The very first order of business when we got home from saying goodbye was to collect her things and put them away. Everywhere we looked there was something of hers. A tennis ball. A water bowl ringed with chew marks. A Costco-sized box of Milkbones. And seeing her belongings just made the house seem all the more empty. We simply couldn't bear it.
Ginger, "The Sweetest Dog Who Ever Was" (as she became known to me), joined our family in August of 1998. After years of cat dominance (Libby, whose tolerance for mere mortals was minimal), we had decided to add a dog to our list of dependents. And if we were going to get a dog, by God, we were going to get a "real" dog. No little wussy, yappy, frou-frou debutante "accessory", but a great big, furry, slobbering, barking DAWG. I'd always loved Golden Retrievers, so we contacted a local rescue organization and, after an inspection that would do any adoption agency proud, they matched us with Ginger.
She was nine months old when we got her. Not quite a puppy. But that didn't stop her from acting like one. For the next 13 years.
Time has a way of softening the rough edges, burnishing memories like a jeweler polishes gold. So, truth-be-told, Ginger was not always on her best behavior. We learned early not to leave anything on our counters because Ginger would, as a Golden's DNA dictates, retrieve it. And then eat it. Didn't matter what. Food. Dish towels. Packages. Small appliances. If she could reach it, it was fair game. We stopped buying her "indestructible" chew toys because she would, in a matter of minutes, prove the manufacturer wrong. And this behavior continued well into her senior years, when not long ago she discovered the operating manual for our new HVAC thermostat and consumed it with the gusto usually reserved for a fine steak.
Ginger was also not a good "walker". In spite of some obedience training (now THERE was money well-spent), she would tug at her leash so insistently she would practically choke herself blue in the face. And God forbid you encountered another dog on your walk. Or a rabbit. Or squirrel. Or a wind-blown piece of trash. Because off she would go, in hot pursuit, leash (and your shoulder) be damned.
And being a "sporting dog", unwary animal visitors to our backyard often found themselves in Ginger's crosshairs. It was not uncommon in her younger, faster days to find captured prey at our backdoor. Once, an exceedingly arrogant squirrel taunted Ginger from a nearby tree until it made the fatal mistake of getting a little too close. Final score: Ginger 1, bushy-tailed varmint 0.
But if Ginger was a bit "unruly", she was also exceedingly sweet. She never met anyone she didn't instantly befriend (because she always held hope that this new person would give her some food). She loved to eat and she loved to play. And, most of all, she absolutely adored us, all of us. Almost as much as we adored her.
Trying to pick a favorite memory of her is like to trying to choose your favorite Christmas. There are just too many. Playing ball with her in the backyard (which she would do 'til exhaustion. Hers, not mine). Greeting me at the door when I'd get home from work, the rhythmic thump of her tail on the kitchen floor, and I swear she would actually be smiling. Big, wet "Gingy-kisses". Watching her roll over on her back to become "Upside Down Dog". Scratching her ears. Rubbing her belly until she'd snort in sheer sensual pleasure. Watching her squeeze herself under our coffee table whenever there was a thunderstorm. For a big girl, she was kind of a baby.
I always liked to think that I was her favorite. After all, I was the one who generally played ball with her and took her for walks. Not to mention keeping her well-supplied with Purina One. But I know I'm just kidding myself. Oh, she loved me well-enough. But she really, really loved my wife Kathy.
Kathy was the one who really took care of Ginger. Bathing. Grooming. Appointments with the vet. And Ginger knew it. While Kathy would lavish Ginger with attention and praise I would scoff, calling her "good for nothing", a "smelly old fat dog" and "spoiled rotten" (which she was). But Ginger didn't care. Kathy loved her. And that was all that mattered. And she knew I didn't really mean any of the awful things I would say to her. At least, I pray that she knew.
As she got older, Ginger remained in remarkably good health. But nothing stops the inevitable and the selfish illusion that we were going to have her forever began to disappear, little by little. Her once keen eyesight, capable of tracking a tennis ball from 30 yards, dimmed. Her hearing faded, her appetite paled. Her stride faltered. "The World's Oldest Puppy" was starting to lose herself. She seemed anxious, unsure. And while she wasn't suffering, her bad days were beginning to outnumber her good.
On Sunday, she stopped eating and drinking. Her breathing became labored and she struggled to stand. They say animals can sense when their time is drawing near. Denial is not part of their world, only ours. She spent that night seeking quiet and darkness, resisting our efforts to comfort her.
On her last day, after we had decided to face the unthinkable, I hurried home from work, expecting to find her prone on our kitchen floor, if not already gone. Much to my surprise, she greeted me with a tail wag, got to her feet and headed for the back door. We went out into our yard where she found one of her tennis balls and began to play "keep away" with me. We spent an hour or so out there, in the place that had been her world (and mine to share) for most of her life. And I saw just a flicker of that ebullient light that seems to shine in all dogs, a trace of the rascally puppy she'd always been. So I began to think that maybe it wasn't yet her time, maybe her doctor would offer us some hope that she might remain with us for a little while longer.
But it was not to be. A brain lesion was responsible for her decline and her prognosis was poor. She'd slip away a little more each day, robbed of her exuberance, her dignity, her self. That hard truth, most of all, was more than we could bear. So we decided to say goodbye and let her go.
In the end, it was as good a day as could be expected, given the circumstances. She had treats, she snoozed, she played ball outside. The vet made her comfortable while we stroked her and kissed her and soothed her. We told her we loved her one last time. And then, she was gone.
Fourteen years. That's a pretty good run for any dog. A rich and fulfilling life, surrounded by family who loved her. And were loved by her, unconditionally, in return.
Today was the first day since I don't know when that I truly came home to an empty house. I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. But I know that right now, Ginger is dashing across an endless sea of grass on a glorious summer day, chasing rabbits and tennis balls and wagging her tail in rhythm to music only she can hear. And that makes me smile. And makes the house seem a little less empty, at least for a little while.
When I took off my black fleece jacket, I noticed it was covered in her golden hair. I don't think I'll ever put it in the wash. Not for a long, long time.
