened, and though dogs rarely exhibit pain or discomfort it was plain to see that he was hurting. The week before Christmas, Sue and I hosted a housewarming potluck music party, and invited all the oldtimey crowd. By the way Cider’s eyes smiled through the whole night amongst the music, food, lights and constant stream of warm voices and hands petting him, you’d think we were throwing this party for him…well, we might have been.
It was a sad day; had to put down old Cider. I carried his body, finally relaxed and without pain, to the hole I had dug with the apple tree waiting next to it. Now, through the winter the tree will wait, and so will I to witness evidence of new life. I know a few people who have had to put down their pets, and most of them tell me they waited too long. I probably did, too. He gave me one of his long sweet doleful looks as he grew sleepy – empathy at my tears. Cider lived to his fifteenth year. That’s a good chunk of time. What a great dog you were. Thanks old boy…
