Frida Martin

b. May 5, 1993
d. October 12, 2004


Frida, whose complete registered name was Frida Kahlo's Little Deer, was gently put to sleep forever after a day of hospitalization on October 12, 2004. She had endured a gradual decline in her senses which began with sudden blindness on Mother's Day and culminated in seizures and other neurological symptoms characteristic of a brain tumor in the past week. Frida was the widow of Diego Rivera Martin-Hinshaw, who preceded her in death on December 21, 2003.

Frida was Natasha's delayed ninth birthday present; the original puppy we'd been promised by the breeder that March died of a reaction to puppy shots. The breeder, knowing our disappointment, contacted us in mid-summer to say she'd saved "the very prettiest little female" from the next available litter for Natasha. And that was our Frida: she was the very prettiest Boston Terrier imaginable, with her perfect, sharp, black and white markings, elegant lines, and expressive little face. Her only imperfection was a velvety pink tongue too long to ever fully retract into her mouth. The delay, we now understand, was an act of Fate, for Frida was surely meant just for us.

When we brought her home from the breeder to Diego that first day, he was overcome with joy and excitement at the arrival of a little female mate. He clamored around sniffing her. Tiny Frida stiffened her little legs, let out a bright, sharp, reprimanding "bar-rar-rar," and let Diego know from her first day with us that she was to be the Alpha animal of the pair. All that first hot summer, when poor Diego went to get a drink of water he'd often find little Frida using the communal water bowl as a wading pool and he'd look at us with big bemused eyes, as if to say, "What can I do?"

Poor Diego never had a chance when playing ball with Frida; she always got there first. She was incredibly selfish, and would carry the ball in her mouth until we forceably extracted it from her mouth rather than drop it and let Diego have a chance at it. Sometimes we'd try to confound her with two balls, and then she'd face a crisis. Like a soccer player she'd attempt to keep save one ball between her front legs while clamping the other in her jaws. And Frida was fast. She'd race in the park chasing a ball at incredible speeds. I was never so proud of her as when she raced, quick, sure, deerlike -- pure beauty in motion.

Although I frequently reminded Frida that she was Natasha's dog, she quickly developed a strong bond with me and made it clear she understood I was Mother, not only to my own two children, but to the animals, as well. I told her Natasha was my daughter, and she was my "dogger." Fida always wanted to sleep next to me, and when she was cold or in a snuggly mood, she loved to work herself into the crook of my bent knees. She showed me affection by pulling and chewing on my hair when we lay down together. Her little mouth fit perfectly into the delta between the thumb and index finger of my left hand, and she often gave me five quick, fluttering, soft love bites there. Frida seldom gave out any kisses, but she loved to receive them herself. She'd put her face up for me to kiss her repetitively first on one side of her face, and then she'd turn her head to receive another symmetrical set on the other side, directly below her eye.

Frida liked to play dress-up, and allowed Natasha to dress her up in doll clothes without protesting. Cold-natured short-haired dog that she was, in winter, she loved to put on her sweater when I brought it out and said, "Want to put on your dress?" On cool nights she burrowed under the covers and slept next to my skin, under the sheets.

Frida was a horrible and unrepentant beggar and it was nearly impossible to resist her. The slightest sound of crackling wrappers or rustling paper, or even the mere opening of the refrigerator door, instantly summoned her to the kitchen where she'd pester us for whatever she thought we might be eating. She'd stand on her hind legs, resting her front paws on my thigh during dinner, nudging me every few seconds and imploring me with her eyes for some morsel. She was particularly fond of potato chips and Cheez-its. I must admit she trained me so well that I always saved the last fork full of my dinner for her, and she learned in time even to neatly tongue the final dollop of yogurt from my spoon. We had to buy taller, more secure trash cans because Frida learned to stand on her hind legs and extract anything that smelled of food from the garbage; she'd shred paper napkins just to suck out the greasy spots. When I scolded her she seemed barely bothered. I called her "Topsy," and said, "I 'spect you're the naughtiest dog in the whole world." She was spoiled.

An eye infection caused originally by a spider bite cost Frida one of her eyes at Thanksgiving of 2002; the graft the vet tried in an attempt to save the eye didn't take. It was a terrible shock for Natasha and me to first see our beautiful girl with an eye missing and the lid sewed shut, but Frida adapted rapidly and was soon completely back to her normal routine. She seemed more bothered by a day's separation from us for the surgery than by the loss of the eye. We tried to get her to wear an eye patch so we could call her Pirate Jenny. By New Year's Eve she was scaling Enchanted Rock with us for our annual picnic, sure-footed as a goat and as brave as ever. Being one-eyed seem to match Frida's quirky and comical personality perfectly. I told her she had acquired a strange and terrible beauty.

After Diego's passing last Christmas, we took Frida to Galveston in an attempt to get all of us out of the house and away from our grief for a couple of days. I had always dreamed of showing Frida the ocean, but had never dared to take her there in the blistering heat of the summer. We were finally able to walk the beach together, and she loved it. She chased waves, enjoyed the fishy, exotic smells, and was fascinated with the shells each wave deposited on the sand. I was so happy to have finally had the opportunity to share the ocean with her.

With Diego gone, Frida seemed to grow more clingy and followed at my heels as I moved from room to room as I did housework. I lavished the attention the two dogs had previously shared on Frida alone. Both of us were getting older. After dinner we began routinely to take a little nap together on the couch in front of the television. She'd often clamor up on my back, wedging herself between me and the couch, and there she'd snore away. I noticed she was slowing down. I was, too. Natasha and I started calling her Grannie sometimes. After Frida went blind in May, I took to carrying her around in my arms as I turned off the house lights and climbed up the stairs to bed at night.

Frida was my comfort. Stroking her soft fur and massaging the tips of her alert little ears always calmed and reassured me. She was my loyal companion. The last day we had together I spread a pallet on the grass and we lay quietly together with our heads on the same pillow in the sun of a splendid October afternoon. I petted her and marveled at the spectrum of color the sunlight revealed in her black fur. She slept in my arms, old now, calm and content, no longer conflicted by a desire to chase squirrels as she would have been in her firecracker youth. I showered her with kisses and called her my sweet girl, my sweet baby dog, and thanked her out loud for the perfect love she gave me for the eleven years she shared our lives. I told her, Yes, this is how we love. We knew how to love each other well, Frida and I.

Today Frida again has two eyes and her perfect vision back. She is with Diego, and they are running. She darts and mouths at his flank, playing a game of Chicken Leg, like in the old days. Once again Frida is tireless and swift, and my heart swells with pride at her grace and noble beauty.