A Tangle of Tears

August 1, 2021

Knowing I was to write an article for our August Newsletter, I kept coming up with different ideas. Was I to write about something Rotarian-ish, Four-way Test-like, Community involvement-y? Guess not. I decided instead to write about someone near and dear to me. My dog Ginger.

Ginger did not start out as my dog. She was dropped off by some jerk on our property about 11 years ago. I was out of town that day when Ginger showed up on our deck. Scared and hungry. Alan saw her and offered her some of his macaroni and cheese which she gladly ate.

When I returned from my trip we had to decide what to do about this dog. She was part boxer, part pit. She was skittish and scared and as Alan tried to make her a part of our family, she struggled with what to do and how to behave. At the time, we had two cats, Baby and Marty. Ginger clearly did not know what to do about our cats. Was she supposed to attack them or be friends with them? Poor Ginger got nervous anytime one of those cats got too close, especially Baby, looking at both Alan and I with a questioning yet sheepish look. What were they anyway? They weren't dogs! Help!

The cats had to adjust as well, and I credit Marty with that as he is the one who made friends with Ginger and helped her relax. Marty would gently approach Ginger and give her a cat hug under the chin, wrapping his tail around her neck. He was slow and calm yet ready to bolt if Ginger was too anxious. Baby wasn't quite so easy. A few times, Baby would boldly wrap his tail around Ginger's neck, as if to assert himself as the boss. Poor Ginger would stand stock still, afraid to move.

I too had to learn how to be a dog person, having never had one. How dogs play, speak, eat. I was clueless. Slowly but surely, I adapted to this situation and found myself enjoying Ginger very much. I'd go on walks at times with her and Alan and was able to watch her goofy stance when trying to play, her nose constantly exploring each and every new smell she could find. She loved her time at doggy daycare and played hard with her doggy friends, coming home exhausted and ready for a nap. Ginger was always well behaved - well mostly - she was very protective so could get a bit aggressive when someone came around. We had to watch her around anyone new, especially if they were carrying a cane or tried to hug one of us. Barking and aiming to nip their ankles. That was a scary trait for me to accept and one we had to learn to control.

She minded our rules of not going upstairs or sleeping in our bed. Used the double doggy doors to get out to her own kennel to do her business. Only attacked Baby once with no harm done and Baby probably deserved it. Lots of fur flying and screaming - ok it was me screaming, but still...

Doggy toys were a mystery to me, yet Ginger knew what to do with them. Anything soft in nature or even those King Kong, indestructible toys, she had in shreds within minutes. Her most favorite thing in the whole world were those awful, rawhide bones. Running around with it in her mouth and slinging it across the room. Giving Marty the evil eye if he even dared look at that bone. I tried to tell Ginger that Marty didn't want that nasty thing, but she didn't believe me. Big doggy beds, blankets, a crate that we never closed, leashes, collars, toys, bones, cookies, dog food, the list goes on. We were now a dog and cat house. It probably smells like that too but so far, I can't tell.

Through the years Alan and Ginger would go to the grocery store together, doggy daycare, the mile around woods. I would tag along at times but mostly it was just those two. Alan always had doggy cookies in his pocket and gave them out generously for whatever Ginger might do as a Good Girl. I never understood rewarding her for ‘doing her business' but what do I know? When Alan got sick and as he neared the end of his journey, he often took naps, and I would catch both Baby and Ginger up on our bed lying next to him. I didn't have the heart to make Ginger get off so each morning I would put a large bath towel on the bedspread, and she would lay down on that and nap.

At one point Alan thought perhaps he needed to find a home for Ginger, thinking I might not want or be able to care for her. I was adamant that he not do that. Ginger was a part of our family, and I did not want her to leave. She was not only company to me but would tell me when someone was at the door or driving up the driveway. She even chased a few bears away. I needed her. Our first snowstorm a few months before Alan passed away gave me the opportunity to learn how to use our large snowblower so with Alan's instruction, I made my first trip down our long driveway with that heavy machine. At one point I turned to look behind me and saw Ginger walking in step with me, making sure I was ok, staying close by in case I needed her help. That really touched my heart.

Four years ago, Alan passed away shortly after Baby died who I suspect was leading the way. Ginger was clearly depressed, and she and I would take long walks together and I'd share with her my thoughts and feelings and she always understood. Slowly she came out of her shell and by spring we had our own routine. Ginger, Marty, and I had carved out our new family. Today, Marty is getting thin, and he looks to me like he's getting a bit bald headed. Ginger's muzzle had long been gray. Last year she suffered from a torn ACL in her left knee. Surgery, stitches, a cast, our own form of rehab plus no success with that darn cone. She licked everything the whole way through. Oh well. She survived and so did I. Except...several months ago when Ginger started limping again on that leg. Had to take her out of doggy daycare as it just seemed too much for her now. The Vet figured she had just over done her playing and at times she seemed to get better, only to go back to hobbling around on three legs. Our walks got shorter until we had to stop them all together. She was clearly getting worse.

I examined her leg and noticed rather large and hard lump just below her knee. What was that?! Trying to get an appointment with the Vet, or any doctor really, is tough, so we were three weeks out for an appointment. Unfortunately, it was clear that Ginger was beginning to experience more and more pain. I Googled everything and decided she must have bone cancer. Hoping it was perhaps a torn muscle instead.

We were able to get in to see the Vet sooner than our appointed day and I told the doctor what I thought. One touch of her leg and he confirmed my fear. Yes, bone cancer. Damn.

Bone cancer is very aggressive and can be quite painful. The doctor and I agreed on a plan of trying to manage that pain, which wasn't easy. I knew we were looking at Ginger surviving only a few months, but I wanted to be sure that no matter what, she would not be subjected to pain and suffering. That's a hard one to figure out. We limped along with plenty of good days, still taking short walks when we could. The not so good days started to become more frequent. I kept a close eye on her, not knowing when to call the day. How do you schedule someone's death? Even a dog's. Especially Ginger. Soon she stopped eating her dog food although still ate all of Marty's when she could, so I just gave Ginger her own dish of cat food which she enjoyed.

I'll spare you the rest of the details other than to say that when it became clear to me that her cancer was progressing rapidly, I made that appointment. The earliest was the following Friday morning. Ginger and I made our way outside that morning so she could do what she needed to do as well as to eat a few blades of grass. I gave her some extra peanut butter which she licked right up.

I helped her in the car, and we headed out, stopping by my office for a few minutes then on to the Vet's. I had requested that they come out to my car rather than me bringing her inside and they were kind enough to do so. Parking around the side of their building the doctor came out and we talked about what was to happen. Both of us agreed that Ginger was ready…..and so was I. Ginger died quickly and peacefully with me by her side in the back seat of my car. I took her home that day, laying her on a blanket, covering her with another in my garage. I buried her in my garden early the next morning, scattering some of Alan's ashes in her grave, her favorite bone by her side, one of Marty's favorite blankets to cover her, a couple of flowers. I know this must seem like a terribly sad story to be writing for this Rotary newsletter, but I don't think of it that way. Instead, I want to spend my happy dollars on thanking the good Lord and that jerk who dumped her off so many years ago for bringing Ginger into my life.

My thoughts now are with my memories of her and how we two bonded so well after Alan died. When I would work outside in my yard, she was always there watching out for me. Barking at anyone coming up the driveway, reminding them not to mess with ‘her mom'. Marty joining us as we worked. Such good company.

When I'd come home from work, Ginger was always there to greet me. Walking out of the garage as I tried to back in. She would give me a few special barks though I didn't speak the language, but I'd bark right back, and she seemed to know what I was saying. We would take our walks down the road and around a pond next to the creek, checking for frogs with Ginger looking for anything scanchie to roll around in. At times she would take off running as fast as she could. Pure joy. We went through our daily routines - nibbles, walks around the yard, all three of us heading to bed and up early the next morning to do it all over again.

I'll miss her terribly.

Author: Kathy Sollien
Windmill