She wasn’t one of those dogs whose name comes easily to them. Some people can decide their dog is “Rex” or “Lady” at first glance. Not her. She bounded about the house for several days before it occurred to us that she is Ginger. Ironically, over the years, she would gain several names – Gin-gin, Gin-gee, Gin, Ginger Sparkle, Little Dog, and for formal occasions, of course, Virginia. But in truth she has only ever been Ginger.

Her mother was a Poodle, her father half Poodle and half Bischon Frise. She took after the Bischon side of the family, at least in appearance. We were looking for a female dog when we found the ad that she was available. It was an easy choice. There were four in the littler, two males and two females. While we chose her, her brother Rudy chose us. He nearly leapt out of the enclosure and melted into our arms. And, unlike her, we knew instantly he was a Rudy. (Unlike any other Rudy, of any species, you may have ever heard of, he bears no resemblance to any of them, in any way whatsoever). And so, they both became ours, inseparable from birth.

We don’t know exactly when they were born. If the breeder told us, we were too busy being happy to pay much attention. But they came to us around Thanksgiving and were about seven weeks old, so we decided they were born October first.

Sara was living at home at the time, working on her Masters degree. In between studies she got them housebroken. And they would curl up and sleep on her desk. I don’t know if that had a positive effect on her studies.

When they first came home, they spent nights in a crate together and we would give them a treat to entice them to go to bed. She would later take over the crate as her own and he wasn’t allowed in it any more. But from then on, when she thought a treat was warranted, desired or imminent, she would run to the crate and sit waiting. She always got the treat she wanted. She had trained us well.

In the evening, after her walk, she would jump up on my lap, curl up and go to sleep. He was relegated to the footstool, without any argument. In time, they both claimed residence on our bed at night, and if he ventured into her portion of the mattress there might be a snarling, angry little spat, that ended as quickly as it began and for just as much reason.

Ginger was always the smartest little dog. She learned to heel at the first lesson, to sit, lie down, scratch at the door when she wanted to go out, and would have learned more if we had taught her. She was in charge, and both she and Rudy knew it. When they both went to the door, he would stand aside and let her go out first. It might have been gallantry on his part, but it was more likely the air of domination that she exuded.

The normal dog pursuits of chasing balls and barking at nothing in particular were beneath her. In fact, it was a month or more before she barked at all, and then, the noise surprised even her. She ran when she felt like it, and she would go after a tennis ball, but only if it was rolled down the hallway indoors. Outdoor sports were left to the boy dog. They walked, morning and evening, and because she would heel without being told, she led the walk from behind. When she decided she had gone far enough, she would stop and no amount of tugging, begging or coercing could convince her otherwise. She was twelve pounds of obstinance when she wanted to be.

But Ginger was always at the door when it opened, wagging, bouncing happily, and, I will swear, smiling when we came home. I would pick her up and rub her belly and she licked my nose. She was the sweetest little dog.

Ginger started to fail this spring, and had two major seizures in the summer. Each time, we thought she would not survive. But she bounced back and kept on going. The walks were much shorter, and slower, and she still determined when enough was enough. Medicated, the seizures were seemingly under control, but she lost weight and slept even more than a dog might sleep. When she woke up, she would slip and fall until she got her bearings.

There wasn’t really anything else we could do for her. The assumption was she had a tumor, but treating it would have been fatal. Still, she soldiered on. When walking on a leash became too difficult, she would walk in the back yard, or move around the house, from one room to the next. It seemed as though she knew she had to keep up her strength. Cheryl took to feeding her by hand. She had lost about a third of her weight, and you could count her ribs and the discs in her spine. She wandered and wobbled more than she walked, and everything seemed to be a chore.

It was time.

We got the last appointment of the day at her veterinarian’s office. Dr. Michael had cared for her as long as we had. He was kind and we talked to her, gave her one more treat, petted her and let her know we loved her for the very last time. Even then, we stood in the small exam room for several more minutes, and I kept petting her, though she wasn’t there any longer. I just didn’t want to stop.

She had devoted her entire life to us. She has only ever been Ginger and there will never be another.

October 1-ish, 2003 – December 26, 2019