Circle of Cedars: A Neighborhood Tale

Cedar trees that grow close together become joined at the top, Max heard. That is why when some get cut down, others around them become vulnerable to high winds. When his people had first come from California, the trees were dense in his yard.  But his family had cleared the land and filled in the landscape. High winds followed, uprooting more of the trees and leaving a sad, scraggly terrain—open and ugly, not richly textured as it once had been. 

At least in the center of the circle that all the homes on the cul-de-sac shared, the trees were still intact. That circle was the meeting place for creatures of all sorts—nocturnal and diurnal—the winged kind, the small ones with eight legs, some who liked to burrow and make mounds, others who liked to slither or climb, the masked ones who came out at night to sniff and sometimes attack the garbage bags, the lone possum with pale eyes, various felines—a strange and incomprehensible species to Max—and of course canines like himself, the best. A plethora of life forms who shared the earth space with no fences or property lines. 

Max stepped into his neighbor’s garden and peered into the bedroom window. Darby was stretched out on the window seat, his nose in the lush pillows, and Emma curled up on the bed. What a scene!  

Max rarely thought of class and lifestyle discrepancies. But on this chilly day, he mused upon the ways creatures lived. He had the swimming pool—dirty and cold at present—and the larger yard. He also had balls—Darby had lost his as a young lad, though he was known to do Elvis impressions around females—dry, ineffectual movements that would never produce offspring. What a waste! And Emma, sweet as she was, also sterile. The pair would always be naïve, unworldly, compared to virile, boisterous, daring Max!

Being in their yard made him envious and contemptuous at the same time. The envy concerned food. They got morsels of turkey and chicken, bread and butter, grapes, ice cream, and biscuits. Even their regular meal was a mixture of wet and dry, stirred up in a stew. Thinking about the meaty chunks of moist, scrumptious canned canine concoctions stirred into a generous portion of dry morsels with water made Max salivate. Max and Bear—he couldn’t forget his older chum—only got dry food—and not enough of that. They would wolf down their portions and want more. 

What else did he envy? Well, warm baths instead of cold ones—a dip in the pool or a run through the creek—trips to a proper vet instead of a clinic, and the softness of a bed. And a less junky yard, though he contributed his share to it. He loved tearing off the limbs of stuffed animals and strewing them about or mutilating a garbage bag and spreading the contents around. But no one could blame him for the rusty metal, auto parts, lumber, and overall muddy yard. Still, Max wouldn’t exchange his life for Darby and Emma’s, his roving spirit for their namby-pamby ways. 

What strange things humans did in their quest to favor nurture over nature, Max thought. Even the word “owner” bothered him. He preferred the attitude of indigenous peoples. “All my relations” was a mindset he could relate to; when he lay beneath the trees at nightfall and heard the singing of the stars, he knew that all lifeforms were interconnected. 

Still, it was easy to have contempt. It was said that he, a German Shepherd, could learn anything. Many did not discern his great intelligence, partly because of his unkempt appearance—how he hated being judged or called a name such as mongrel, cur, fleabag, or even tail-wagger. Didn’t people know that words could hurt? 

Of course, he could learn anything a two-legged creature could teach him, though he laughed when he heard Darby’s human mom describing a trick some canine had performed. The poor lad had to put his head between his forelegs and count to 20 while his mistress hid some object and then look for it as she called “fetch.” 

Max wouldn’t stoop to such androcentric madness. His fetching had been largely with torn-up footballs, old athletic shoes, mud-stained tennis balls. He was quick and sure, instinctive and glorious, and never tired, unlike Darby and Emma. 

His mind wandered to Bear, whom he had known all his life. A chocolate lab with deep brown eyes, Bear had come from California three years ago. He complained bitterly about the heat and the cold in Texas, and about his arthritis. Emma was the same breed—Max didn’t like to think about breed distinctions, though they were there, nonetheless. 

Max felt jealousy in the bond of breed that Emma and Bear shared, but surely everyone could see that he and Emma were more compatible. But Max and Emma, being similar in age and playfulness, always gravitated together. Darby sometimes he charged at her to bring her back home, as if she were to blame for her natural social instincts and needed herding. Not everyone understood females as he, Max, did! 

Max looked again into the window. Perhaps if he waited by the back door, their mother would let them out. She did so occasionally but was displeased by his influence, as Max would lead them down the hill into the creek. Darby and Emma had to get their undersides, feet, and forelegs cleaned every time they were transgressive by going into the creek. 

Transgressive! A delicious word, like illicit, scallywag, reprobate, bigamist, polygamist. He was all of these, and proud of it! Not affected, obedient, genteel, chaste, reserved, cautious, as some others were. He fully lived! Passion and freedom were his métier!

In the distance, he heard Bear barking. Bear never strayed from the yard, never found the missing plank in the fence, never fooled around with Mocha, who was chained up on the other side, even though Bear still had his jewels. Max knew that he himself was the one who had knocked up Mocha. Strange expression. In England it simply meant to knock on someone’s door—he had learned that from an English Setter. He thought back nostalgically to the moments of salacious exchange, and then the wonderful pups. Ah, Life—the endless cycle. 

If Darby and Emma’s house and yard represented one world and his another, the house on the corner was yet another, with many people crowded into the house and vehicles crammed into the driveway. The cedar trees had been stripped from the property, and junk lay all over the back yard. And then there was poor Mocha. A pit bull, she was feared, though she was submissive and cowardly. Chained up, her life was confined to an eight-foot area. Only prison—some called it kennel—could be worse.  

Five tiny mixtures of Mocha and Max emerged a few months after their frolic. What cuteness! They were not bound by a chain and knew nothing of the history of slavery, of forced labor, of quilts that bore the stories of incarceration and violence, of howls that voiced the cry for freedom, or of the hope for self-determination, victory, and retribution.  

His musings were interrupted as the back door opened. “Max, go home.”  She was not in the mood for wiping off creek jumpers. “I’ll come over to give you supper in a while.” He whined and jumped up on her, his muddy forefeet making a marvelous print on her blouse. “Get down.” Oh, why couldn’t they see his plight, his true existential condition? He whined again. His dogged determination would surely win her over. 

“Ok, but let’s go over to your yard.” She let Darby and Emma out. Max jumped in ecstasy. The three ran over to Max’s driveway and through the back gate. One pup called Cinnamon joined them, her tiny, dirty, uncollared body quivering as she wriggled under the gate as it slid closed. “That’s my girl,” thought Max. “Unafraid of anyone—even the big guys.” 

Max glanced at the little lemon tree his people had planted, covered in plastic to protect it from the winter, and at the line of cactus plants—experiments in transplanting that might not last.  His people were like that, too, fragile and uncertain. He alone was a sturdy, stalwart Texan. Despite his bravado, a tear welled up in each eye, so he turned his head away from the others before running to get the torn and dirty football, hoping that Darby’s mama would throw it for him. Yes, she grabbed it, and here it came! 

  ***

Bear ached with old age—stiffness, pain in his hips, fatigue. He didn’t like being outside; he felt homesick for California, for the life he had known. Here, in this big, strange place, he had aged. 

And now Jaime and Daniella were always lately hanging on his neck, looking at him with sad eyes. Why?

The garage door opened. Karina, his mom, had keys in her hand. “Come on, Bear.” She opened the car door. What? She never took him for a ride. She gestured to the back seat. How would he get up into the seat? He ached, thinking about it. He took a few stiff steps, then stood still. 

Karina coaxed, “Come on, Bear.” Bear took a few more steps. Where would they be going? Oh, the vet? That office with the long line of canines and cats and other creatures. Shots and pokes, pills and prods. Was it really necessary to go there, ever? 

Karina got behind him and pushed so that he was forced to jump up onto the seat. Owww. His poor joints! The door slammed. Karina got in the front and turned on the ignition. The garage door came down, and Bear had a sense that he would not be coming back. 

Within a few minutes Karina stopped the car, parked, slipped on his leash, and insisted he get out. Ouch again. Yes, the vet. Bear could remember the smells, the barking, the people wearing the green outfits, and the complex emotions that people and animals had there. 

“I’m sorry, Bear,” Karina said. Sorry for what? He sensed a great weight in her heart and a dread in his own. He had always trusted in the goodness of people; he had forgiven every unkind word or action. Surely now was not the time for—but his mind could not even imagine it.  

They waited, and Karina stroked him. Then it was their turn to go into a little room. “Hello, Bear,” said the assistant in the green outfit. “Just lie down here.”  

As he obediently lay down, he tried to wag his tail, but it felt too heavy. The vet came in with a long needle. “This shouldn’t hurt,” said the doctor. But it did. 

Karina turned her face away, and he could see tears running down it. He tried to comfort her with his own eyes but felt them closing, closing until there was no more light at all. 

***

Max surveyed his yard, thinking about how different it had been when he was a pup. Some of the new grass his people had planted had taken, some had not, leaving spaces for dust and mud and rocks to gather. He hadn’t helped, he realized, with his own rough ways. He had carried chewed-up toys, rocks, and all sorts of junk to the various sites on the land. Now his family, desperate to sell their house and move back, worked to pick up the junk.

His musings were suddenly interrupted. “Max, come,” called his mom.  He knew what that meant—hours locked up in the garage—when it was broad daylight. Strange people would be coming in to look at the house while he was stuck in the dark garage. Max sighed. 

“Max!” He had to go in and lay on an old dirty blanket in the dark until someone—usually Jaime— remembered to let him out.  

Being in the garage was strange without Bear. He hated to admit it, but he missed Bear terribly— even his snoring, complaints, and persnickety ways. Well, here he was now, in the dark, dismal garage. Might as well sleep for as long as he could. 

Max dreamed of chasing a squirrel across the circle and under the cedars in front of his house and of Bear’s eyes, staring at him with wordless envy. Then, he was in a box on the back of a truck, being jostled and jolted. He woke up with a dry mouth and a fear about moving to California. Maybe the rest of his life he’d be cooped up in a small yard, or worse, a box like the one in his dream. 

Finally, the garage door opened. There was a large truck in the driveway with a gangplank. No! Jaime was up in the truck, playing with a ball, bouncing it hard against the side walls, as if he, too, resented the move. 

Max gingerly stepped onto the gangplank. With several leaps he was up in the truck. 

The boy and the dog tangled together on the truck’s floor. Then Jaime threw the ball hard against the wall, and when it rebounded, Max caught it and dropped it at the feet of the boy. Over and over, they did this, until Max jumped off the truck, hoping that Jaime would follow—his way of showing him that he did not want to leave Texas, that this yard, this sky, these trees were home. 

For the rest of the day, there was movement on both sides of the fence—his own family packing and loading the truck; the people next door preparing for something. Benches and tables were set up in the driveway next door. Cedar trees blew in the wind, releasing spring pollen.  

At sundown, the old man next door began stirring something over a large pot on an outdoor gas stove. Cars arrived; the hosts welcomed their guests and offered tequila and Sprite. Max could smell beans and tortillas, rice, and cheese.  

His own family had never made an effort to meet the people next door; there seemed to be an invisible line that was never crossed by the people, even though the fence ended at the two mailboxes, side by side. Class difference, he reasoned. Unknown in the canine world, even between pedigreed and not. Why were humans so concerned about it?

Then a whole troop of men arrived, wearing black with silver studs up the sleeves of the jackets and down the outside of their pants. They had bright red ties with silver embroidery and bright silver belt buckles. Max watched as they brought out instruments from cases—trumpets, a violin, large, rounded guitar, and bass—all the time, bantering in Spanish.  A mariachi band! 

Kids of all ages came out of the house and surrounded the musicians, shyly touching the instruments before racing back inside to their TV or video games. Young women in tight jeans showed up with dishes of food. Now he could smell guacamole and salsa.  

The music started, instruments springing to life and then voices joining in song. Words—Max recognized corazón, mi casa, el amor, primavera—were all blending, harmonies rising. He felt like howling with them but decided to wait. Oddly, not everyone appreciated his vocal talent.

The old man, wearing an apron and wiping his brow with a handkerchief, stirred the pot. More people arrived. A fiesta—and on what Max presumed his last night in Texas. The acrid smell of tequila was on the breeze, along with the scent of cigarettes. 

The sky darkened. The light from the garage next door illuminated a piñata hanging next to a fan belt. The harmonies rose and fell. One of the trumpet players smoked between blasts of trumpet, the cigarette held expertly as he fingered the notes. But Max was most drawn to watching the feet of the violinist, which made patterns in time with the music.

Spontaneously, four couples formed and began to dance; the tempo of the music increased. Partners changed, laughter and clapping now mingled with the music. 

Max was aware of front doors being opened in the cul-de-sac, of a lone listener leaning against his car, and of the music traveling outward on the air.  

If only his own family would go over for the feast or let him out so he could munch on some leftover tortillas, thought Max. Then he noticed the back door of the mudroom opening, his own family slipping out to sit outside on their patio, under the big sky. 

A lone walker from the house across the way circled the cluster of cedars in the cul-de-sac with pensive steps, looking on at the crowd in the driveway as she passed by. Max wondered if she, too, wished she could join them. Humans were odd—it wasn’t only fences that kept them separated. He thought about Bear being gone—perhaps forever, and how Darby and Emma would stay and grow old in Texas while he was somewhere else. 

He trotted up to Jaime and put his head on Jaime’s arm. His family seemed calmer than they had been in a long time. Karina had her eyes closed and hummed with the music. Jose drummed against a chair arm. Max thought about bolting the next day, just before the truck pulled away, to stay in Texas and roam free. But his loyalty was too ingrained; he knew that even if he stayed behind, he would soon be following the scent of his people to California. 

The music swelled as song followed song. No sooner had the clapping died when another song would be called out and the instruments started anew. Near the protective circle of cedars, the serenade and the dancing lasted long into the jubilant Texas night.